She picks up a piece of what appears to be charcoal, resuming her sketch. “I think to consider yourself an artist, you have to have sold some of your work.”
“And you haven’t?”
“Nope.”
I glance at the fast-growing collection of her work in the room. “Why not?”
One shoulder lifts, and I keep my eyes on her face. It’s completely serene as she creates, almost as though she’s entered an alternate universe with her craft where she can relax and just exist.
“When I was little, my parents made me and my brothers do a lot of extracurricular activities. Mama said that it was important we had a variety of interests, so we’d be able to entertain important guests as we got older. Before we moved to Aplana, I did everything: synchronized swimming, ballet, knitting. Cooking classes and painting lessons. My brothers were lucky, but as the only girl, for some reason, I had to be extra.”
My face pinches. “That’s demented. You were a child.”
She shrugs. “Mama and Daddy were my best friends, and when you’re close with perfection, it takes a lot to keep up.” Pausing she glances at the closed office door, a faraway look in her eyes. “But when we moved here, a lot of the stuff I enjoyed back home became more difficult because I wasn’t allowed to go out and do stuff anymore.”
“You weren’t?”
“They hired private tutors and security guards the same year. By the time I turned sixteen, I’d practically been desocialized.”
Though she’s not seemed awkward or inept at any point thus far, I can’t help wondering what kind of work that would take, to reintroduce yourself to society after being locked up inside for years.
My parents, for all their faults, had at least ensured I experienced the world in its natural beauty. Even if that meant learning things the hard way.
“Anyway,” she says. “I had a calculus tutor who also happened to teach art history once upon a time at Purdue, and she would sneak me in old magazines and textbooks and give me brief lessons between math courses.”
“And since you were already familiar with painting…”
“I took it back up, and the hobby stuck.” Looking over her shoulder at me, she gives a soft smile. “Making money off your art is a modernist way of thinking. I didn’t learn from the modern artists, though, and I guess I just don’t think a price tag adds value. I think the quality, the passion, is what matters. That’s what lives on, long after you’re gone.”
Leaning against the counter, I watch silently as she gets lost in her medium, smudging patterns with her thumb and creating intricate line work.
“Some of my favorite artists died as the starving archetype.” A pause. “Van Gogh, Eva Hesse, Gericault. If they didn’t have to sell their work in their lifetimes, why should I?”
“Wouldn’t you like to turn passion into a hobby?”
She glances up. Narrows her eyes. “Do you have hobbies, Jonas?”
The question catches me off guard. “Ah… woodworking? Homebrewing, though I haven’t done that in a while.”
Murder?
“And are you planning on becoming a carpenter?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then you get it. Passions and work don’t have to equate. That’s not why I do this.”
Snapping my mouth shut, I nod to myself, supposing she’s right. Passion and work don’t have to line up, but it certainly makes life a bit easier when they do.
14
My brothers were an accident.
I was planned.
Strategically created for the benefit of Primrose Realty, and the company’s benefit alone.
My whole life, I sat glued to my parents’ sides, touted around as their miracle so they could gain sympathy with the public and humanize themselves. The company seemed like a family-first business, and my face was what all of our PR revolved around.
When the miracle baby spiel grew old, they chiseled away at my personality. Sculpted and sanded until all that was left on the surface was sunshine. Things the general public enjoyed looking at, enjoyed seeing in the magazines and on blog sites.
Because if the public was happy and invested, that meant they’d throw their support behind the business.
Everything—my relationship with my parents, my slow descent into madness, Daddy’s attempted assassination—came back to the business.
Primrose Realty.
The real baby of the family, and at the end of the day, the only thing that actually matters to them.
Which is why I’m not at all surprised when Daddy sends a courier invite to brunch. Even though I’ve been excommunicated for a short time, I’m sure the media is having a frenzy once again trying to determine where I went and what happened.
I step out onto the front porch to retrieve the invitation and almost mow over a familiar-looking woman standing at the threshold, a fist frozen midair as if reaching to knock.
An unflattering squeal peels out of me, and the woman reaches up, wrapping her palm around the head of a dark-haired infant strapped to her chest.
“Jesus,” she says, letting out a ragged breath as she checks the child over.
Despite the scowl marring her forehead, she doesn’t appear to be much older than me, with dark-brown hair spilling down her shoulders and sharp, hazel eyes. They lift, roving over me slowly, and I suddenly feel very exposed in my slinky satin pajama set.
“You’re not Jonas.” Her voice is soft and slightly raspy, and there are faint yellowish-purple splotches at the base of her neck that disappear beneath the neckline of her black top.
“Uh…” I force a nervous laugh, running my hand over my hair. “Not last I checked, no.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Well, as much as I’d love to stand out here and play the guessing game, do you mind letting me in to pee? If I don’t go in the next minute, we’re going to have a very serious situation on our hands.”
I shift awkwardly, pulling at my blue top. Jonas’s warning about not letting strangers inside rings through my mind, and I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know this woman, but she clearly knows him, and I’m not sure what the rule on known visitors is.
“Okay.” Stepping aside, I grant her access, and she immediately swoops in. “There’s a half bath next to the—”
She disappears around the stairs, and a second later a door slams. For a woman holding a baby, she moves fast.
Walking to the stairs, I glance into the kitchen and note the mess I was elbow deep in when the courier dropped off the invite. Slapping the stationary on the island counter, I quickly scoop the discarded cellophane wrappers and empty boxes from a variety of junk food, ignoring the discomfort in my gut as I consider eating more before she comes back out.
I’ve cleared about half of the counter when the woman reappears, hiking her distressed jeans higher on her hips.
“Why does no one talk about the postpartum changes in your bladder?” she asks as she comes to a stop in the doorway. “I swear, six years ago I could hold it all night long, now I’m lucky to get from the Asphodel to Kiko’s Bakery downtown.”
The Asphodel. I blink, trying to figure out why that name sounds so familiar as I push the last evidence of my binge into the garbage, tucking the bin back into its cabinet.