The Genius and the Muse (16 page)

“I was surprised myself. Javi usually doesn’t like anyone. I might have recommended he get his head examined if he hadn’t started bitching about having to shave for publicity photographs immediately afterward.”

Kate smiled. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Does it?”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as Lydia’s mouth curled into a smile. Her eyes suddenly looked lively with interest, but she let the subject drop. They spoke for the next hour about jobs that might be options for Kate in the future. Lydia told her stories about some of the strangest photo shoots she had ever arranged, including one that featured no less than two dozen print models, a white tiger, and a standard poodle that had been dyed pink. Kate was laughing so hard she thought her stomach might hurt the next day.

Lydia said, “I thought Reed was going to strangle the poodle… or his assistant, one of the two. It would have been too bad about the dog.”

Kate couldn’t help the snort of satisfaction that erupted when she imagined Brandon Wylie wrangling a pink standard poodle in Times Square as cars passed by him, honking loudly.

Lydia watched Kate with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m looking forward to this; it’ll be good to have some fresh blood around. We tend to get too caught up in our old gang sometimes. Too much history. Too much routine.”

“I think it’s wonderful.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You. Dee and Chris, Javi and Susan and Vanessa, and—well, Reed O’Connor and Sam Rhodes, of course. It’s like you guys were some amazing artistic family or something.”

She saw Lydia’s eyes cloud over a little and she began to shuffle papers on her desk. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“So, does Mr. O’Connor still do fashion photography?” asked Kate, grabbing the opportunity to ask about him.

Lydia glanced at her before looking back at her desk. “No, he only does his portrait work. He was brilliant at fashion, though. And it’s very good experience for a photographer, even if it’s not your passion. You should really consider—”

“Do you think I could meet him?”

Lydia spoke in a carefully level voice. “I very much doubt it.”

Kate took a breath before continuing. “I’m sure you’ve heard I’m doing my thesis on his work, and how it’s related to modern interpretations of beauty. I’d really like—”

“I very much doubt it, Kate.” Lydia repeated with a warning in her tone. “He doesn’t do interviews, and he rarely meets with people he doesn’t know. He values his privacy.” Lydia took a breath before continuing softly, “I know you’ve been asking about him. About them. I want you to know that I am not going to talk to you about Reed, Sam, or their relationship. As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of your business. I don’t care what Dee and Susan say.” Lydia’s voice was unyielding, and Kate felt her breath pick up a little.

“But, I don’t want to publish anything. I’m just trying to understand—”

“It’s none of your business, Kate.”

Kate felt the frustration build on both sides of the mahogany desk as they stared at each other. Finally realizing she wouldn’t be able to persuade the stubborn woman, she slumped a little in her chair.

“Everyone else talked to me,” she said in a sullen voice.

Lydia cocked her head and her eyes were fierce when she responded, “Well, I’m not everyone else. You’ll figure that out soon enough. And to tell you the truth, you sound a little childish right now.”

“I just don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t!” she broke in. “Do you think this is some sort of—of soap opera? Some mystery or game? Why is this so important to you?”

Kate sat speechless, trying to put into words the strange connection she felt with the two artists. “I—I’ve studied Reed O’Connor’s work for years. And there’s something… I just want to understand it. And him. I want to understand—”

“What, Kaitlyn? What are you trying to understand?” Lydia no longer looked angry, but she did appear to be a little exasperated. “Why is knowing about
them
so important to
you
?”

“I just…” Kate felt her throat start to close and tears pricked her eyes. “Everyone—Chris, Dee, Javi, Vanessa, Susan—they all talk about them like they had this extraordinary love. The kind of love that inspires masterpieces.”

She finally saw Lydia’s eyes soften, and the agent said, “They did, Kate. They…” Lydia looked toward her office door as if she wanted to escape.

Kate felt the tears gather in her eyes, but she was determined to at least try to articulate what she was feeling. “That’s the kind of love people look for their whole lives. The kind of passion we’re all trying to capture when we pick up a camera, or a paintbrush, or a piece of clay. It’s all just trying to capture what they had. And they lost it! And—and I need to know how they lost it, Lydia.” A tear slipped down her face. “I need to know
why
,” she said almost desperately.

She heard the door to Lydia’s adjoining office open quietly, and the agent looked past her with alarm painted across her face. Kate brushed the tears from her cheek and turned to look over her shoulder. Then she gasped when her gaze met a pair of sad, blue eyes in a now-familiar face.

“It’s okay, Lydia,” he said as a soft smile touched his lips. “Hello, Kate.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Manhattan, New York

July 2006

L
ydia rushed down the sidewalk, ignoring the sweat that dampened her jacket and ran into her eyes. As she turned the corner nearing Reed and Sam’s studio, she replayed the phone call she had just received from Susan.

“Lydia, do you know what the hell is going on?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been in Boston for the past three days.”

“So you don’t know why Sammy showed up here this morning looking like shit and not talking?”

Lydia’s breath caught in her throat, and a dull dread began to fill her chest. “Have you tried calling Reed?”

“Of course I have! I can’t get ahold of him. No one is answering at the apartment or the studio. I don’t have his assistant’s number.” She heard the other woman sigh on the other line. “We need to figure out what the hell’s going on. Are you in the city? Do I need to have Javi fly up there?”

Lydia dropped the files she had been holding and stood up, reaching for the spare keys the couple kept in her desk drawer. “I’m on my way right now. I’ll call you in an hour.”

“I’m worried about him, Lydia. You know how he gets—”

“I know.”

Lydia unlocked the studio door, noticing the light hadn’t been turned on in the small reception area. The assistant’s desk appeared as messy as it ever was, and her heels echoed on the tile floor. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she walked to the back door leading to the workroom.

She opened it and immediately saw Reed sitting in the small kitchen located in the far corner of the studio. He wore a pair of jeans and a white undershirt, but his feet were bare as he sat cross-legged on the ground with his back against the cabinets. One hand was buried in his messy black hair, and the other clutched something close to his chest.

“Reed?” she called, as she crossed the barely recognizable studio. Broken and cut canvases and torn photographs mingled together, littering the floor. She saw dents in the walls, and Reed’s light kits lay smashed in the corner near a raised platform covered with a rumpled white sheet. One of the lights flickered sporadically in the dim space.

“Reed?” she called again. As she drew closer, she saw him rock slightly, and draw his knees up toward his chest. Her stomach clenched at the sight of him. Something was horribly wrong. He didn’t look like the confident, controlled man she knew. He looked… broken.

“Reed.” She put a soft hand on his bare shoulder. ”I need to know if you’re okay.” Lydia had her suspicions about what had happened based on the cuts evident on the canvases strewn around the room, but she wanted to make sure. “Are you hurt?”

Tortured blue eyes finally lifted to meet her own. They were red, and several days’ worth of dark stubble covered his face. Reed was barely recognizable.

“I fucked up, Lydia.”

She knelt down, drawing his tall frame into her small arms as he clutched her waist. She felt his tears soak her collar, though he didn’t make a sound; his right hand still grasped something tightly to his chest. She pulled back, and he grabbed a towel from beside the sink to swipe across his face.

She held his hand in hers, trying to unfurl his long, callused fingers to make sure they weren’t broken. His knuckles were covered in white powder where his fist had met drywall, and his cuticles, which were always cracked, were torn and bleeding. He finally relaxed his grip, and Lydia saw small pieces of a photograph flutter to the ground.

Her breath caught in her throat when Lydia realized they were pieces of the beautiful photograph Dee had taken of them in college. It was one of the few pictures they’d ever taken together, and the only one she knew Reed kept with him everywhere he went.

Reed frowned when he saw the pieces on the ground, and he leaned down, trying to gather them up again. Lydia put a hand on his shoulder to halt him.

He lifted his gaze to hers, and finally spoke in a soft voice. “I didn’t mean to rip it. When I realized… It’s all fucked up now. I can’t put the pieces back together.”

She covered her mouth to hold in a cry, but Reed’s eyes stayed dry as he picked up the tiny pieces as if they were precious metal.

Lydia stood on shaky legs and looked around. As she took in the wreckage of Reed and Sam’s combined work, her heart broke. Only Sam would ever take a knife to the scattered canvases she saw around the room. Though she could see evidence of Reed’s temper in the torn photographs and broken lights, he would never have lifted a finger to damage Sam’s work.

Lydia walked toward the storage room where she kept all her finished canvases of Reed. Despite their ongoing joke, Lydia had always known her friend would never sell them. Though she never said it, the agent knew the paintings were Sam’s love letter to him. She painted him over and over again as the years passed, capturing tiny scars and subtle changes in her lover’s body that only she would ever see.

As Lydia pulled the door open, she felt as if she had been punched in the chest. Tears finally fell down her face as she surveyed the devastation at her feet.

They were all ruined. Some lay on the floor looking as if they had been stepped on, and others lay broken against the walls, their frames cracked and splinters visible, poking out at odd angles.

In the far corner, she saw one painting that seemed intact, covered by a white sheet. She walked toward it and reached up to pull the sheet off the last intact canvas.

It was unfinished. Faint pencil marks were visible beneath some of the smudges of oil, but the outline was complete enough that Lydia could see it was a rendering of the torn photograph Sam had started months ago and never finished. It looked like a piece of abstract art; the angles of the bodies were clearly visible, but their arms reached around hollow bodies that would never be filled in.

She left the painting in the storeroom, re-covering it with the dusty white sheet before she walked back out to the main studio. Reed had moved to the small table where they often shared meals. He sat hunched over, pushing around the pieces of the photograph, trying to nudge them into some sort of order.

She sat down silently, and heard him speak in a hoarse voice.

“Did she call you?”

Lydia shook her head and spoke in a soft voice. “No. Susan did. She’s in California.”

He nodded, seemingly unsurprised. Lydia looked around the room, taking in the torn photographs of his lover. Pieces of Sam’s face lay scattered around the room, creating the illusion of some strange black and white collage.

“Reed—”

“I kissed a model.”

She stared at him in astonishment, stunned silent for a long moment.

“You mean she kissed you?”

“No. I kissed her.”

“What? What the hell, Reed?” Lydia felt like crying again. “Wh—what were you thinking?”

He just shook his head silently and stared at the door to the reception room. “She walked in and saw me. She saw me kissing that girl on the platform. And the white sheets…” he whispered in an anguished voice as he leaned his elbows on the table, clutching his hair. “And the light was just like…”

Lydia cleared her throat, trying to pull herself together. “Reed, why would you do that? Why would you even—I know how much you love Sam. And you know how she’s been lately.”

He shook his head. “I know. It was so stupid. This girl was just there. And she was laughing at some joke one of the make-up people told. For a minute, it seemed so simple. She was happy. She was so
happy
. And I just… kissed her. And as soon as I did, I realized it felt wrong, but then I heard her. And I knew she saw.” Lydia had to strain to hear him. His hands were clenched into fists. “It’s broken, Lydia.” He lay his head down on the table, defeated as he let out a shuddering breath. “It’s so messed up. Everything’s broken, and I’m so tired.”

She moved to sit beside him, laying a hand on his back. After a while, Lydia felt Reed’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he slept fitfully, his head resting on the scarred table.

Lydia rose and went to the kitchen to get a trash bag. She didn’t know what to do with all the broken pieces of art; but she could at least clean up the glass in the corner where the lights had fallen. She worked methodically, stepping outside to call Susan and let her know what happened, as best she could figure it out. According to her Susan, Sam had asked after Reed, heard Lydia was going to check on him, and then fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Lydia worked for hours cleaning up glass, clearing off the platform, and picking up the smallest pieces of torn photographs and broken canvas. The larger pieces of both she placed in the storage room, not sure what Reed might want to do with them, but not wanting to throw anything away. She swept and dusted, calling various people to cancel shoots, and rearranging her schedule so she could take care of her friend.