AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes. My father was an attorney, and I wanted to be better than him. And I wanted him to know I was better than him.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” I say, offering nothing more, and nothing more is how I always liked that man.
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack.”
“My mother, too, and I’d say that’s an interesting coincidence, but it’s a common way to die.”
“Itiscommon,” I say, and I silently add,And the perfect cover up for a murder. Or two.
She sets her fork down. “Right. Common. And this is a bad subject. I think I’m done eating.”
“You’ve hardly touched your food, Faith.”
“I just…like I said. It’s a bad subject.” She starts to get up, and I catch her hand.
“Sit with me.” She hesitates but nods, settling back into her seat. I glance at her plate, then at her, letting her see the heat in the depths of my eyes. “I’m going to make you wish you ate that.”
She studies me right back for several beats and then picks up her fork. “I’ll eat, and I’ll do so because my growling stomach will distract me when I paint, and then I’m going to paint while you get ready for your call.”
“Not about to let it be about me, now are you?” I challenge, but I don’t give her time to fire back. “Are you going to finish painting me?”
“Maybe,” she says, her eyes filling with mischief. “We’ll see if you inspire me again.”
I remember the way she’d thrown that painting on the ground, the way she’d shouted at me. “If inspiring you means making you think you can’t trust me, I’d rather not.”
“There are other ways to inspire me,” she says, taking a bite of her food.
“How should I inspire you, Faith?”
“I’ll consider letting you know when it happens.”
“All right, then. When did you first get inspired to paint?”
“I always wanted to paint. From Crayola to paintbrush at age five. And Sonoma is filled with art to feed my love.”
Now she says love, but she’s used the word “like” when talking about wine. “And you went off to college with a plan to turn it into a career.”
“I did.”
“And your parents had to be proud.”
“They were supportive enough, but as an aspiring artist, I’m just like half of L.A., trying to make it to the big or small screen. No one takes them seriously until they do it.”
“And Macom? Did he take your art seriously?”
“He’s an artist.”
“So he understood the struggles.”
“Yes,” she says, reaching for the bottle of water. “I suppose you could say that.” But something about the way she says those words says there’s more to that story than meets the eye.
I open my mouth to find a way to that story when her cell phone rings. I finish my food while she pushes to her feet and walks to the counter where her purse, which looks like it’s seen better days, sits. She retrieves her phone and glances at the screen. “The mechanic.” She answers the call.
I stand and dump my takeout plate into the trash, and Faith seals hers and walks to the fridge as she listens. “Okay. Yes. No. Just please tow it to the winery. Thank you.” She ends the call and stuffs her phone into her jeans.
