Jenelle stood in the heart of the gallery with a woman. Tidy, prim and professional in a rich teal suit, eye-glaring in the harsh light bouncing from fluorescents and sun streaming the through the windows.
Why was it so fucking bright at nine in the morning?
"Eva." Jenelle rushed to her side. The sound of her heels clacking on hardwood was like an ice-pick to the skull.
"Later," she waved, tugging Eva along behind her until she was face to face with Ms. Power-suit. "This is the surprise I told you about."
Mrs. Power-suit thrust out a hand, nails gleaming like lacquered claws waiting to sink into her flesh. "Letitia Reid of Letitia Reid Literary Agency," she said, her grip bone-cracking around Eva's limp fingers.
"Just hear her out." Jenelle took both of Eva's shoulders, squeezed them with equal measures of excitement and pleading.
"Your fabulous partner reached out to my agency last week with an incredible concept that I'm eager to take on-board. You've managed to establish an impressive body of work which we'd like to distil into a more focused, tangible collection."
"Collection."
"Yes, for a printed book of your more popular artwork. We're excited you thought of our Agency for the honour. Tell me Eva, where do you see Out of Focus five years from now?"
"I—"
"Book tours and signings," Letitia interrupted, sailing her hands through the air like a director setting the scene. "An entire wall display in Barnes & Noble. A selection of your stunning pieces travelling all across North America—to start—in showings with a celebrity, or two, for added excitement. Are you aware that you've developed a strong following in Paris and Rome?
"I—"
"What am I saying? Of course you do," Letitia giggled, railroading right over Eva like a lamb caught in the tracks. "We'll include Marshall in on the project so he can do a written segment about each featured image. An extension of your collaboration over the summer. We'd ideally like to go to print with this before the year-end, which would leave plenty of time to arrange for a signing/cocktail event right here to celebrate the upcoming release, complete with media and high-rolling art enthusiasts to drive up the hype."
Dazzled by spinning dollar signs and shooting stars, Jenelle bumped shoulders with Eva. "I think sometime in the early fall for the social could be good, no?"
Letitia pursed lips, eyes glimmering. "Perfect, in fact. Plenty of opportunity to drive sales into the holidays and leaving just enough time for Ms. Turner to put together a new collection for Spring. We could..."
They spoke over her, around her. Eva faded away, the world muted in her grief. But she heard snatches break through their conversation. Each word slamming into her like a fist.
Expansion plans. Local caterers to handle event. Signing tables. Tower of books.
Makeover.
Somewhere beyond the buzz of voices, a swelling sort of pressure grew in Eva's belly. Rising. Rising above the haze and fog of her dulled senses, like she was waking—slowly—from a stone cold sleep.
"No." Her voice had been soft, almost non-existent, but the finality of it, the primal edge had both Letitia and Jenelle stopping cold. They turned, almost in unison with mirror-like expressions that would have otherwise been comical to behold. But not now. Not when beneath her skin temper boiled like waking lava.
Eva's artistic eye captured the moment, branding it in her brain. She'd have called it Abject Horror.
Letitia drew in a breath, the air around them suddenly frosty. "I beg your pardon?"
"No."
"To what, exactly?"
"All of it.
"We're not having a social, or gathering or whatever else you want to call it." Jenelle moved forward but Eva stayed her with a lift of her hand. "We're not putting together a printed book and we're most certainly not ferreting me off for a makeover. No."
Letitia set her teeth, shifted on heels that ground into the floors with frustrated venom. She lanced Jenelle with a hot glare. "You told me she'd be cooperative."
Jenelle's normally dewy skin was now paper white. "I...well, I didn't think. Mrs. Reid." But she was speaking to the woman's retreating back and after muttering a vehement,
"Do you mind telling me what that was all about?"
"If you know what's best for you, leave me alone, Jen."
"No, no we're going to talk about this," Jenelle snagged Eva's arm, stopping her retreat. Furious, Eva shrugged off her grip and rounded like a snarling Pitbull.
"What is it with you fucking Davies and your inability to take 'No' for an answer? Is this a skill you're taught, or a trait acquired at birth?"
"The hell is your problem?"
"My problem is you're not hearing me. My problem is being ambushed—but that woman," she practically screamed, "coming in here, attacking me. Threatening me."
"What...what are you talking about? No one threatened anything, unless you call a 'makeover' a threat, then sure. Fine."
Oh but she had been threatened. Catherine Clear. Eva had almost let the name slip and now bit back on it.
"Eva, I don't know what's going on with you, but I was just trying to do my job. You hired me to manage this gallery, to make it a success. To grow the business; I can't do that with you kyboshing every move I make."
Snarling, Eva rounded and struck the only thing safe to hit—the wall of exposed brick. "I hired you to manage the place. The gallery. The sales. The clients. Not my business model. And certainly not my life."
That jolted Jenelle straight and she rocked as if she'd been the one punched. And though her face registered hurt, her silver eyes stayed clear as window glass.
"I see. Well, if that's how you feel then consider this my notice, Eva. I've reached the limits of my endurance to put up with your snarling, childish mood swings. Since you're so keen on being left alone, do it yourself."
Setting her keys on the counter, Jenelle walked past her and out the front doors.
#
"Thank you, yes I'll send you the pages." Hanging up the phone, Marshall whooped, socking an excited fist in the air. Shortly after making the decision to bow out of the CTV race, he'd decided that his pages of 'Insanity' showed the promising bones of a gritty, personal memoir.
So he'd fleshed them out further, breathed life and blood into the words, and drafted a proposal, outlining his thoughts and the books overall arc. He'd call it Healing Scars, because that in essence what this was all about.
And recalling the slew of calls he'd dodged when the media craze surrounding his return to Canadian soil, Marshall flipped the book proposal in an email to an editor who'd hounded him for near a month, begging to take him on board.
Her response pinged back with a bold, all capped 'YES', which lead to an hour long phone call and an offer of representation. Apparently, despite Danni's posturing and threats, the publishing world was more than happy to receive him.
"Come on, LeBron," he whistled for his dog. "Let's go share the news with the ladies, eh boy?"
Ruffling his hands in shaggy, golden fur. But first he decided to take a walk in to town, picked up a nice bottle of wine—something crisp and white, and at the cash out plucked a DVD off the rack, smiled.
A lighthearted Jim Carrey bit he hadn't seen in years. Paying for both, LeBron at his side, he reached Eva's door just as the last of day's sun disappeared below the swath of quiet horizon, the stars peaking through the canvas of deepening blue.
A gorgeous night. A perfect night.
Eva opened the door after his playful knock, eyes narrowed—probably from spending too long pent up behind her computer.
"What?" she asked in that adorably abrupt manner of hers. Marshall smiled.
"You look like you could use a break," he said, holding up his offerings.
"Now's not a good time, Marshall. I'm neck deep in edits and—"
He silenced her with a kiss and though he felt that usual spark flicker between them, she stayed rigid in his arms.
"C'mon, Eva. Let's get drunk and make out on the couch like a couple of teenagers during the boring bits."
"No. I can't I need—space, Marshall. I need time to think."
"Think," he repeated as she walked away from him, not liking where this was heading. Calmly, carefully, he shut the door, and followed her inside.
"Yes, think. Okay? Christ, you've been smothering me with always being around since you got back. I haven't had a moment to breathe to..." Eva's words ebbed, sighing she braced the wall. Breathed. "I want you to take the job, Marshall."
"What?"
"CTV. I want you to pick up the phone, beg forgiveness, jump on a plane, and leave. Pursue your dreams. Giving it up for me is a mistake. A huge mistake."
"Mistake." The room darkened as night rolled in thick and black as his waking temper. And just as swift. A dark wall pressing against the glass, swallowing up the light.
"I know you to be many things, but I didn't take you for a coward."
"Excuse me?"
"Didn't stutter. But I'll say it again, pushing me away like this makes you a coward. I don't know what's your deal and I won't waste my breath asking. You'll only lie, so what's the point?" Setting down the wine on the counter, Marshall shoved his hands in his pockets because even through the rage, a part of him wanted to take hold of her—shake her until her teeth rattled—and then kiss her until she gained some freaking sense.
"When are you going to decide to pull that beautiful, stubborn head out of your ass, and tell me what's going on? What's the big secret and mystery, Eva? I'm tired of guessing and speculating."
He was tired? He was tired?
Christ that was funny. Laughable. Freaking hilarious.
A giggle trickled out her. And another. Those giggles blossomed into a laugh, and in the face of his stunned confusion, she laughed harder. Clutching at her sides, sliding down the wall, Eva laughed until her ribs ached. Until tears streamed from her eyes. Until her voice hoarsened and the sounds pouring out of her bled into guttural, wounded sobs.
Arms closed around her, lifted. Marshall voice shushing through her grief.
"Baby," he whispered. "Eva, talk to me. What's going on?"
"I can't tell you." She pulled out of his arms and he let her go, watched as she paced, hands worrying her short hair until it stuck up at odd angles.
"Why?"
"Because I can't." She tossed up her hands. "I can't."
"That's not fair, Eva. I've been open with you. Honest with you. I've told you things I've never shared with anyone. Why can't you trust me?"
Exhausted. Defeated. Eva hung her head. Christ, what did it matter anymore? It was all over, anyhow? What difference would it make?
"No, not wine. I need something...heavier." Reaching into the base cabinet, Eva rummaged around until she came up with a nearly full bottle of Johnny Walker, black label. Marshall stayed silent, watched as she slowly, and steadily, poured out a couple of glasses, handed one to him.
"Ice?"
"Neat, is fine." Marshall brushed his against hers, patted the cushion of the couch next to him.
"Not here," she said, thinking of the girls upstairs. And nodded towards the patio. He joined her outside, waited as she slid the door shut, toting glass and bottle. Eva plunked down in a chair and sighed.
"I don't know where to start."
"Beginning is best," Marshall offered, claiming the seat next to her. "Just get the ball rolling."
Eva sipped the smallest amount of whiskey, winced disapprovingly, but sipped again.
"I met Nathan, the girls' father, when I was in high school. I was going through a rebellious phase, my mom and I butted heads like a couple of mountain goats locking horns." She brought her hands together, clinking knuckles against bevelled glass.
"So Nathan was just a natural progression of that rebellion. It certainly helped that my mom hated him. Only added to the appeal and allure. Wasn't long before I got pregnant. Didn't tell anyone. Not even my twin sister."
Marshall hissed against the whiskey he'd nearly choked on, and though his mind reeled with questions at the mention of a sister—a twin, he knew to keep his mouth shut and not to interrupt. He listened as she worked through those early years. About the mess of an unplanned pregnancy and the ensuing struggles that followed.
He tried to imagine Eva back then. A kid faced with the terrifying prospect of parenthood and all that it entailed, backed into a corner by her own mother who gave her two choices: abort or move out. Choosing the baby, Eva dropped out of school, got married—because it seemed the responsible thing to do.
Fast forward seven miserable years...
"Nate's ambitions were money and girls. Family confused him. Not that it was really his fault. He never knew what it was to be part of a family, thanks to the poor example of his own parents...our marriage was doomed to fail right from the start. I didn't stay out of weakness. Or fear. I just didn't see the point in leaving. After I had Payton I decided I had to set a better example for my girls."
"So you left him," Marshall supplemented when Eva again lapsed into silence.
"That was the hardest transition of my life, but my sister and her boyfriend took us in. Had us sleeping in her living room for almost six months. Damn near drove her crazy, but Alyssa wanted to help me. She always helped me. She'd been there for every battle. Every war. Met with my lawyers and helped me go through with the divorce and secure full custody, which he didn't really contest. The thought of parental responsibility made him anxious, and I agreed not to chase him for child support. I didn't need his money." Eva's eyes flashed, whiskey set aflame. "I had my girls."
"Sounds like a real winner." Marshall kicked back his glass, swallowing the contents in one gulp. "Are you hiding from Nathan?"