Faking It - Crusie Jennifer (читать книги бесплатно полностью .txt) 📗

“I hate your father,” Davy said, rage slicing through him.

“No,” Tilda said. “He was trying to… make me see my destiny. And, really, he was pretty much right. I mean, I’ve been loved. Scott loved me.”

Davy felt that spurt of jealousy again.

“But Dad was right,” Tilda went on, trying to smile. “I was happier painting than I was with people. I loved painting the furniture and the Scarlets, even the forgeries I was doing were more interesting than people. I just…” She sighed. “I just really loved Andrew. And I loved Eve. There weren’t any bad guys. It just didn’t work out for me, I’m just not… But I didn’t want to hear it then.”

She gave Davy a wobbly smile. “My dad had really bad timing.”

“He was an exploitive son of a bitch,” Davy said.

Tilda took a deep breath. “So I scrubbed the paintbrush through the faces in the painting and threw it at him and walked out. I took the bus to Cincinnati, and found a job waitressing there and let Eve know, and she told Gwennie, and Gwennie sent money, every week, and never told Dad where I was, and it turned out okay. I’d graduated from high school the year before because he’d had me test out of a bunch of stuff so I could paint, and that meant I could work if I lied about my age. Eventually he found out and called and yelled and disowned me, but by then, the scary part of being on my own was over.” Tilda’s face eased a little. “And one day, the guy who owned the restaurant was talking about fixing up the place, and I said, ‘I can paint a mural for you,’ and I did, and one of the people who came into the restaurant saw it and wanted one, and the mural business just sort of evolved. And there I was, painting forgeries for a living just like all the other Goodnights.” She looked down at the paintings at her feet “Just like my dad said I would. He was right.”

“He was wrong,” Davy said grimly.

“The bad thing,” Tilda swallowed. “The bad thing was that the Scarlets… were… the way…” She swallowed again. “The way I really paint. So when he sold them, I couldn’t paint that way anymore unless I was Scarlet for him, so I couldn’t paint.”

“How could he do that?” Davy said. “He was an artist. He knew what that meant. How could he do that to his own kid?”

Tilda took a deep breath. “He wasn’t an artist.”

“What?”

“He was a terrible painter.” She leaned against the cabinets and slid down until she was sitting on the carpet, collapsing there like a rag doll in her pretty, silky dress, looking so tired Davy ached for her. “You can learn all the craft you want,” she said. “But if you’re not born with a sense of light and color and line and mass, you cannot paint. And he couldn’t paint. He was a great teacher, but he couldn’t… It was like being born tone-deaf in a family of musicians.” Her face crumpled. “Eve couldn’t paint, either, he tried to teach her but she couldn’t. But I could.”

I can’t stand this, Davy thought and went over to sit beside her.

“I could paint before I could write my name,” Tilda said as he put his arm around her. “I loved everything he taught me.” She sniffed, trying to hold back tears, and he tightened his hold on her. “I think he resented me for it. He loved Eve so much, but he couldn’t… I couldn’t… I didn’t get it. I thought if I just painted better, he’d love me more. I didn’t get it that he… So I tried harder and harder and got better and better and he-”

“Oh, God, Tilda.” Davy held her close. “I’m so sorry. And I really hate your father.”

“No,” Tilda said into his shirt. “He did his best. And I got out. I walked away. I just didn’t get to take Scarlet with me.” She lifted her head. “Do you know that he wanted me to sign them as James? James Hodge, Homer’s boy. I was the one who named me Scarlet. I signed them Scarlet.”

“Good for you,” Davy said, holding her tighter.

“No,” Tilda said, her pale eyes swimming as she looked at him. “Good for you. He sold them, but you got every damn one of them back for me. Every damn one.”

“Oh, honey,” he said and kissed her, feeling her tears on his face, and then he held her tight as she wiped her face on his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I look like hell when I’m soggy.”

“Yeah, that’s an issue now,” Davy said, still holding her. “Christ, Tilda.” He looked around at the Goodnight forgeries and suddenly they looked like bodies to him. “We have to get rid of this stuff.”

“I can’t,” she said tiredly. “I want to, so much, but I can’t even talk to you about them without sobbing all over you. Imagine me trying to-”

“I can,” Davy said grimly. “And you’re getting out of this damn basement, too.”

“It’s a good studio,” Tilda said.

“It’s the pit of hell,” Davy said. “I don’t care how white you paint this place, there’s blood on the walls. We’re moving your stuff up to the attic. Tonight. There’s plenty of room up there. You can paint in the sunlight tomorrow.”

“He wasn’t a bad man,” Tilda said. “He-”

“Right. He just couldn’t paint. Fuck him.” Davy let go of her and pushed himself off the floor. Then he held out his hand to her and hauled her to her feet. “What stuff do you need from down here?”

“Davy, I don’t-”

“Upstairs, Matilda,” he said. “All of it. I can’t beat up your father because the son of a bitch died on me, but I can get you out of this basement. Pack.”

He started shoving Goodnight forgeries back into their crypts, and Tilda said, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” he said, giving a van Gogh a shove.

“That you could sell them.”

“I can sell anything,” he said. “But I don’t want to touch this stuff. I’m thinking we consign it to an auction house.”

“I had thought of that,” Tilda said. “People collect forgeries. We could do it anonymously. But somebody will find out and ask about them. Somebody always finds out, and then I’d-”

“I’ll take care of it.” Davy slammed another painting into a cupboard. “Pack.” When he didn’t hear her move, he turned around.

“I’m sorry,” she said, standing there in misery. “I didn’t mean to unload all of this angst on you. I didn’t mean to be so…” She waved her hand. “Melodramatic. Drama queen.” She tried to laugh. “You must hate weepy women.”

“Yeah, I do.” Davy walked over to her and put his arms around her and held her tight. “But not you, Scarlet.” He kissed the top of her head. “You can do anything you want, and I’ll still love you.” She went still in his arms, and he said, “I know. I can’t believe I said it, either.”

“You can take it back,” she said into his shirt. “It’s just because I cried all over you, and you’re feeling sorry for me.”

“No,” he said. “It’s because you kissed me in a closet and adopted Steve and support your family and painted armadillo footstools and really hot mermaids. It’s because you’re Matilda Scarlet, and I was born to love you as sure as I was born to con people, damn it.” She lifted her head to look at him and he added, “And I love you with everything I’ve got, which means your rat bastard father was wrong.”

She came up on her toes to meet him, slippery in his arms as her dress slid between them, and when she kissed him, her lips were soft and open on his, no more secrets, and if Davy hadn’t already been in love, that would have done it. “Pack your stuff,” he whispered against her mouth, holding her as close as he could. “We’re getting out of here.”

Tilda looked around. “You’re right.” She sighed and relaxed against him, pliant in his arms. “It’s a shame, though. It’s a good space.”

“I know,” Davy said. “I’m thinking we paint a mermaid mural in here and put in a pool table. And a jukebox with music from this century.” He felt Tilda laugh into his shirt. “I love you, Matilda,” he said into her curls, breathing in cinnamon.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he felt his own tension go because she’d finally said it. “But I don’t play pool.”