Page 23 of Iron Cross

Chapter seven

A Person I Knew

Kira

“Idon’t know how you’re able to sell so much.” Magda, the elderly lady who sold her knitted wares across the way, shook her head as she fluffed a fuzzy lavender beanie knitted to look like cat ears.

Surrounded by her display of colorful hats, scarves, and gloves, looking like tiny animal paws and big monster eyes, she always made a killing during this time of year.

“Your paintings are beautiful, but my gosh. The way you talk to the customers…” She chuckled to herself, smiling at me from above a smile-wrinkled face. “It’s like you cast them under your spell.”

Magda placed her hand on her heart and smiled at me, her colorful crocheted wears dangling in the hooks around her. Her most recent work was half-created on her check-out counter, with the knitting needles pierced into a large ball of purple yarn.

“Pure salesmanship. You know that’s all it is,” I said, as I re-organized my paintings in a way that showcased the more expensive ones for the passerby.

Since coming to this small mountain town, my paintings had made a little splash. I’d achieved far more success now than when I'd painted under the name Kira Kekoa. People came for commissions and originals. A proud father even came to have me paint a portrait of his daughter on her wedding day as a Christmas present.

Instead of forgeries, I was making my own art, as inept as I was. But they were selling, and there was a small victory in that. Of course, because I had not cultivated my own style, I was doing a poor imitation of someone else - of a man I had left behind but who still had his finger prints in every part of my existence.

I’d fallen far from my old life, and become one of those purple-haired painters, running a sidewalk kiosk on a quaint New England main street, complete with a gazebo in the square, and a white stone church with high steeple. It was the kind of place where a single mom could raise her son. The kind of place that mobsters and criminals wouldn’t bother to go.

I created what I knew these sleepy towns wanted - landscapes full of evergreens and stone cottages, and bucolic little barns with farm animals and happy families.

A bit of nostalgia and a lot of romance. A little of that old traditional flare, made with love. Perfect to place above a mantle or home office.

The more I painted, the more of myself fell onto the canvas. I didn’t like it. Signs of Kira Kekoa kept creeping into the life of Anna Jones.

“There was a violinist, Joshua Bell,” I said idly, remembering the old story that had informed the tales I wove at Gallery Four. “He was the best violinist in the world, playing an instrument that cost 3.5 million dollars.”

Magda’s eyes lit up, her hand coming to her chest to clutch non-existent pearls.

“He’d get paid thousands for a 45 minute performance in Carnegie Hall, the Vienna Musikverein, and every great concert hall in the world. He did an experiment where he went busking in a subway, and made no more than forty dollars, doing the exact same pieces, on the exact same priceless instrument.”

Magda’s eyes became curious, wrinkling in the corners. “I understand all the words you’re saying, sweetheart, but I’m afraid your point is just going over my head.”

Magda was the epitome of helpful and humble. A God-fearing woman in the best possible way.

“It means that the setting and the story that sells a piece of art is part of the price.” The grandeur of Gallery Four had been half of the appeal.

The enigmatic dark-haired man who had lorded over the priceless images was part of that price tag as well. He made everything seem decadent - the flick of his hand, the sound of his voice. The way he made a woman feel cherished.

“The story I’m telling is one of the idealistic small town life,” I finally said, shaking away the mists of a different life.

I looked down at my paintings.

“Family. Home. Serenity.” I smiled at Magda, even as sorrow grew in my chest. “The reason people go shopping under a historic covered bridge is because they’re looking for that old, traditional charm.”

A charm that never existed out of the pages of a book.

I never said that part out loud though.

I painted what I thought Eoghan would, if he weren’t full of the rage his father beat into him. If his fate wasn’t to be the King of the Underground. If he could have had a calm life, a tranquil home and a sweet family.

I would have loved that version of him.

Some days, I could see him here in a rough wool scarf and peacoat, with a smile and a boy riding over his shoulders. My mind always went to such silly things as the sunset, and the blue sky turned black. As reality became murky, in the land of dreams.

“My paintings aren’t extraordinary,” I finally said, shrugging. “My paintings were made to market.”

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