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On the canvas, he was dressed in a sharp suit, standing before a half-finished background of New York, the setting his office. He seemed aloof. One hand was on his desk, theother tucked into his front pocket. Everything about him in the painting seemed intense and unapproachable.
At first, I found myself wondering if it was an uncharitable depiction. The more I looked at it, however, the more I realized that it was truly accurate. Logan was as cold and unapproachable as he appeared in the painting. His power, not to mention his good looks, had been captured excellently. But Marianne had caught something else, too. It was that intangible wall that Logan put out, the way he could instantly construct a barrier between himself and anyone else with just a look or a word.
I knew that wall all too well.
Silence hung in the air. It wasn’t long before worry appeared on Marianne’s face.
“Do you guys… not like it?”
“No!” I replied. “It’s not that at all. I mean, it’s incredible. But good art makes you think. And this is definitely good art.”
Marianne grinned with relief. “OK, great.” Her concerns partially relieved, she turned to Logan. “What about you?”
More silence followed. Logan kept his eyes locked on the painting. Whether or not he was doing it intentionally, his hand was in his pocket the same way that Marianne had painted.
Finally, he spoke. “Why do I look so angry?”
Marianne appeared confused. “Angry? Do you think you look angry in the picture?”
“A little bit.” I could sense that Logan was measuring his words carefully, not wanting to make his sister upset. “It’s that look on my face.”
Marianne smiled. “Oh, that?” She laughed a bit, as if she’d thought of a private joke. “I call that your stress face.”
“My what?”
“It’s how you always look,” she said. “Even when you’re here on the island supposed to be relaxing.”
Logan said nothing, his eyes staying on the painting.
“Your resting stress face,” I said with a smile.
Logan didn’t laugh. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d said anything. Tension filled the air by the moment.
“Do you like it?” Marianne asked barely above a whisper.
A small, forced smile appeared on his face. “Sorry. Like Emily said, good art makes you think. It’s beautiful, Mar.” He stepped over to his sister and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You did well.” Without waiting for a response, he glanced over at me. “Good night to you both.”
Logan turned and left. I watched him go and listened as the sound of his shoes on the tile floor faded into the distance.
Once he was gone, Marianne sighed, shaking her head. “You know what I wish?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“I wish that Logan were happier.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Her words lingered in the air, my gaze staying on the painting.
“OK!” Marianne exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “It’sBridesmaidstime! Come on!”
She didn’t give me a chance to react before grabbing me by the hand and pulling me out of the room, only stopping to throw the curtain back over the painting. We hurried down the hall, outside to the garden, then back into the main house. Fifteen minutes later, we were seated in the big basement movie theater, pizza and soda in front of us andBridesmaidsplaying on the huge screen.
I’d seen the film before, and while it was just as hilarious the second time around, I couldn’t help but think about Logan. The painting had evoked a sense of just how unhappy Logan seemed. It was strange—the man was successful and wealthy and powerful but lived a life that seemed oddly isolated. That is, aside from his sister.
He had all the ingredients for a happy life. Instead, he spent most of his time tense, a wall between him and everyone else. Not to mention how his livelihood involved dealing with scuzzy pricks like my dad.
The way he treated Marianne, along with the occasional glimpses of humor and warmth that would slip through his stony, stoic façade, made me certain that there was something more to him. I knew that he was capable of kindness.
I had a hell of a lot to think about.
