Page 8 of A Touch of Dark
“Here?”
I agree and the worker snaps to attention. He removes a plastic covering, revealing the painting. When viewed in the overcast daylight filtering into the room, it looks grislier than it did last night. Ghostly and harrowing. I suck in an appreciative breath and write the fifty grand off as money well spent.
Once the painting is mounted, my one regret is not buying a matching frame for it. Encased only in a covering of protective glass, it looks far too delicate against my muted design scheme.
“Mr. Sampson appreciates your patronage,” the woman says once I’ve signed the final document she shoved beneath my nose. “I’ll let you in on a secret: He donates most of the proceeds to charity anyway. Though I have to say that not everyone appreciates his work.”
“Oh?” I bite back the words that spring to my tongue.No wonder.If he treats every prospective buyer like he did me, I can imagine why.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked about him,” she adds, an eyebrow raised. “No offense, but the few who do buy the paintings—and they all are mostly women—tend to use the sale as a foothold to pry. ‘Are all the stories true?’” She mimics how I assume she thinks a socialite with thousands of dollars to spend on a painting sounds. “I will say I’m impressed. I think that’s why I’m even here in the first place. He rarely offers a painting for sale, but hopefully he won’t mind. At least you won’t try to hound him for a date. To some women, he’s more myth than reality now.”
I picture the mysterious figure from last night and shrug. “I know what it’s like to have people pry into my life. Sometimes, the intrigue is better than the reality.”
“Fair enough,” the woman says, but I can tell she’s still bemused as I escort her out.
Alone, I finish another cup of coffee and find myself gazing at the painting, desperate to decipher the secrets lurking beneath every layer of paint.
Sampson. I’ve never heard of him—and in this city, anonymity only extends to those who don’t matter at all or those who matter too much. Privacy is a commodity even I can’t afford.
I’m tempted to look him up. Try my hand at Google. A part of me doesn’t want to, however. Maybe that’s the fun of it all. The allure. My first ever birthday present to myself in over twenty years and I don’t even know who made it for me. Or why. Or what possessed him to blend death with flowers. Beauty with horror.
Or why he seems to despise me.
I’ll never find out.
And unlike my dealings with Simon, I don’t have to.
Atown car arrives for me at six on the dot. After cajoling the driver into taking the long route to the suburbs, I spend a majority of the ride silently rehearsing my lines in a compact mirror.
Hello, Daddy.Pause and smile.I’ve been fine.Blink.You look wonderful, and so does Diane.Flash an even bigger smile, and then the finale, uttered with a mischievous tilt of my head.Will there be cake?
It’s the same script I’ve recited at every other birthday dinner, and he never demands more—only that I show up and let him have this one day. A handful of hours when we both can pretend that my past doesn’t matter.
I owe him that much.
Determined to put on the best performance, I pour all my energy into arranging my flawless outfit and perfecting that easy, confident smile. I’m ready by the time the driver turns onto the long driveway leading to the secluded, astronomical-acre plot Daddy bought the moment he retired.
Squaring my shoulders, I exit the car and put my rehearsed steps into motion. Smile first. Confident walk. The moment I mount the first stone step leading to the door, it opens from the inside as if on cue.
And my stomach drops right to my stiletto heels.
Daddy is wearing that tired gray suit from his glory days and a pinched expression. No warm smile. No arms outstretched for our customary hug. Instead, he ushers me inside with a wave of his hand. “Welcome home, sweet pea.”
I follow him uneasily. The house doesn’t feel the same despite the cheery coat of yellow paint brightening the entryway. Something’s wrong. A subtle tinge in the air renders everything out of place. Odd. Off. The feeling grows as we enter the private study—not the dining room down the hall, where I know everyone else is waiting, poised to shout “Surprise!” on sight.
Glimpsed from the side, my father’s expression is as stern as it used to be when he was on the bench and nearly jumped out of his skin every time someone said “boo” to me.
“Juliana…” He sighs, and a telling sent wafts from his breath. Tobacco.
I raise an eyebrow. “Have you been smoking?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Concern weighs his weathered features down, exaggerating the wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth. He looks so old today.
Maybe I look older. I can’t tell in the reflection staring back at me from the glass case displaying various legal paraphernalia. My face is transposed over one of his many awards. How fitting. I’m part woman. Part trophy.
“Juliana?”
“I’m fine—”
