Contessa

  contessa | choisie book 1

  by Lori L. Otto

  Copyright 2012 © Lori L. Otto

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Lori L. Otto Publications

  64 70 67 72 6f 75 70

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  DEDICATION

  to first loves

  JACK

  CHAPTER 1

  I’d been a father for six years before my son was born. During the pregnancy, I had wondered if it would feel differently to have a biological child of my own. I had feared that it would, actually. Now that he’s here, I can admit that it does feel different, staring down into a face that is half mine and half his mother’s, but I also realize that this feeling isn’t one that I ever should have been afraid to confront.

  The notion of loving two people differently had been introduced to me years ago, but I didn’t understand it until Jackson was born. Eight days ago, I held my namesake for the first time and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d had to be strong for Emi through her difficult pregnancy. When she worried, which was more often than anyone felt was good for her, I had to assure her that everything would be fine even though I wasn’t certain that it would. No one was. Our son’s conception was a miracle. Doctors said it would never happen. Once we were pregnant, the same doctors predicted a miscarriage. They said his birth would never happen. But against all odds, Jackson Andrew Holland the third–Trey, as everyone else has already started to call him–almost made it to term.

  After a few weeks in the hospital, it feels good to finally have him in our home.

  His blue eyes open slowly, trying to focus on the new world around him. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper, starting to push the rocking chair again. The motion lulls him back to sleep quickly, just like it had always put Livvy to sleep when she had first come into our home.

  I can remember when we bought the chair. Her foster parents had suggested it after she started in-home visits with us, and I thought it was silly. She was three and a half at the time. None of my nieces and nephews liked to be rocked by the time they were her age. When I asked my twin sister what she thought, she admitted that her children may have liked it, but when there are four kids and two parents, solitary activities like a quiet hour with their mother in a rocking chair simply didn’t happen. Another child was always jealous, and made it known with unsettling tantrums.

  Livvy loved to be rocked. When she was too big to fit in the wooden rocker, she would sidle next to me in my rocking recliner and watch movies with me until she’d fall asleep. I can’t remember the last time she did that, though. It’s been years. My little girl is growing up.

  When I’m sure Jackson is sound asleep, I stand up carefully and flick off the lamp in Livvy’s room. Being in her converted studio with walls she decorated with crayons, markers and paint takes me back to a time when my daughter was my everything. My Contessa. Daddy’s little girl.

  I never wanted to leave Emi and Livvy for those months at the end of Jackson’s pregnancy, but the decision to relinquish my international clients to other consultants was the right decision for us. I knew I wanted to be around to watch my children grow up, and traveling with a baby at home wasn’t something I was ever willing to do. It had been easy to take Livvy on trips with us, and exposing her to different countries and cultures seemed to enhance her creativity. While I would work, Emi and Livvy would explore museums and parks. In the evenings, we’d settle down to a quiet dinner for three followed by family time, playing games with ever-changing rules that only made sense to our daughter.

  She was funny and smart and so imaginative, but I knew early on that her mind worked differently than mine. I was fascinated, seeing the world through her eyes, but recently, our varying ways of seeing things had begun to cause friction. Over the course of a few months, while I was handing over my clients in Japan, Spain, France, and England, Livvy and her mother grew very close.

  When I’d come home on weekends, I noticed changes in her. Her hugs weren’t as tight. Her smiles weren’t as big. Her conversations didn’t always include me, and she never bothered to explain things that I didn’t understand. She and her mother had inside jokes and stories that only they knew about. Emi would fill in the blanks for me, typically after Livvy had gone to bed. Our daughter didn’t seem to want to share things with me anymore.

  “Poppet?” I call to Emi softly from the bedroom door, careful not to wake our son. “Can you take over for a bit?”

  “Of course,” she says, setting her computer aside and holding out her arms. I place the swaddled baby in her grasp, and she kisses his forehead and strokes his cheek. When she leans over, her long hair mixes with the messy patch of hair on Jackson’s head, the strands intermingling, the colors identical.

  “I’m going to go pick up Livvy from class,” I tell her. “I think I’ll take her for ice cream or something. Is that okay?”

  “It’s great,” she says. “Take as much time as you need. I can manage here.”

  “I can send Donna by after she locks up the Art Room,” I suggest.

  “That would be fine. Maybe I can convince her to make dinner.”

  “I’ll be back in time to cook, love. You just take care of yourself and our boy.”

  “Okay. You take care of our little girl.”

  “She’s not a little girl anymore,” I comment pensively. “How can she be ten already?”

  “Time flies.”

  “It does,” I agree. She pulls me toward her for a kiss and squeezes my hand. I kiss Jackson’s cheek before leaving them in the bedroom.

  Donna, the mother of Emi’s best friend, who had become a constant in Emi’s life when the friend–Nate–died, waves from the head of the class when I enter Nate’s Art Room, the non-profit we’d founded in his name. Livvy spends every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon here, and at least a few hours on the weekends, too. She loves spending time with Donna, and more importantly, she loves spending time painting. My daughter is a brilliant artist.

  I stand at the back of the room, noticing the twelve other kids that are quietly working at their desks. When I glance back in Donna’s direction, she immediately knows my question, and points to the door that leads to the courtyard. “She’s sketching,” she says quietly. Although Livvy is in these classes, which are pretty structured, she is afforded many freedoms and rarely stays on task with the rest of her classmates.

  She and one other boy are clear standouts, although in different ways. The artists who volunteer to help instruct the kids often bring other projects for Livvy and the boy who shares her workbench. They work well together, but in solitary fashion. They never speak much, but they share everything. Any words that are exchanged are always complimentary and encouraging. They seem to inspire one another, and have since he was accepted into the school four years ago.

  When we founded Nate’s Art Room, Nate’s mother and Emi were clearly enthusiastic about the project and felt it was an apt tribute to a man they both loved. I wasn’t sure how involved either woman would be in the day-to-day activities when we started, and I didn’t feel I was ever equipped to find people to help run the organization. Donna has taken the helm, though, and feels it is a way to stay closer to her son, who had died in his late twenties. She runs the business and loves her charitable work. I’m very pleased we’ve gone into this partnership together. Emi loves Donna like a mother, and Livvy adores her, too. She calls her Granna, and is closer to her than either Emi’s pa
rents or mine.

  When I first exit the building, I don’t see anyone. I hear voices, and behind a picnic table and a tree, I see Livvy lying on her back with a sketch book propped up on her knees and her eyes trained on something above her. The boy who works next to her in class is leaning against the brick wall, pointing out something in the tree. If they heard me come outside, neither acknowledge me.

  “Of course the limbs get smaller!” Livvy says with a giggle. “Limbs are always thicker closer to the tree.”

  “But, no, that’s not what I’m trying to show you. Maybe a tree isn’t the right subject here. We should go to a building or something. The Flatiron Building is a good example. Wanna go?”

  The Flatiron? It’s fifty blocks south! My heart stops, but Livvy answers him before I have a chance to intervene.

  “We can’t leave the Art Room, Jon,” she says.

  “I know,” he concedes, sounding disappointed. “But it was probably the first building I saw that made me understand the concept. I mean, you can still see it close up, it’s just not as noticeable. Like, if you look at the yard here–”

  The boy finally sees me as he turns to face the building, looking startled. “Livvy, your dad’s here.”

  She stands quickly, brushing grass and dirt from her jeans and t-shirt. Jon picks a few leaves from her hair.

  “What are you two doing out here?” I ask them both, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel. Livvy’s tanned face shows no signs embarrassment, but Jon’s skin is splotchy, and his fidgeting makes him look guilty even though it doesn’t appear that they were doing anything wrong. She’s ten. What could they be doing wrong? I realize my reaction is foolish.

  “I was trying to teach her about perspective, sir.” I put my hands in my pockets and walk toward them, looking up into the tree. “That’s why her drawings look weird.”

  “My daughter’s artwork isn’t weird,” I defend her, although she doesn’t seem to be offended at all.

  “That was her word. I just thought she was trying to be abstract, but she asked why her drawing of her arm looked weird and mine didn’t,” he explains.

  “I thought you liked doing abstract, Contessa,” I state curiously.

  “Not all the time,” she tells me. “Sometimes I want things to look real, and they don’t. And he was just trying to show me why.”

  “You know what’s a good example of that?” I ask them both. “Aside from the Flatiron.”

  “I wasn’t really going to take her there.”

  “Of course you weren’t, son,” I tell him with certainty. “The hardwood floors in the gallery.” Livvy looks at Jon to see if he approves. “I’ll show you.”

  “That would probably show you,” he assures her. “Just get down on the floor and look at it at eye level. That will provide the most dramatic effect of linear perspective. Once you understand that, I can show you some shading techniques for aerial perspective. With your visual adroitness, you’ll master this in no time.”

  Adroitness? “How old are you, son?” The question doesn’t even have time to formulate in my head before coming out of my mouth.

  “Twelve,” he says.

  “Okay, Jon, is it?” I check my watch to hide my bewilderment. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word in my entire life.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It looks like class ended about five minutes ago. Is your mother picking you up?”

  “No, sir, I take the bus.”

  “Well, she’s probably expecting you soon.”

  “I doubt it,” he says with a shrug, “but my brother is.” I nod at him, dismissing him from the conversation. “Bye, Livvy.”

  “Bye,” she says, clearly sulking.

  “Can I show you the floor in the gallery?” I ask my daughter.

  “I have to go up there anyway and put Mom’s pencils back.” I pick up her backpack off the ground and sling it over my shoulder, following her into the building. There are still pieces of leaves in her thick, dark hair, but she shrugs away from me when I try to pull them out. “I need to get my brushes.” As she goes into the small alcove with the sink where she rinses her supplies, I find Donna in her office. I knock lightly to get her attention.

  “Can I ask a favor of you?”

  “Of course, Jackson.”

  “Can you make sure those two have some supervision at all times?” She squints at me as if I’m crazy. “They seem to have some sort of connection, I don’t know.”

  She laughs a little. “He’s a good kid. Brilliant mind. But, of course. I’ve never seen them as anything but good work-partners, but I guess Jon’s getting to be a certain age.”

  “He says he’s twelve?”

  “I believe that’s right.”

  “He seems much older than twelve, the way he talks.”

  “Well, he’s the man of the household. His parents divorced a long time ago and he lives with his mother. He has a little brother–no, two. His mom just had another baby.”

  “He has no step-father?”

  “No,” Donna says, “although he sees his father. He just doesn’t live with him. But from what I know of his dad, he’s extremely intelligent and incredibly introverted. He doesn’t speak much, and when he does, I have a hard time keeping up.”

  “I’m ready, Dad,” Livvy says impatiently.

  “We’re going to the gallery for a minute. We’ll lock the upstairs on our way out.”

  “I’m about to go see Jackson and Emi,” Donna says. “Maybe I’ll see you two at your home?”

  “Maybe in a bit,” I answer her, watching as Livvy walks outside without waiting for me. “Thanks, Donna.”

  I follow her quickly out the main entrance. “Contessa?” I call to her from the bottom of the staircase she’s already ascended. “Please don’t walk outside without an adult with you.”

  “Dad, come on! I’m old enough to walk down the street by myself. It’s stupid that you drive two blocks to pick me up and drop me off.”

  “Livvy, it’s not stupid, and I would prefer you not use that word.”

  “You just did,” she sasses as I walk up the steps to unlock the gallery door. I choose not to argue, wanting to have a good afternoon with her. It’s certainly not starting out like I’d hoped. She walks quickly across the hardwood floor to Emi’s office. I toss the keys to her as she waits by the door.

  The new mural commands my attention. It is so large and striking that I have to look, even though I’d spent a good hour studying it the day it was delivered last month. I had to inspect it for damage, but having only seen it briefly when it was here on loan for our wedding, I wasn’t exactly sure what to look for.

  “Does Mom know about it yet?” Livvy asks, joining me in front of the painting.

  “No,” I answer. “I’ll tell her soon.” The restaurant owner had shut down the club, and felt the artwork should be returned to Nate’s gallery. Even though Nate had been paid a lot of money to create the piece, the owner donated it back to us. It was Nate’s most well-known piece, but it was also the painting that held the most painful memories for Emi. The gallery was its rightful home, but I wasn’t sure my wife would want to face it every day. I’d already started scouting other locations to move her office, just in case.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” my daughter says. “It feels like Mom, doesn’t it?”

  I study the piece critically, not quite understanding what Livvy means. “It is stunning,” I admit, at least recognizing its beauty. “And so is your mother.” I smile, thinking that I’ve answered her question appropriately.

  “It’s not about what you see, Daddy,” she corrects me. “It’s what it makes you feel. I didn’t ask if it looks like her. I asked if it feels like her.”

  Feeling inadequate, I confess my confusion. The painting is pretty, but it’s composed of abstract shapes and lines that carry no special significance to me. “Honey, I don’t understand what you mean exactly.”

  “Of course you don’t,”
she murmurs.

  “Can you explain it to me?”

  “You don’t get it if I have to explain it.”

  “You can’t try?” She shakes her head.

  “He might have been the best artist in the world,” she says contemplatively as she stares at Nate’s artwork, “if he hadn’t been killed so young.”

  “Maybe he would have,” I agree.

  “He’s my favorite.” She lingers at the painting, dragging her fingers along the edge of the canvas. “He’s the best in my world.”

  “You’re pretty good yourself, you know?”

  “I want to be like him.”

  “So perspective,” I say, switching gears and remembering why we came up here in the first place. I kneel down on the floor, encouraging her to do the same.

  “Careful, Dad, don’t get your suit dirty.”

  I glare at her out of the corners of my eyes, slipping out of my jacket and loosening my tie. I unfasten the top button of my dress shirt and lie flat across the hard floor. “Just focus on one slat of wood,” I instruct her, “and notice how it gets increasingly thinner the farther away it is from your eyes.”

  “I see it,” she says.

  “But you know, logically, the wood is the same width from one end to the next, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s perspective,” I tell her, feeling happy with my brief lesson.

  “What’s the difference between one-point and two-point perspective?” she asks me.

  “Ummm,” I stammer, searching the recesses of my mind for the meanings of the two terms she’s asked about. I take a stab at it, hoping I’m right. “One-point would be when everything converges to one, ummm, point on the horizon. I think this is one-point,” I tell her, motioning to the slab of wood and praying that what I’m saying is making sense. “And two-point would be when objects disappear into two points on a horizon.” I avoid her stare and look around the room, finally finding a drawing that seems to depict what I’ve just described. I breathe a sigh of relief as I stand up and walk toward it, now confident in my definitions. “Like this.”