the game plan.
“Actually,” Dillon chimed in, “I was admiring Olivia’s painting Submersed .”
Now how did Dillon know about my piece in the gallery?
Ah, of course. He had done his homework. That rascal.
Submersed was an ethereal painting of a woman underwater, her hair swirling around her, shrouding her face. There had been some debate about who or what the woman was, but only I knew the truth behind what I’d painted.
Cornelia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Now is that the one of the woman drowning?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but Dillon spoke first. “I believe she’s a mermaid. Is that right, Livi ?”
I looked at Dillon and narrowed my eyes. I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. No one ever saw the mermaid in that painting. They only ever noticed how she was floating underwater. The women’s hair covered up the haunting loneliness of her face and her dress swirled around her ankles, ambiguously hiding her feet.
Cornelia shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Either way, it’s a beautiful piece.”
“Yes, she’s exquisite,” Dillon said.
I blushed. “You’re kind to flatter my work, Dillon.”
“I wasn’t referring to your art, although it is too. I was talking about you.”
I felt my cheeks burning. God, this guy was good.
“I still can’t believe I persuaded you to part with it,” my father commented, sounding proud of himself .
“It was more like you twisted my arm,” I replied.
“Oh, Olivia. It belongs out where people can see it and admire it. It’s just unfortunate you decided to put such a steep price tag on it.”
I gave my father my best stubborn smile. “You only said you wanted it in the gallery. You never specified a price.”
We both knew I didn’t want to part with the piece and was doing everything I could not to have to. That included putting a hefty price on it out of spite. Someone would have to be crazy to pay that kind of money for an original Olivia Sharpe. My mysterious underwater lady wasn’t going anywhere.
Cornelia frowned. “Elaine was most disappointed you didn’t choose her gallery for it. Speaking of which, when are you going to let her arrange a showing of your work?”
Elaine was Cornelia’s sister. She owned a gallery in Los Angeles and had been trying to talk me into an exhibition for years.
I took a sip of wine and watched as my hand shook the glass. “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” I managed to say, setting down the glass. This conversation was long overdue for a topic change.
“Oh sure you are,” Cornelia insisted. “I’m sure you have a whole collection of pieces up there in that room of yours.”
My father shot Cornelia a warning look and my gut twisted into knots. Not talking about my reclusive lifestyle was an unwritten rule.
Cornelia huffed and waved my father off. “Your daughter is one of the most talented artists of her generation, Ronald. Her work should be on display for all the world to see,” she declared, making a grand gesture with her arms.
“Speaking of display,” Dillon added. “ Livi , would you like to dance?”
I could have kissed Dillon for jumping in to take the heat off me, but instead my throat tightened. I had to bite back my automatic negative response. There had to be hundreds of people on the dance floor
Learning to Kill: Stories