Beautiful Musician (10 page)

This world. That world. As fearful as
I was that I was losing my mind, that he was too damned close to my
creation, I couldn’t get up and walk away. I kept questioning him,
anxious to hear his answers. “How did you feel about being in
foster care?”

“
I hated it, and I wanted
to go back to Jack.”

“
Weren’t you afraid of
living with a delusional man? Of him regarding you as his adoptive
son?”

“
As delusional as he was,
he wasn’t dangerous or violent. He treated me with love and
kindness. He gave me a sense of belonging that foster care never
did. And he encouraged my artwork. I used to graffiti when we were
on the streets.”

The parallels continued, right along
with my crazy fear. “Are you an artist now? Is that how you make
your living?”

He shook his head, surprising me with
his answer.

I double-checked his response. “You’re
not an artist?”

“
Yes, I am. But that isn’t
how I make my living. I’m a freelance locksmith. I know, and with
the name Lock.” He shrugged, laughed a little. “I get ribbed about
that a lot.”

A locksmith named Lock. If this was a
hallucination, why had I created that identity for him?

“
I actually have my first
art show coming up,” he said.

I blinked, grappling to break free of
the locks. “You do?”

“
It’s in a few weeks, if
you’d like to go. It’s at a gallery a friend of mine
owns.”

A showing. At a gallery. By an
owner-friend. How could he be a product of my imagination if he had
a life outside my mind? “I’d very much like to go.” To see his
work. To talk to his peers. “Can I bring my aunt with me?” If Carol
met him, then I would know, without a doubt, that my sanity was
intact.

“
Sure. That would be
great.”

It was beyond great. He
had to be real. He absolutely
had
to be. “Then we’ll both come.”

“
Do you have a pen and
paper? I’ll write down the information for you.”

I dug through my purse and found a
pen, but no paper. He got up and grabbed a napkin to write
on.

He gave it to me afterward, and I
noticed how striking his penmanship was. Most guys scribbled, but
not this one. His script looked like a natural form of
calligraphy.

“
What’s your artwork
like?” I asked. “Can I see any of it online?”

“
Not yet. Not until after
the show. But it has a street vibe, like the graffiti art I did
when I was a kid. I’m a fantasy artist, too. Mostly I just paint
whatever feels right. I did a self-portrait that depicts my unknown
identity. It’s a nude. To me, that’s the purest form of
self-expression.”

I merely nodded, wondering,
shamefully, what he looked like without his clothes. Then I caved
in to curiosity and asked, “Is it going to be at the
show?”

“
I haven’t decided yet. Do
you think I should include it?”

Feeling like the virgin I was, I
fussed with my coffee, peeling bits of plastic off the rim of the
lid. “That’s up to you.”

Silence drifted between us,
intensifying the moment. I waited it out, hoping he changed the
subject.

He said, “I did a portrait of Jack
that I’m definitely going to include. I painted him from memory,
the way I remember him most, with his chipped smile and a frayed
beanie pulled down low on his head.”

“
How did he become
homeless?”

“
He didn’t have any family
left and he was too mixed up to hold down a job or make it in
mainstream society. The only place that made any sense to him was
being on the streets.”

“
How long ago did he
die?”

“
It’s been three
years.”

I did the math. “When you were
seventeen.”

He nodded, his voice brimming with
emotion. “I was still in foster care and missing the life I had
with him. I used to get on a bus and go downtown and see him
whenever I could. Then on one of those visits, I couldn’t find him
anywhere. Finally, I went into the shelter where he sometimes
stayed and learned that he’d had a heart attack and was gone. It
happened the night before I got there. I was one day
late.”

“
I’m sorry.”

“
It helps to talk about
it. That’s why I joined the support group. I wanted to connect with
people who understand what it’s like to love someone like
Jack.”

Someone like Jack. Someone like Abby.
“I understand.”

His gaze sought mine. “I can tell that
you do, and I appreciate you listening to my story.”

What would he say if I told him about
the warrior? Would he think it was a twisted coincidence? Or would
he think it was some sort of beautiful fate? I was still trying to
get a handle on it myself.

“
Thanks for being here,
Vanessa.”

“
You’re
welcome.”

Tenderness swirled between us, soft
and slow, pooling low in my stomach. Suddenly I wanted to touch
him, to kiss him, to feel his body pressed close to
mine.

He was looking at me as if he wanted
to do the same thing. The attraction we’d dismissed earlier was
clear and present now. But it was awkward, too.

Not knowing how to handle it, I said,
“I should probably get going so I don’t hit traffic.” It wasn’t
anywhere near rush hour, but it was the best I could do.

He frowned, and I assumed that he
didn’t want me to leave. But he said, “I’ll walk you
out.”

We disposed of our cups and went
outside. I noticed that his tattoos shined in the sun, the abstract
lines appearing darker. Everything about him seemed more
pronounced.

I gestured to my hybrid, letting him
know which car was mine. Then we both fell silent. I just stood
there, and he shifted his stance. Should I lean forward and try to
initiate a hug? As much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the guts to
be that bold. He seemed to debating if he should break the barrier
and go for it, but he kept a proper distance instead.

Staring at each other in boy-girl
torture, we said goodbye and promised to meet up at the gallery. I
got in my car, and he stayed on the sidewalk, watching me pull away
from the curb.

Already I couldn’t wait to see him
again, to hear his voice, to look into those deep brown
eyes.

While absorbed in vivid thoughts, I
merged onto the freeway. An hour later, I pulled into my driveway
and entered the house, still thinking about Duncan.

I fixed a sandwich and picked dreamily
at my food. I added ice to my apple juice and sipped slowly,
letting the cool, sweet beverage slide down my throat.

Then, finally, I gave up the fight and
got into bed under the guise of taking a nap. Reaching for my
pillow, I fantasized about Duncan, wishing that he was next to me,
steeped in his purest form of self-expression.

Strong and gorgeous and
naked.

Chapter Two

I spent the next two days consumed
with romantic thoughts of Duncan, touching myself in secret places
and whispering his name. But I couldn’t indulge in those sweet,
hungry feelings today. I was on my way to see Abby.

Should I tell my sister about
him?

No, I shouldn’t. Because if I did, she
would insist that he was the warrior, and I would have to debate
otherwise.

Convincing my delusional sibling that
he was just some random guy I’d met online would be next to
impossible, especially with his similarities to the warrior. I
couldn’t explain it. Heck, I couldn’t understand it myself. But it
didn’t matter. I was just grateful that he was a real person with a
real life. I’d already asked Carol if she wanted to attend his art
show, and my aunt seemed thrilled at the invitation.

Clearing my mind, I walked onto the
grounds of The Manor and headed toward the garden, where Abby would
be waiting for me. The garden was available on visiting days, with
wrought-iron benches beneath big shady trees. Of course there would
be a staff member nearby. There was always someone within
eye-range.

The mission of The Manor was to help
the residents grow and change, providing the tools they needed to
return to society and live productive lives. The program included
things like mood management, social skills, and cognitive behavior
therapy, along with cooking classes and other group activities.
Once the basics were tackled, job interests and education were
explored. The average stay was six to eight months, but some people
required longer care. It was impossible to know how long Abby would
be here.

I noticed her sitting off by herself.
She preferred the company of her make-believe people to the other
residents.

“
Hey, sis,” I said, and
sat next to her. Abby appeared fresh and clean, her short blonde
hair tucked neatly behind her ears. At least she’d gotten the
concept of bathing regularly since she’d moved into The Manor. “You
look nice.”

“
Thank you.”

Before our conversation turned
stagnant, I glanced at the flowers. African lilies decorated the
walkways, and combinations of annuals and perennials, like
lavender, poppies, and hibiscus, made a colorful presentation.
“It’s always so pretty in the garden.”

“
I like it.”

“
It’s good that you’re
living at The Manor for now.”

“
It’s okay. It’s better
than Carol always peering at me from beneath her lashes. She can’t
be trusted.”

It was useless to argue with Abby’s
paranoia, especially when Aunt Carol was the subject of it, but I
couldn’t stand for Carol to seem like a villain. “She’s always
taken good care of us. And she loves you, Abby.”

“
She still can’t be
trusted.”

I sighed. “I think she
can.”

“
She doesn’t watch you the
way she watches me.”

“
She’s protective of both
of us.”

“
It’s not the
same.”

That was true. But I didn’t have
Abby’s illness, thank heavens. At least now I knew that I was sane.
Funny, how meeting someone who resembled the warrior had helped me
tackle my fears.

“
Guess who’s here?” Abby
said.

Obviously it was one of her people:
Bud, Face, Dingo, or Smiling Seven. “I can’t begin to guess.” Any
of them could have showed up. “Why don’t you tell me who it
is?”

“
It’s Seven. Do you want
me to tell him hello from you?”

“
You can tell him whatever
you want.” Smiling Seven was inspired by Nikki Sixx, the bass
player for Mötley Crüe, and the very first character Abby had ever
created. When she was little she used to sit on Mom’s lap and watch
their videos. Then, a few years after our parents died, Smiling
Seven began to appear.

But he wasn’t an adult then. He was
young, just a couple of years older than Abby was at the time. He
loved rock and roll, and wanted to grow up to be a musician, so
whenever he appeared, they would spend countless hours listening to
music and dancing around her room.

But there was more to him than met the
eye. Right from the start, Abby claimed that he “knew” things that
other people didn’t know. According to my sister, he had psychic
abilities and had earned the name Smiling Seven because he had a
secret smile that boosted his power.

Nowadays, she described him as tall
and lean and dangerously handsome, with messy brown hair and a
boatload of tattoos. He’d become a musician, of course, and was
working on his career.

I often worried about his influence on
her. I suspected that she’d always had a bit of a crush on him, and
he was just too wild for a girl like Abby. I wished that she hadn’t
created him, but I didn’t have any control over her
delusions.

She gestured to the empty space in
front of her, where I assumed our visitor was standing, lording
over the garden like the hot commodity he supposedly was. “Seven
thinks that being at the loony bin is fun.”

“
You shouldn’t call this
place that.”

Abby waggled her fingers, waving at
her hallucination. She and Seven were always waving at each other.
“I didn’t call it that. He did.” She paused as if she were
listening to him speak his clairvoyant rhetoric. “He’s trying to
get a reading on you. He thinks something is up.”

I squinted into the sun, where Seven
was supposed to be. He was notorious for threatening to reveal what
he knew, which never turned out to be anything. “There’s nothing to
read.” Nothing except my meeting with Duncan, and I wasn’t going to
let on about that.

“
I’ll bet there is.” Abby
stared straight at me. “You seem different.”

I was different. Better. Calmer.
“Everything is fine.”

“
Seven doesn’t believe
you.”

“
Seven isn’t
real.”

Abby got frustrated, as she often did,
flailing her arms around, the tree above her looming like a woodsy
ghost. “He’s as real as the warrior. Seven says so.”