Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp Read Free Book Online Page B

uncertainty of what waited on the other side of the water.
    I pulled into the commuter lot and ran down to the idling ferry, thankful I only had to pay for the crossing when boarding on the Seattle side.
    “Good timing,” the ferry worker said as I stepped aboard. “You’re the last.” He pulled a rope across the back of the boat, ending all other racers from boarding.
    The engines roared to life and boiled the water into a frothy foam of mint green. The same green that washed ashore behind my mom in the picture on my dresser. For a split-second, the two scenes merged and the spirit of my mother circled the air around me. I stood, not wanting the trance to end as my hair whipped around in a childish game of peek-a-boo with the receding dock. But with every breath I sucked down, the boat floated further and further from the dock, vibrating the foam into soft rings of murky green. My isolation solidified.
    Not a soul knew where I was, save one.
    Chilled, I staggered up the stairs into the protection of the cabin and dropped down into a booth near the front. The city was a blaze of golden brilliance. The autumn sunset shimmered back like fire against the towering skyline. It was stunning, blinding — thawing my chills of uncertainty until the ferry horn blew and jolted my body to attention, the Seattle terminal within striking distance.
    Trepidation kept my pace slow as I crossed the upper deck, my heart pounding in my ears. I merged into the folds of the other people congregated on the small outer deck as we waited for the foot passenger bridge to be lowered into place, the warmth of bodies a false solidarity.
    What was I doing?
    I jostled forward with the group and walked the plank before we stepped through the first set of doors. My breath caught as I spied him leaning casually against a post in the back of the room. I watched him look for me, only the subtle movement of his dark hair giving away his search. Dark, inky waves that perfectly framed the lines of his face.
    Our eyes connected instantly as I stepped through the second set of doors. Everything came to a silent standstill. Vanishing. Only the sound of my blood pulsing behind my ears interrupted the frozen scene.
    Quentin pushed off the post, his steps deliberate, closing the gap between us.
    “CeeCee . . .” he hesitated inches from me, as if not knowing what to say.
    My mind stumbled in a panic and blurted out the first nervous thought it latched on to. “How did you get my number?”
    His mouth pulled into a tight line. He put his hand behind my elbow and moved us out of the flow of passengers coming off the ferry. A patch of heat blossomed from his touch sending zings of electricity up my arm as he guided us out of the terminal. We followed the crowd to an outside breezeway and continued across a footbridge that led to First Avenue.
    His silence was deafening in the loud city. “You said if I was free tonight, you would tell me how you got my number.”
    Leading us south on First Avenue through a small triangle shaped park, he finally broke his silence. “Yes, but the night is not over.”
    “It’s about to be.” I quit walking, breaking his grip from my elbow as I stopped on a corner under a large L-shaped scrolling iron bus stop. A glass canopy bubbled through the hard lines of metal, reminiscent of another time.
    He turned and stared down at me, his sharp green eyes prickling a layer of unease across my skin. “How do you know Eveyln?”
    The question caught me off guard. My defenses soared. Unable to hold his cold gaze, I turned my head and said, “I don’t.”
    “That’s odd, ” his voice filled with sarcasm, “according to the SAM guest list, there were two Vanderbie’s in attendance the night of the Picasso show.”
    My head started to spin. Is this why he invited me? So he could call me a liar to my face? “Is that part of your job description? Guest list screening?”
    He didn’t answer.
    My eyes traced the scrolls of the iron