Other Colors Ch. 01-10

I curled my toes. I didn't like being scolded by Peter, but I knew he was right. I felt helpless, and a little cheated. I wanted to prove to him I could do better; that I wasn't a total hack or a fuckup.

I'd been staring at the floor, and when I looked up at him, he was smiling.

"In fact," he soothed, "We should be celebrating. I mean, it's basically your big debut."

I dug hard and deep to muster a smirk. It still came out pretty wry.

"Wait here," he reached over to squeeze my palm.

I let him, though not without a shudder.

"I'll grab us some champagne."

He turned and weaved his way back toward the bar. Peter's optimism was comforting. And as the initial shock started to wear off, I found myself seeing the sense in what he said. Who was I, after all, to get all upset about being featured at a chic, Mile End art gallery?And on opening night,I thought.It could have taken me years to get here...And it should have, my conscience scolded me. I suppressed its voice.There's no use in staying upset, I thought.The paintings are up. There's nothing you can do about it.

I turned back to look at the series—myseries. Each piece was framed and matted tastefully, hanging together in a pair of staggered, vertical lines. The presentation, at least, looked really nice, and even artful.Marie probably worked pretty hard on this, I realized; wondering where on earth she'd found the time.I guess I do owe her a thank you. I bit my lip.And an apology.She was, after all, only trying to do me a favor—albeit in her psychotically impulsive and unpredictable way. I was even about to forgive myself for having the painted the vile things; and maybe, just maybe, imagine seeing in them some deeply hidden redeeming beauty.

But at that moment a small, tweedy figure emerged from the washroom, still shaking water from his hands, and came to stand beside me. I froze. For the third time, it was Benoit Boucher, venerated art critic forLe Devoir. And I stood stone still as he, leaning in to look at my paintings, snorted, swallowed noisily, and intoned a word that withered me.

"Quétaine," he said, and moved away.

I think I would have preferred that he call them garbage. In English, we adopted a lot of our names for unsatisfactory art from their French brethren—banal, prosaïque, cliché—but from Québécois, the most apt and literal translation forquétaineis "cheesy".

I felt my cheeks ignite, and tears welling in the corners of my eyes. Soon they'd be bloodshot, my mascara would run, and my whole face would resemble that of a swollen, demonic sea-serpent. With avocado-colored irises, it's impossible to be a pretty crier.

Cheesy.That was the reality, wasn't it? To convince myself I could actually do this, I'd spun myself a dark little cocoon of self-delusion. That's why I'd been stalling for two months. That's why I never shared my work with anyone. I was protecting myself from the truth: that I was an unremarkable and utterly pathetic phony. And here they were; the undeniable proofs of my mediocrity, posted like Luther's100 Theseson the wall.

I was angry—really angry—not at Marie, not at Peter, and not at Monsieur Boucher, but entirely and comprehensively at myself. I opened my clutch for a tissue to dab away the water brimming in my eyes—and as I dug around, I found my nail file; its tortoiseshell handle glinting in the bright, halogen light of the gallery.

A ludicrous idea seized me. I gazed up at the long, thin, steel wires that tethered the paintings in place. They bobbed in front of me, mocking me. They were the albatross around my neck; my scarletA. I looked over my shoulders. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed the little girl beside the washroom, confronting her little-girl sized existential meltdown. Or else they were ignoring me.

I needed those watercolors gone. Destroyed. Immolated. I wanted a private bonfire of vanities, to purge myself of the twin sins of vanity and ignorance. I took the nail file in my fist and, standing up on my tiptoes, started sawing.

A full minute went by, and the first wire began to fray.Oh my God, I sniffled.It's working. Grinning like a madwoman, I quickened the strokes—and almost immediately stabbed one of the stiff, broken steel threads deep into the pad of my middle finger.

"Ah! Damn it!" I gasped.

The file fell to the floor.

I reached down for it, crouching as modestly as I could, but the antique seams of the dress strained against my bony hips.

"Esti de calisse de tabarnak," I dropped forward onto my knees, whispering obscenities, and snatched it up.

My finger was throbbing. I watched a ruby dot of blood the size of a sequin bloom slowly at its tip, and, placing it instinctively between my lips, I sucked it clean.

"Give me your hand," a man's voice growled behind me.

All the blood drained from my face. I twisted at the waist to see the tips of two polished, black, Italian leather boots. He was standing over me, very close. I couldn't bring myself to look any higher. I was mortified—I hadn't felt like that since I was twelve years old; when my Father walked in on me in my underwear, learning to French kiss with my Prince Eric pillow.

Whoever he was, he'd caught me at my absolute and literal lowest—I was on my knees, in public, still sucking on my finger.Get up, Penny,I begged myself.Just get up and walk away.You can jump off a bridge or something on the way home.But before I could move, he reached down, and hoisted me to my feet.

Jesus!I teetered perilously on my heels, but he stayed me; and once I was upright and stable, he snatched my wrist, plucking the injured finger from my lips, and held it up firmly for his inspection. My words abandoned me. He frowned at the little ruby as it reappeared, and from an amber-colored cocktail in his other hand, he took an ice cube and a slice of lemon.

"This is going to sting," he said coolly. "But it'll stop the bleeding, and clean out the wound."

A feeble nod and a blink were all I could manage for a response. I was dazed. Without really looking at him, I could tell he was profanely handsome—I could sense it; a force like gravity or magnetism—and he had an accent that I couldn't place. I watched silently as he pinched two drops of lemon juice onto my fingertip.

I gasped. Itdidsting, though only for a moment. He placed the ice in my palm, folding my fingers overtop of it.

"For the swelling," he released me.

The ice sent a cold shiver through my wrist that traveled down the length of my spine. An arch smile flickered across his face, and vanished.He has dimples, I noticed.Like me.Though whereas his sank below his cheekbones like a pair of clefts in solid limestone, I'd always thought mine looked like a couple thumbprints in a clumsily made scone. Slowly, the throbbing in my finger subsided.

"Right—um, thank you," I murmured, lowering my eyes.

That's two men swooping in to rescue you tonight. Christ, get your life together, Penny.Though I was staring at our shoes, I could feel his eyes still on me. I watched his flashing black boots, praying they would turn, and just walk away. They pointed menacingly at my painted toes, all curled up beneath their leather straps. His boots weren't going anywhere. I held my breath.

"Now," his voice dropped, "why don't you tell me exactly what you thought you were doing just now."

Shit.There was no good way to explain myself; no excuse or lie I might design that wouldn't make me sound completely bat-shit crazy. I was still holding onto the nail file.I watched him shift his weight slowly from one leg to the other.What do I say? That I was stealing my own paintings? That I was on the floor because this dress costs more than I'll probably make in ten years?

Nope. Won't do it. Can't do it.Rather than try to tell the truth, I resolved to obliterate what shreds remained of my social dignity—I would look him straight in the eye, and extricate myself by the only means I could think of.

"If you'll excuse me, I was um—just on my way into the washroom," I raised my head, ready to escape through the door behind me, where I could lock myself safely in the quiet isolation of a toilet stall, and cry maybe. And then I saw it.

God.

His eyes were glacial blue, and feathered with the texture of hard rime—the coldest, deepest eyes I'd ever seen. And sointense.He dropped the lemon twist back into his cocktail, and raised it to his lips. Even as he sipped, he watched me.

"I don't like repeating myself," he swallowed. "What were you doing?"

I couldn't move my feet—I couldn't even seem to look away. I was a blade of grass, and his eyes were the first frost—he froze me, brittle and a little bent. Until that moment, I don't think I ever understood what it meant to say someone's eyes were 'piercing'. I wanted to melt, or dissolve; to turn translucent so they would bore all the way through me, and into the brick wall at my back. I blinked slowly, trying to break the spell.

He was still waiting. I breathed in.Just tell the stupid truth, Penny.And make it sound as sane as possible.

"I was taking these down," I pointed shyly over my shoulder. "They're mine, and I don't want them here."

He tilted his head, and with it his whole demeanor shifted. I didn't like the change. Before he just looked austere and skeptical; but suddenly he wasveryfocused on me—almost predatory. The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Some primordial part of my brain was telling me to run away and hide.

"You're mistaken," he said, smirking. "These are mine. And I think they'll stay where they are for now."

Wait, what?I wasn't sure whether he was screwing with me, or if at some point in the evening I had actually lost my mind. Maybe at this very moment I was far away from Mile End, locked up and straitjacketed in a padded cell somewhere. Perhaps he was really my cold and ruthlessly handsome doctor, attempting some new anti-hallucinatory mind-game therapy. My brow furrowed, and my lips parted.

"No," I said cautiously, testing my faith in reality like the ice at the edge of a lake, "they're not."

He was still smirking wryly.Why is he doing this to me? I wondered.It's really not funny.

"These," he pointed, using two fingers from the hand that held his glass, "belong to me now."

He nodded allusively, coaxing me to the conclusion. And with a renewed rush of fear and disbelief, it dawned on me.

"You—you didn't actually buy them?" I choked.

"Ten minutes ago."

"A-All of them?" my chest heaved; I was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"All of them," he took another sip, and stepped closer. "I've been looking for something like these for quite a while—I want to mount them in my office."

Oh God. Oh God, Oh God.He peered down at me, his eyes flashing.

Heboughtthem?The idea was unmanageable to me. No one, nowhere, would ever in his right mind pay for these—not unless he's in the habit of putting his money through paper shredders. And then dumping the shreds into landfills. And then setting the landfills on fire.

"You're Penelope Foster" he stated, leveling his gaze—there was no trace of inquiry in his voice. "I'm Dmitri Caine. Your admirer."

Dmitri.Not that I was a linguistics expert, but he didn't really sound Russian, or even eastern European—but then he didn't really sound Canadian, Acadian, French, American, or Irish to me either. His voice was strict, but strangely warm; like the long, low draw of a cello. I felt a sharp pinch in my ears at hearing him say 'Penelope', but it passed quickly. It couldn't contend with the vaster, more vexing torments at hand.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Foster."

He extended his hand, but he was already standing so close to me that it nearly rested on my waist. Stepping back against the wall, I placed my palm unsteadily in his. His grip was firm and his skin warm. I thought we were going to shake, but instead I watched in silent alarm as he bowed his head and, raising my hand up to lips, softly kissed the place where I had pricked my finger.

Those manners, I thought, blushing,aredefinitelynot local.

"I hope your little injury hasn't put your brush hand out of commission," he drew in a long, low breath, and released me.

"N-No," I stammered, withdrawing my hand and inspecting the puncture. "I've had a lot worse, Mr. Caine."

His eyes widened slightly, and he raised his brow.

"That's—good to know."

I cocked my head.

"That it won't stop you painting, I mean." One side of his mouth curved into a wry smirk, "I wouldn't mind adding another Foster to my collection soon."

Why? Why, why, why, why, why, why? Did he mistake me for some other, some talented and worthwhile Penelope Foster?Perhaps a deceased Penelope Foster; who lived tragically, and painted, and channeled all of her suffering into palpable explosions of passion and loveliness—he must've bought these thinking they were the recently discovered scribbles of her adolescence.Honestly, it seemed more likely to me than the alternative. And yet he didn't seem surprised in the least to meet Penelope Foster alive and well—and only twenty-three years old.

"You um—you know I'm not like, famous or anything, right?"

He chuckled darkly.

"Yes, Miss Foster. I know you're new," he tipped forward his head. "And I know that these are rough. That's alright—I'm accustomed to finding diamonds in the rough."

Rough. Ha. Understatement of the century. What is his game?I wondered. I studied him anew in equal parts fascination and fear. He really was violently; almost comically good-looking—a walking, talking embarrassment of ideal proportions. Like Bernini'sDavidcome to life.And God, those eyes. Like a pair of polar ponds—the shimmery, lonely ones in the mountains, tinted blue by rock flour. And they looked almost as cold. My teeth chattered a bit just watching him. And my nose started running.

"Mr. Caine," I sniffled. "I'm really, really sorry, but these—these weren't supposed to here," I dropped my eyes again. "They're just studies. For something larger," I bit my lip, "Something better."

Repeating the same half-truth I'd told Peter made me feel even more ridiculous. The ice was melting in my hand, forming a little puddle on the floor between my feet. He handed me his cocktail napkin and I took it hesitantly, blowing my nose and balling up the soiled paper in my fist. He leaned in toward me, even closer. My breath hitched.Christ. No sense of personal space. He'd nearly pinned against the wall.

"But they were here," he breathed. "And I wanted them, Miss Foster."

What is his problem?I had no clue why, but I sensed he was deliberately trying to provoke me. Worse yet, it was working.

"But why?" I pleaded.

He smirked, "I like them."

"You can't."

"I do—very much, Miss Foster."

I couldn't get a read on him.Why is he being so cruel? Can't he see how upset I am?Somehow, he seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. I breathed an exasperated sigh, and watched him down the last sip of his cocktail, the muscles moving tightly up and down his throat.

"Mr. Caine, you don't want these," I winced, bracing myself for the malediction. "Benoit Boucher says they'requétaine."

He set his glass aside.

"Boucher is a fool."

A fool?That shut me up. I knew I didn't agree; that I respected the critic's judgment, and desperately wanted his approval—the kind of approval he'd lavished on Emily Brennan. But having just been so flippantly dismissed by him, it was an odd comfort to hear that at least one person around didn't much care about the venerable opinions of Monsieur Boucher.

"I don't know a lot about art, Miss Foster. I'm not a critic, and I'm not a painter. I'm only here tonight for an old friend," for the first time since he started talking, he broke his gaze, letting his eyes dance briefly around the room. They returned to me, settling stonily before he continued, "But don't mistake me for a man who doesn't know what he wants."

I blinked.Awfully full of himself, isn't he?Still, it wasn't hard for me to believe him—though he was dressed sharp as knives, there wasn't a thing about him that let on either wishy-washy or artsy-fartsy. His look was a little unkempt, and vaguely lupine. A dark stubble covered his chin and jaw—a real one, not the meticulously cultivated kind—and his wavy hair was tousled to just this side of civilized.He must be outdoors a lot, I thought absently. After September, a suntan in Montreal was all but unheard of.

With a jolt of inspiration, I realized I could change his mind.He doesn't really like my watercolors. Look at him—he doesn't give a crap about art. Why would he? He's gotta be an investment banker, or a lawyer, or some other more lucrative and less ludicrous thing than a painter. He's got a bare wall somewhere that just needs covered up. It could be old newspaper clippings for all he cares.

"Look," I widened my eyes as far as they would open, mustering up all the doey innocence I could manage, "I am really, really flattered. But shouldn't you pick out something a little more interesting for your office? Something sort of...sexier?"

He raised his brow, and for just a moment I thought I had him.

"Just what," his voice was low and grave, "did you have in mind, Miss Foster?"

The way he said it—so laden with something subtler, and darker than innuendo—it made me blush. I looked around quickly, trying to summon just one distinct item from my guided tour with Peter.

"Well um—there're some really nice pig skins over there. And lighthouses. Like phalluses. Lightphalluses."

What the hell are you doing, Penny?He didn't need to speak to tell me how ridiculous I sounded. He just lifted the same eyebrow.

I flushed blood red, and tried again, stammering,"Well what about the nude? The one by Emily Brennan. Its...sort of incredible. Its right over—"

"No," His eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm afraid it won't do."

Eek—think I might've touched a nerve. He's not a prude is he?I thought of Daniele da Volterra, painting tiny pants on all the muscle-bound angels in Michelangelo'sLast Judgement.

"And these will?" I breathed.

"I've been told I have peculiar tastes, Miss Foster. Now," his lips formed a cheerless half-grin, "I'll have my bond."

Iago? No...Shylock. Christ, even his teeth are perfect. They looked crisp, and even, and titanium white. My head was swimming. It was impossible to think straight with him standing there, scrutinizing me under his cool and certifiably piercing gaze.He's stubborn, I thought.And a little rude. And arrogant. And really,reallyhandsome.He was at least a head taller than me; I was actually standing in his shadow.

And there seemed to be no dissuading him—I couldn't make him budge an inch, or a millimeter, or whatever. When I was a little girl, I would have shrieked and cried and stamped my feet until I got my way. Having run low on ideas, I think I might've tried it now, but that I lacked the energy for a full-on tantrum. His whole presence seemed to have a noxious effect on me—like an atmospheric hypothermia.

I felt drained. All I wanted was to give in; to surrender to him.What does it matter, really?He could take them, and hang them in his office, and his clients or associates or whoever would pass through, noticing them now and then, and think maybe he had a twelve-year-old daughter.Though he looks a little young for that, I speculated.Fine. A niece, then.At least my shame would be concealed from the greater public—I'd be out of the stocks, and into the Tower.