Faking It Read online

  “Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

  “Clea fucks like you paint.”

  “Oh,” Tilda said.

  “If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you—”

  “You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

  “Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

  “Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.

  “Now what’s wrong?” Davy said.

  “You know, I was happy before you came here,” Tilda said and headed for the door.

  “No you weren’t,” Davy said, following her. “You—”

  Ethan came in carrying Steve, who was wearing a brocade vest and a black bowtie and looking a little perturbed about the whole thing. “Nadine made the vest,” he said. “She said it was a gallery-opening tradition.”

  “That should perk Mason right up,” Tilda said. “Don’t bite anybody, Steve.”

  “You leaving now?” Ethan said.

  “Yes,” Davy said. “We’re—”

  “Well, ‘have fun stormin’ da castle,’” Ethan said and carried Steve out into the gallery.

  Davy looked at Tilda. “Does everyone know we’re committing a crime tonight?”

  “Jeff doesn’t,” Tilda said. “We try to keep him pure for the defense.”

  “Good to know,” Davy said and went out to the parking lot. “You should have lights out here,” he told her when they were in the car.

  “We should have the money to put in lights out here,” Tilda said. “Let me get Simon paid off for the gallery paint first. And, oh yeah, the mortgage.”

  “Right,” Davy said. “This is the perfect life I screwed up?”

  “I know.” Tilda let her head fall back on the seat. “Not your fault. Except it is.”

  “I did not—”

  “Before you came, I didn’t know I was unhappy,” Tilda said. “I just put my head down and kept moving. And then you grab me in a closet and, all of a sudden, I notice that I’m miserable painting murals and lousy in bed.”

  “ ‘Lousy’ was your word, not mine,” Davy said. “And I’m willing to coach you on that.”

  She rolled her head to look at him. “I was not happy about you fixing up the gallery.”

  “I know,” Davy said.

  “I am now. It’s beautiful, it’s actually more beautiful than I remember it. And seeing all that stuff I painted in there makes me want to paint again, for real. It makes me happy. And when you’re gone, that’ll be gone, too, because we can’t keep it going, we don’t have the time and we don’t have the ...” She waved her hand. “The razzle-dazzle. That was my dad. And Gwennie’ll go back to the Double-Crostics, and Nadine’ll go back to dating careers, and I’ll go back to painting murals. So thank you for giving me back the gallery, but you’re ruining my life.”

  “I know,” Davy said.

  She frowned at him. “You do not know.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Davy said. “I know you’re a great painter, I know you hate painting the murals, I know you love your family, I know you’re really mad at your dad for something, and I know that the gallery is where you belong. I know you.”

  Tilda lost her breath. “Not as much as you think,” she said, looking out the window. “Shouldn’t we be moving or something?”

  “Yes.” Davy started the car. “There will be closets, Vilma. Control yourself.”

  “There is one thing,” Tilda said.

  “What now?” Davy said, sounding wary.

  “If something goes wrong tonight,” Tilda said, “I’m staying. No more me leaving you to carry the can, no more you shoving me out the door. Tonight, we’re in this together.”

  Davy was quiet for a minute. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” Tilda said. “But I don’t want you doing it, either.”

  “I know,” Davy said. “But tonight is the last time. It’s all over tonight.”

  “I know.” Tilda looked out the window again. “Let’s go.”

  BACK AT the gallery, Gwen was watching Mason and thinking, He’s such a sweet man. Maybe I can have Ford kill him. No, that wasn’t funny, but it would have been nice if somebody knocked him cold because he was single-handedly screwing up her gallery preview. And as much as she hadn’t wanted it, if she had to have it, she wanted it to be a success.

  She watched him now, telling some bewildered woman that buying a chest of drawers painted with tangerine-colored zebras was a good investment. “Art appreciates,” he said, and Gwen went around the counter and took his arm.

  “Mason, honey,” she said.

  “I think I’ll wait on that,” the woman said, backing away. “Can I pet the dog?”

  “Of course!” Gwen said cheerfully.

  Mason shook his head. “That dog is going to ruin the whole thing,” he whispered to Gwen. “Can’t we get it out of here? Nobody will take us seriously with it around.”

  We’re selling furniture with orange zebras on it, Gwen thought. “The thing is,” she told him, “this furniture is not an investment. You buy this kind of art because you love it, not because it appreciates.”

  He looked at her fondly and patted her arm. “You leave this to me, Gwennie. I know what I’m doing.”

  No you don’t, Gwen thought, but he wasn’t harassing that poor woman about the zebras anymore, so she went back to the counter.

  At the back of the gallery, Michael was laughing with a woman who was holding a Finster but looking at Michael. Miraculously, the man had sold three Finsters since the doors had opened. Maybe we should keep him around to run the place, Gwen thought, and then thought,

  No. Michael would sell everything they had including Steve and then leave with the money. Sweet man, but completely immoral.

  Across the room, Nadine was smiling and laughing, too, and selling furniture, and for a moment, Gwen could see Tony in her, or at least his charm. Then the woman Nadine was laughing with came over and paid a hundred dollars for a footstool painted with dancing cats and Gwen thought, She got his gift for selling damn near anything, too.

  She smiled at the woman and took her money and looked around for Mason. He was talking to a graying man in a suit about a table covered in red beagles. Gwen could have sworn she heard him say “investment” clear across the room.

  It was going to be a long night. My gallery for a piña colada, she thought, and went to rescue another customer.

  THE BASEMENT window was still broken so Tilda and Davy got in without a problem, and it was like old times, climbing the stair to Clea’s closet in the dark.

  “Very nostalgic,” Davy said, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. “Go on upstairs to the room with the paintings and find your Scarlet. I’ll hit Clea’s bedroom for the laptop.”

  “Okay.” Tilda looked up the next dark staircase with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “Unless you want to search the closet with me,” Davy said. “That’s always interesting for us.”

  “Upstairs it is,” Tilda said, and spent the next hour on the next floor with a penlight, flipping through dozens of wrapped paintings looking for eighteen-inch-square paintings or something that might be an eighteen-inch square framed. Some of the paintings had been clumsily unwrapped, and she gave in to curiosity and looked.

  There were some nice pieces, but nothing startling. As a collector, Mason didn’t have much flair, which was pretty much in line with the rest of Mason, poor man. Maybe Gwennie could liven him up some.

  She found the last square painting, carefully unwrapped a corner of it, and saw a checkered night sky, but not one of hers. What the hell? she thought and unwrapped it completely. It was eighteen inches square with a blue checked sky, but it was a forest scene, and she’d never painted a forest. She moved the penlight to the c