Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) (18 page)

“This feels like a relatively normal evening,” Quentin said from behind his menu. Even screened by the list of specials, I could hear the upturn of his lips teasing me, lulling me into a hammock of ease. “Although, you, who normally has twice as much to say as the average person, has said very little since I picked you up. Do you want to talk about it?”

He set his menu on the table and focused his crystals of green on me. “I’m just tired.” Exhausted is more like it. My conversation with Dad had my feet straddled over two sides of a train track.

Unconvinced, his eyes didn’t waver, except for slow, deliberate blinks that held me in his razor-sharp perception.

I picked up my menu to avoid his gaze. Item after item I read, but the titillating descriptions were no match for the quiet endurance Quentin had mastered.

“My dad decided to start playing Dad.”

“How so?”

“By setting up visitation ground rules for you.” I peaked over my menu.

Again with the smirk. “What are the rules?”

“Stay on the island, inform him of my every tiny move, and,” crimson rose up my cheeks like a thermometer, “don’t spend time alone with you at your house.”

His eyebrow shot up before he smiled his dazzling, crooked smile. “You can’t be surprised.”

Heated, I replied, “Yes, I can. He’s never cared. Not an ounce since my mom died, and now, out of the blue, he issues an apology saying he’s going to be more attentive. Just like that.” Quentin sat motionless, waiting for my tirade to end. “Please tell me your parents aren’t nearly as lame.”

Bitterness flicked across his eyes almost undetectable. It reminded me of how little I knew about him. “Are they?”

“Lame is not the word I would use to describe my parents.”

“How would you describe them?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because some people cannot be summed up in one word.”

“Do you ever see them? Spend time with them? Go home for Christmas?”

“No. They go to Barbados.”

“
For Christmas? Really? What about your brother and sister, do they go too?” I knew I was pushing a line he’d been careful never to cross.

He sat. Unmoved.

“I don’t understand. You never see your family? You never go home and they never come up here?”

“Does it matter?”

His chiseled features, meant to deflect my questions, were fully intact. But I refused to be derailed. “It does to me.”

An eternity of seconds slid by when he finally said, “They come north when my father has business.”

“How often is that?”

“Not often.”

I couldn’t begin to imagine what his parents must be like, or what life was like for Quentin growing up. “Do they have any business trips scheduled?”

He lifted his menu and blocked his face before muttering, “Next week.”

I reached across the table and snatched the menu out of his hands. “Next week? Your parents are coming to town next week?” My inflection was too high. My thighs pumping a new rhythm of questions through me.

He was slow to answer. “Yes.”

“Will you see them?”

His fingers ran through his hair and stopped on the back of his neck. The hesitation in his eyes vibrated intensely between us. As he opened his mouth to speak, I leaned in, but the sound that came out morphed into Grace’s voice.

“Well, well, well. It looks like our little bird grew a pair of wings and flew the coop.” I spun around as my two worlds came crashing together.

“Grace, hey, what are you guys doing here?” They were all here — Grace, Avery, Dylan, Sean.

“Oh, no, girlfriend. You do not get to steal that question from me.” Her eyes were trained on Quentin. I knew instantly that she remembered who he was. “What are you doing here with, um, sorry, in the chaos of that night, your name slipped my mind?”

“Quentin.”

“Quentin. Of, course. How could I forget the tender morsel’s name?”

“Excuse me?” “Grace!” We both said simultaneously. I was mortified.

Undeterred, she slipped in close to my ear and pressed on in a mock whisper. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but he
is
the same guy you passed out on top of, right?”

“She what?” Dylan’s words shot high, composing an entirely wrong picture in his head. “You,” he pointed to me and than shifted an accusing finger to Quentin, “passed out on him?”

“I didn’t pass out on him,” I explained lamely. “He just kept my head from . . .” There were too many eyes. All glued on me.

Avery was my saving grace. “It’s nice to meet you Quentin. I’m Avery.” She side-stepped Grace and held out her hand.

He took it. His expression Switzerland. “Nice to meet you.”

She proceeded with a point and introduction session. “This is Sean. Dylan. And it seems you may have already met Grace.”

He nodded to each of them.

Dylan asked, “How is it that you two know each other?” The possessive tone of Dylan’s voice was not lost on me. I didn’t dare look at Quentin.

Grace answered. “They are both lovers of Picasso.”

Strangle. I must remember to strangle Grace. I rushed in with a softer version. “Quentin works at the SAM. Grace and I met him when we were at the Picasso show.”

“Yes, but Grace was unaware that said person was ever heard from again.”

Grace’s corny third person response grated on my nerves. I wanted to roll my eyes, wave my
magic wand, and make them all disappear. Instead, I chose to ignore her. “Are you guys staying for dinner?”

“Yes. Yes we are.” She slid between the tables and pulled the one next to ours closer. She practically shifted her chair on top of Quentin.

“Um, I guess we’re joining you,” Sean stuttered, baffled by Grace’s antics, but still choosing the seat next to her.

Avery bent down next to my ear. “Are you okay with this?”

My eyes searched out Quentin’s. A perfect poker face greeted me and I said, “Sure.”

I was certain the only person unfazed by the strange dinner gathering was Grace. On and on she went. It was an out of body experience, hearing her through Quentin’s ears. Her words sound
ed like dribble, her all-important thoughts and opinions paled when compared to the experiences of the past two months. Were we all this childish?

I looked at each of them. My friends. I looked at Quentin, my . . . I don’t know what. Our friendship was the most un-friendship-like thing I’d ever experienced. I knew nothing about him. His friends. His family. His life. He was an enigma, somehow beckoned by fate.

After dinner, I was quick to rush us out of the restaurant. Away from the noise of my friends.

“Sorry about that.”

“What are you sorry about?”

I slid through the car door he held open and waited for him to come around to his side.

“My friends crashing dinner. It was completely unexpected.”

He pulled out onto Vashon’s non-busy highway to return me home. “I liked meeting your friends. It somehow rounded you out.”

“But you barely said two words.”

“I didn’t say I was good at social interaction, but it was still interesting to see who you hang out with when you’re not peering into the future.”

Before I chickened out, I blurted, “I want to meet your parents.”

His foot hit the break too fast as he pulled into my driveway. We both jolted hard against the seatbelts. “Not a good idea.”

“You’ve met everyone in my life. My family. My odd friends. I’ve met no one who knows you.”

“Evelyn knows me.”

“That doesn’t count because she’s still part of my family.” I spun in my seat and faced him. “I want to meet them.”

“No.”

His face was set, but approachable. I leaned in closer. “Please. I’d like to meet them.”

He shook his head no, his eyes locked on my lips.

“I’m not going to quit asking.”

“My answer will still be ‘no’ the next time you ask.” His reply was laced in velvet tones.

I placed my hand on his thigh. “Then I’ll just have to get creative with the question.” A source of adrenaline kicked in. The air in the car charged.

A glint of amusement swam through his eyes. We were nose to nose, his breath doing
warm laps around my face. The crinkle of a smile emerged.

“My answer is still no.”

“I didn’t ask a question.”

“I was making a preemptive strike.” He sealed the deal without any further help from me.

“Are you going to take me with you to meet your parents?”

“No.”

“When, exactly, will you be seeing them?”

“The answer is still no.”

“I didn’t ask to come. I was just wondering what night I should not expect to hear from you.”

“Thursday.”

“Is there any circumstance in which you would let me come along? A favor? A request? A look into the future?”

“No. No. And no.”

“What will you do when you see them? Do they come to your house? Do you go out?”

“We go out.”

“Where?”

Silence.