Portrait of a Dead Guy (2 page)

“But ma’am. Can she paint a portrait? I have credentials. I’m a graduate of SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design. I’m formally trained on mixing color, using light, creating perspective, not to mention the hours spent with live models. I can do curlicue. But don’t you want more than curlicue?”

Wanda relaxed her grip on JB’s arm. Her eyes wandered to the floral arrangements, considering.

“I have the skill and the eye for portraiture,” I continued. “And this is Dustin’s final portrait. Don’t you want an expert to handle his precious memory?”

“She does have a point, J.B,” Wanda conceded.

JB grunted. “The whole idea is damn foolish.”

Wanda blushed and fidgeted with JB’s sleeve.

“The Victorians used to wear a cameo pin with a lock of their deceased’s hair in it,” I said, glad to reference my last minute research as I defended her. “It was considered a memorial. When photography became popular, some propped up the dead for one last picture.”

“Exactly. Besides, this is a painting not a photograph,” said Wanda. “It’s been harder as Dustin got older. I wanted to be closer to him. JB did, too, in his way. And then Dustin was taken before his time.”

I detected an eye roll from JB. Money wasn’t the issue. Propriety needled him. Wanda loved to spend JB’s money, and he encouraged her. JB’s problem wasn’t that Wanda was flashy; she just shopped above her raising. Which can have unfortunate results. Like hiring someone to paint her dead stepson.

“A somber representation of your son could be comforting,” I said. Not that I believed it for a minute.

“Do you need the work, honey?” Wanda asked. “I want to do a memory box. You know, pick up one of those frames at the Crafty Corner for his mementos. You could do that.”

“I’ll do the memory box,” I said. “I’ve done some flag cases, so a memory box will be no problem. But I really think you should reconsider Shawna for the painting.”

“Now lookee here,” said JB. “Shawna’s my niece.”

“Let me get my portfolio,” I said. Pictures speak louder than words, and it looked like JB needed more convincing.

I dashed out of the viewing room and took a deep breath to regain some composure. I couldn’t let Shawna Branson steal my commission. The Bransons needed this portrait done right. Who knows what kind of paint slaughter Shawna would commit. As far as I was concerned, she could keep her curlicue business as long as she left the real art to me.

My bright yellow pickup glowed like a radiant beacon in the sea of black, silver, and white cars. I opened the driver door with a yank, cursing a patch of rust growing around the lock. Standing on my toes, I reached for the portfolio bag on the passenger side. The stretch tipped me off my toes and splayed me flat across the bench.

“I recognize this truck,” a lazy voice floated behind me. “And the view. Doesn’t look like much’s changed either way in ten years.”

I gasped and crawled out.

Luke Harper, Dustin’s stepbrother.

I had forgotten that twig on the Branson family tree. More like snapped it from my memory. His lanky stance blocked the open truck door. One hand splayed against my side window. His other wrist lay propped over the top of my door. Within the cage of Luke’s arms, we examined each other. Fondness didn’t dwell in my eyes. I’m never sure what dwelled in his.

Luke drove me crazy in ways I didn’t appreciate. He knew how to push buttons that switched me from tough to soft, smart to dumb. Beautiful men were my kryptonite. Local gossip said my mother had the same problem. My poor sister, Casey, was just as inflicted. We would have been better off inheriting a squinty eye or a duck walk.

“Hello, Luke Harper.” I tried not to sound snide. Drawing up to my fullest five foot and a half inches, I cocked a hip in casual belligerence.

“How’s it going, Cherry?” A glint of light sparked his smoky eyes, and I expected it corresponded with a certain memory of a nineteen-year-old me wearing a pair of red cowboy boots and not much else. “You hanging out at funeral homes now? Never took you for a necrophiliac.”

This time I gave Luke my best what-the-hell redneck glare. Crossing my arms, I took a tiny step forward in the trapped space. He stared at me with a faint smile tugging the corners of his mouth. If I could paint those gorgeous curls and long sideburns — which will never happen, by the way — I would use a rich, raw umber with burnt sienna highlights. For his eyes, I’d mix Prussian blue and a teensy Napthal red. However, he would call his hair “plain old dark brown” and eyes “gray.” But, what does he know? Not much about art, I can tell you that.

“I thought you were in Afghanistan or Alabama,” I said. “What are you doing back?”

“Discharged. You still mad at me? It’s been a while.”

“Mad? I barely remember the last time I saw you.” I wasn’t really lying. My last memory wasn’t of seeing him, but seeing the piece of trash in his truck. And by piece of trash, I mean the kind with boobs.

“You were pretty mad at the time. And I know you and your grudges.”

“I’ve got more to do than think about something that happened when I was barely out of high school.”

“Are you going to hold my youthful indiscretions against me now?” He smiled. “I’m only in town for a short time. You know I can only take Halo in small doses.”

“If you’re not sticking around, I can’t see how my opinion of you matters. Not like you asked me about your sudden decision to join the Army and clear out of dodge.”

“That’s what you’re mad about?”

Dear God, men are clueless. Why He didn’t sharpen them up a bit has to be one of life’s greatest mysteries.

“There are a number of things you did. But I’m not about to print you out a list.”

“We had some good times, too.”

“Which you sabotaged with your idiocy.”

“You’re one to talk,” he mumbled.

I took another step forward, but Luke didn’t move. His eyes roamed from my face to my boots. My irritation grew.

“Do you mind? I need to get back to Cooper’s. I’m working.” I shoved him out of the way, dragging my unwieldy portfolio bag behind me.

“Just trying to put my finger on what about you changed.”

I clamped my mouth shut as an unwelcome blush crept up the back of my neck.

“I know,” he continued. “Your boots are plain old brown. Where’re those red cowboy boots?”

I stomped toward the funeral home. “At home with my Backstreet Boys albums. I don’t have time to play catch up with you. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“How about playing catch up later, then?” I glanced back to see a glimmer of a smile. “Don’t you think it’d be fun to stroll down memory lane? Does everybody still hang out at Red’s?” The sunlight played with the auburn highlights in his dark curls and the tips of his long, black eyelashes.

Lord, why does he have to be so good looking? It was incredibly unfair how easily beauty weakened me. Gave suffering for art a whole new meaning.

“It was seven years ago,” I said before I could stop myself.

“What?”

“Not ten years,” I corrected. “But a lot has happened in seven.”

“I bet.”

I found Wanda shredding a tissue in the viewing room, watching JB bark orders at the assorted non-nuclear Bransons who then cowed and scurried as if he were the king of Forks County. He owned many businesses that supported most of the Branson clan, including the big Ford dealership, but he had actually inherited the Branson patrilineal power seat. Ironically, the two Bransons who never bowed to JB were his son, Dustin, and stepson, Luke. And that was where the similarities between Dustin and Luke stopped.

Luke and Dustin were never close. Luke loved his mother and put up with Dustin when she remarried. However, Luke got out of Halo as soon as possible. Couldn’t blame him, with a cold stepfather and a mother pouring her attention into rehabilitating an emerging sociopath. But poor Wanda had her hands full.

Made me wonder, though. With Dustin out of the picture, was there now more room for Luke? Interesting that Luke left the Army right when his stepbrother got offed.

Hating that ugly thought, I hurried over to Wanda. “I just ran into Luke,” I said, giving her shoulder a quick hug. “I’m glad to see he’s here to help you through this.”

“Yes, it is a blessing. Served his time, you know, and of course, he won’t tell me his plans yet. But that’s Luke. Doesn’t like to worry me.”

“Keeps his cards pretty close to his chest, does he?”

“Look at him,” Wanda waved at her son. “I’ve never been able to tell what he’s thinking. Just like his father, God bless him. Maybe it was losing his daddy so young. He just keeps everything clammed up inside.”

Spotting his mother’s wave, Luke wandered into the viewing room. He had always been a wiry guy, displaying his strength in high school on the wrestling team and fighting behind the Highway 19 Quik Stop with the other boys carrying boulder-size chips on their shoulder. He still seemed dangerous, yet more settled and confident. There was no softness about him. Luke was all hard edges.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I murmured. “I lost my daddy young, too, but I’ve always been an open book.”

“Well, boys and girls are different,” said Wanda.

“Don’t I know it.” I swung one palm to my hip but waved my other in casual deference to Luke’s arrival. “Let’s go sit, and you can take a look at my portfolio. While you’re looking at my samples, I’ll sketch some ideas I have for Dustin.”

“What’s this?” Luke asked. “Ideas for Dustin?”

“I’m having Dustin’s portrait done,” Wanda explained. “I’ll hang it next to the painting of him as a child. That one’s thirty-by-forty. I’d like them to be the same size.”

Holy cow, that’s a big picture of a dead guy, I thought, but nodded my head as if it was the most reasonable idea in the world.

“That’s downright morbid.” Although he directed the statement to his mother, the accusation lay at my feet. “I swear you haven’t changed Cherry, with all the nutty art stuff.”

I felt like telling Luke, this is your mother’s crazy notion, not mine. Instead I responded in my most proper aren’t-you-an-idiot drawl, “Your momma is just dealing with this horrible tragedy the best she can, God bless her. It’s a memorial.”

“A memorial for Dustin? You don’t know what Dustin was mixed up in, Mom. Death doesn’t turn a sinner into a saint. God knows you tried your best. More than his own father.”

“Come on, Miss Wanda,” I tugged on her arm. Between Luke and Shawna, I was going to lose this commission. “I’ll get you a cup of tea and you can look at my paintings. It’ll get your mind off things for a minute, anyway. I’ve got a real cute one of Snug, Terrell Jacob’s Coonhound.”

Wanda beckoned JB and they conferred for a moment. With a shrug he followed her out of the viewing room.

Luke shoved his hands in his pockets. “You spent all that money on art school to paint pictures of dogs?”

“I spent all that money on art school to become a professional artist,” I said. “It’s early days yet. For now, I take what I can get.”

“Including painting the departed?”

“You ever heard of a still life?” I shot back and stalked out of the viewing room, swinging my portfolio bag behind me.

I followed Wanda and JB into a little room crowded with a table and chairs. Unzipping the large bag, I pulled out a binder of photographs of my college works and a sheaf of plastic-encased photos of my newer stuff. Snug the dog, a horse named Conquering Hero, and a half-dozen kid portraits. I much preferred animals to children as subjects, something you don’t learn in school. Getting a four-year-old to sit still is damn near impossible. However, you take a well-trained dog in the right pose, and you’ve got the perfect model. Snug the Coonhound sat better than most people. We had an easy working relationship, what with Snug’s deferential silence.

No need for forced conversation with that subject. Of course with this job, I couldn’t expect any conversation either. I could make do with photographs.

But first I needed to get the job.

“I don’t know why you’re wasting my time looking at pictures,” said JB. He tossed the portraits of Snug and Hero on the table.

“This one is just beautiful, Cherry,” said Wanda, holding up a Sargent inspired painting. The model wore a sheet draped like a toga, but the effect was tasteful with wonderful folds to show depth and shadow.

“I’m glad you pointed out that one. Don’t you love the light on her face? You might not be able to tell, but that’s not an oil painting. I had a tight schedule, so I used acrylics. They dry quickly and I didn’t have to varnish the painting immediately. Someone mentioned you displaying the portrait at the funeral service? Oils wouldn’t dry fast enough to get the painting done without messing up the color.”

“I was fixing on making a photo display for the service when I realized we didn’t have many of Dustin after he passed a certain age.” Wanda’s face colored and she cast her eyes away from JB. “I’ve just been in a tizzy, not knowing what to do with myself and not sleeping. That’s when I got the idea for the memory box. Started gathering stuff Dustin left in his old room. Then I remembered the family portraits we had done at our wedding and thought maybe a new painting would be a nice tribute.”

“Let her have what she needs,” said JB. “A picture’s not bringing him back, but if it makes Wanda feel better, she can have it.”

“I totally agree, sir,” I said. “That’s why you should let me have the honor of painting this portrait. You can see what quality I can produce. You don’t want a final memorial done by an amateur.”

“What about Shawna?” he said, eyeing me. “Although Shawna did set a pretty hefty price for painting my son.”

I squirmed, caught between a rock and a rattlesnake. JB would sell out his niece for a cheaper price. But probably wouldn’t help me underbid her, either.

“A portrait lasts for generations.” I began with my salesman pitch. “My paintings are heirloom quality and will be around long after...” Since the subject was dead, I stopped before my mouth ate my foot. “Anyway, a portrait is priceless.”

“Priceless? You talking free?” JB leaned back in his chair.

“Of course a professional artist would base the price on other features. Number of people. Intricacy of the clothing, jewelry and props. Complexity of the background. And of course, the size.” I could not get over the size.