Page 75 of You'll Never Know
Seattle, Washington
Age Twenty-Nine
“Look at the form here. It’s a tondo,” Evelyn said.
“A tondo?” Reed asked, studying the Botticelli—a painting portraying the Virgin Mary surrounded by angels with an infant Jesus sitting in her lap. It was one of many such paintings in the Seattle Art Museum they’d been examining for the last few hours.
“Correct,” Evelyn said. “A circle. It creates a sense of harmony. It’s an efficient use of space. It adds to the warmth of the piece. Can you see it?”
Reedcouldsee it. Something about the portrait felt more inviting than the others. At some point, they’d all started to blend together to him. Painting after painting of figures wearing serene expressions while standing in gardens or posing in churches. The colors were all too similar, the scenes interchangeable. He was bored in minutes.
But then Evelyn walked him through the differences, and the paintings came to life. She pointed out the way the impressionists used loose brush strokes while the Baroque artists employed a more energetic style. She noted the atmospheric effects utilized by theRenaissance painters and the playfulness of the scenes of the 18th century masters. These little things Reed would have never noticed on his own, but were blindingly clear once Evelyn highlighted them, like he’d been handed a fresh pair of eyes.
She did that. The way she looked at the world continually surprised him. Evelyn didn’t simply hear music—she felt it. The way a bass drum throbbed in your chest. How the sound of a violin filled you with a warmth like air. She saw stories in the mundane. A scuffed doorknob was an opportunity to question how many hands had worn away the paint. A crack in a ceiling was a home’s slow-motion war against gravity. The color of the sky was never simply blue but rather cerulean or cobalt or teal. Her observations were one of the things he loved about her, which was troubling because he shouldn’t love anything at all.
He slipped his hand into hers and caught the scent of ink and paper mixed with that of violet. Evelyn never left home without a few spritzes of a fragrance she’d found online called Paperback. When he’d asked her about it, she’d simply shrugged and smiled.Books are my favorite smell.They were his now, too.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her away from the piece. “We’re going to be late.”
“My father can wait.”
“Maybe for you he will,” Reed replied. “But he won’t for me.”
“He’ll have to,” Evelyn said, looking perplexed. “We’ll arrive in the same car.”
“No, I mean …” He trailed off with a chuckle. “Never mind. Let’s go. I want to be on time.”
Evelyn struggled with anything that moved beyond the literal. Implied meanings were lost on her. Reed thought of statements like the one she’d just made as Evelyn-isms—quirks of speech that should annoy him but didn’t. After all the mind games women had put him through over the years, it was refreshing not to have to second guesseverything she said. Evelyn told him exactly what she was thinking.
Her father did the same, but nothing about what Donald Nash said was endearing. He grilled Reed like he was some fresh-out-of-prison felon any time he saw him. No matter how supportive he was of Evelyn, no matter how kind or polite or respectful, Reed couldn’t seem to win the man over.
Not that Reed could blame him.
The Nashes were already seated by the time he and Evelyn arrived. They lounged at a table in the back corner of the restaurant next to a wall of glass overlooking Lake Union. The sun set in the distance, draping the Cascades in a blanket of pink light.
Paula rose as they neared, first hugging Evelyn, then moving to Reed. Donald remained in his chair and watched. He had a chin as hard as a dam and eyes that sparkled with all the shine of wet asphalt. He clutched a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid which Reed guessed to be a Manhattan based on the cherry and the large block of ice. The man had an affinity for all things whiskey, something Reed enjoyed himself, not that it had helped them connect. Nothing Reed did or said elevated him above the man’s suspicion.
Reed extended his hand across the table. “Hello, Donald.” Donald, never Don. He’d made that mistake once early on.My friends call me that. You can call me Donald.
Donald stared at Reed’s hand until he pulled it back, then gestured at the empty chair across from him with a tilt of his glass. “Are you going to sit, or are you going to stand there all night, making me uncomfortable?”
“Be nice,” Paula said, slapping her husband’s arm as Reed sat. “So, Adrian,” she asked, “was the SAM everything you imagined?”
“It was,” Reed said. “Evelyn was a great tour guide.”
Paula set her chin on her fingers. “She always is.”
“We spent most of our time studying the European artists,” Evelyn said. “Adrian was especially interested in the transition from the Renaissance to the Baroque.”
“Is that so?” Paula asked, winking at Reed.
Reed smiled. “I didn’t even know the difference between the two before today.”
Donald leaned in and set an elbow on the table, his gaze coming to rest on Evelyn. “Did you find the Reni?”
“Oh, yes. The Atalana. It was there like you said.”
“You remember seeing it in Naples, don’t you?”
