Brush With Death

Chapter Three

It took Deo only five minutes to unpack; she timed it by the ghastly clock. She almost didn’t unpack at all. She’d gone so far as to get out her cell phone and key in the number to her grandmother. She was prepared to admit she’d made a hideous mistake. After all, Nonie was always telling her she never stuck at anything, so what difference would one more time make? But even as she thought it, Deo knew she couldn’t do it. This was a make or break chance for her. If she messed up this summer, she could kiss art school goodbye.

She dumped both her duffel bags out on the bed, and sorted through her stuff. She thrust socks and underwear in the bureau and hung shirts, shorts and the madras jumper her mother had insisted on packing, into the big armoire. She did it as fast as possible so she wouldn’t have time to worry about leaving her Goth collection at home. The all-new DeoQ wouldn’t be caught dead in black clothing and safety pin jewelry. Instead she’d shopped with her mother for a whole bunch of primary colors that not only blew her mind, but also were exhausting just to look at. She closed the door of the armoire, and flopped back on the bed. It was going to be a long, long summer.

Okay, now what, she wondered. Dinner was still almost an hour away and she couldn’t hide in her room indefinitely. There was no place to hide; no shadows, not like home where there were corners she could curl up in and hide from the world. Sunlight was streaming through the northwest dormer turning the buttermilk walls to a soft peach, and the only sign of a shadow was the faint blue hue in the far corner. Deo shivered and reached for her sweatshirt. For such a sun-drenched room, the air was distinctly chilly.

Let’s go check out the other students, suggested DeoQ. Better to meet some of them now, than meet everyone for the first time over dinner.

She hated to rouse herself, but knew it made sense. She’d choke on every bite, if she had to eat a meal in front of strangers. Dragging herself off the bed, she set out to find the dining room so at least she would be on time for dinner.

Her footsteps echoed on the wide stairway. The house was strangely quiet. Where was everyone, she wondered, still out painting? She lingered over the art hanging in the hallway: landscapes, a marine, and several figure pieces of the dark-eyed girl upstairs. At least, Deo assumed it was the same girl, although her face tended to be half-hidden by enormous hat brims and the like.

Drifting into the parlor, Deo found herself in a warm and friendly room cluttered with piles of books on tables and chairs, and armfuls of wildflowers thrust into carafes and bottles of all shapes and sizes. The drapes were faded, the furniture old, and the Turkish rug had seen better days. The whole effect was shabbily genteel. Deo rather liked it. It was the kind of room, she thought, where you could flop into a chair, and not worry about spoiling anything. Her mother was very particular about the designer elegance of their own home, to the point where Deo hardly liked to sit down in case she wrinkled the tastefully draped couch.

Flopping down now, Deo lost herself in the paintings that lined the room from dado to ceiling. It was a wonderful collection, she thought, and bearing in mind Byron’s earlier comment, she assumed they were all his grandfather’s works. What was his name, Owen Trearddur? She remembered her mother once mentioning Byron’s parentage, but the details had been vague, almost secretive, and she’d barely taken the information in. Thoughtless, her mother called it. Inattentive. But then her mother was a logical, rational person. What did she know about creative thinking? About trying to keep facts in order that didn’t relate to anything, so that they fell off at the other end, to make room for a new thought coming on board?

Now, scanning the paintings crammed into this one room, Deo envied Byron for the chance to look at these works every day. The brushstrokes, the color, the thick impasto of the oil paint combined to create a small masterpiece in every frame. Deo’s favorite was the portrait of a girl—Dark Eyes from upstairs—kneeling before a mirror, trying on a necklace. The folds of her gown were rich, yet subtle; her form softly turned and modeled with expression that could only come about through love. Deo considered for a moment whom the girl might be. A model perhaps? No, too many images around the house. She looked like a free spirit, a mistress maybe. She was too young surely to be Trearrdur’s wife, Byron’s grandmother. Deo’s eyes lingered on the canvas, mesmerized by the brushwork, the luscious tone of her face reflected in the mirror, dark hair cascading down her back, the delicate red petals of the rose lying carelessly on the floor beside her….

A ripe oath ricocheted through the open window, startling Deo out of her reverie. She tiptoed over to the casement, and peered cautiously around the drape to see who was out there. She hoped it wasn’t Byron.  It wasn’t. It was a teenage boy pounding his fists into one of the porch and cursing under his breath. That helpless outpouring of frustration struck a chord with her, and for that reason alone, she decided to go out and introduce herself.

Outside, and up close, she found he was only an inch or two taller, maybe a year or two older, than herself. His black T-shirt was streaked with sweat, and his blue jeans were overly long and frayed around his sneakers. Before she could consider her next move, the all-new DeoQ plunged in.

“Hi! How are you? I’m Deo, the new student. I’ll bet you’re Johnson.”

The boy froze in the act of shoving a handful of brown hair out of eyes. “Jackson,” he said in a low deliberate growl. “And I don’t care who you are.”

Deo hesitated for a second. She didn’t like to intrude where she wasn’t wanted, but her all-new persona wasn’t so easily cowed. “This is great,” she enthused, squirreling around him to get a better look at the canvas on his easel. “You’re pretty good.”

“Shows what you know,” he sneered. “For your information, I have to cool off my sky to set off the sunlight back in here. Then I have to put specks of red in my tree to warm that up. Then I have to repaint my clouds, and touch up my rocks with the same tone for color relationship…”—the drawl in his voice came cruelly close to Byron’s honeyed accent—“and that’ll tie the whole thing together.” He picked his brush up out of the paint on his palette and wiped it ferociously on a paper towel. “I’ve sweated hours over this. You’d think he could have found one good thing to say about it. Now, if you’ll kindly step off…” He shoved his way between Deo and the easel, “I have to finish up before dinner.”

The all-new DeoQ evaporated, leaving her humiliated and alone. As she made her way down the porch steps onto the lawn, she wished fervently that she’d taken her hair out of the stupid ponytail flick. It was useless, just hanging down the back of her neck like that; she was definitely going to need a veil to hide behind in this place. Crossing the grass toward the ledge of rock, she could feel Jackson’s eyes boring into her, just between the shoulder blades, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

When she reached the ledge, Deo could see the tide was low, revealing dark sea-weedy rocks in sharp contrast to the pink granite above the high waterline. Deo settled into a warm and comfortable niche, and closed her eyes. She saw now why Byron had said she would “probably” like Jackson. Certainly he had chick magnet good looks, with cornflower blue eyes and a mouth that would cause meltdown if he smiled, but—yo mama—he was way prickly.

She ran her hand absently over the granite, her fingertips sensing the texture, and her fingers closed on a small green bead half-hidden amongst the periwinkles; a lonely bead separated from its lifeline. She rubbed it between her fingers, admiring the faience decoration, and felt a cold wave of loneliness wash over her. She shivered, although the air was still and humid. Why had she come here? She didn’t belong in this place, and if Jackson’s reception were anything to go by, she would never belong. She wanted desperately to go home, back to the shadow land where she felt safe. She stuffed the green bead in the pocket of her skirt, and wrapping her arms around her knees, she tried not to cry as the tide lapped relentlessly against the rocks.

Her mind blanked out the exterior world, as it often did when she turned her thoughts inward, and she had no idea how long she’d been sitting when a sharp whistle finally interrupted her reverie. She turned and saw Byron, up on the porch, shouting and waving his arms. Realizing it must be time for dinner, she jumped to her feet and jogged across the lawn to meet him, stiff and awkward from sitting so long.

“Come on,” Byron greeted her irritably. “Everyone’s waiting. Amphora’s been holding dinner for ten minutes.”

Deo felt her face grow hot, and wished she’d let her hair down earlier when she’d thought about. Ah, well, too late now. She stuttered an apology and followed him along the porch and through the French doors into a formal dining room. She stopped in surprise. How could she be holding up dinner? The table wasn’t set yet.

“In here,” said Byron, ushering her through another door. “No point in Amphora killing herself.”
Deo found herself in the kitchen; a big square cheerful room filled with the smell of baked fish, jacket potatoes and apple pie. Jackson was already at the table, hungry and all but foaming at the mouth.

“What kept you?” he demanded.

Deo slid into the chair Byron held out for her. “I’m sorry,” she said distractedly, counting the four place settings. “I must have zoned out for awhile.” Where was everyone? Did they eat in shifts or something? She wished she wasn’t sitting opposite Jackson, she didn’t like the way he looked her up and down with a penetrating blue gaze, like he could see right through her, or at least her tank top. Deliberately she tucked her napkin into the neckline and was rewarded with a slight smirk from Jackson, which she did her best to ignore.

“It doesn’t matter,” Byron said shortly, dropping into the third seat. “She’s here now. Come on, Amphora. Stop fiddling about. Let’s eat before everything spoils.”

Deo watched numbly as Amphora—the ample lady of the wild pantsuit—delivered various steaming dishes to the table and then sat down herself.

Interesting development, murmured the all-new DeoQ. What gives?

“You must be wondering who everyone is,” Byron said, plainly misinterpreting Deo’s wide-eyed look.

Not who. Where is more like it.

“Amphora Favaloro,” said Byron, nodding at the smiling dark haired woman. “She’s supposed to be the cook, but she’s more like one of the family.”

“Voodoo queen of Tragabigzanda,” Jackson muttered, helping himself to stuffed shrimp and a baked potato.

Byron shot him a venomous look, but Amphora just chuckled and wagged a finger at him.
“The guy with the loud opinion,” Byron continued acidly, “is Jackson Ross IV. God forbid there are three more like him somewhere.”

“Very funny,” said Jackson huffily. “For your information, my grandfather and his father are dead, and my father happens to be Washington’s leading psychiatrist.”

“Well, you must give him plenty to work on,” Byron quipped, with what might almost have been a smile. “However, if I might be allowed to complete the introductions… this is Demeter Quintillian, the latest addition to our little group.”

“We met already,” said Jackson, demolishing his meal and looking around for seconds. “And if you don’t have a mortgage on those shrimp, pass them over here.”

Deo passed the dish to him, and quaffed a large quantity of water from her glass in the hope of putting out the fire in her burning cheeks.

“So what kind of name is Demeter?” Jackson said, munching down another generous forkful of shrimp.

“The Greek corn goddess,” said Byron, eating as heartily, if not as fast, as his companion. “Don’t they teach you classics at that preppie school of yours?”

“I know who Demeter is,” retorted Jackson. “My dad has a gazillion books on myths and that stuff. What I mean is, what kind of parents stick their kid with a name like that? Are they aging flower children or something?”

“No,” said Deo hotly. “My father is the Chair of the Literature Department at Clavius College. And I prefer to be called Deo, so I don’t have to put up with stupid remarks from people like you.” She sat back, surprised at her own vehemence. The all-new DeoQ was certainly going to liven up the summer.

“Well, I am glad you are here,” Amphora interrupted, pushing dishes in Deo’s direction. “Now I am not outnumbered by all these men. Come—eat, you are a growing girl.”

“I’ll say,” murmured Jackson, leering at her appreciatively.

Deo scowled at him and forced down a mouthful of her meal. She hated eating in front of strangers and Jackson wasn’t helping. She fought back a nauseating urge to throw up.

“It’s nice that you two are here at the same time,” Byron said after an uncomfortable silence.

Jackson stared at him, obviously puzzled. “Why?” he asked.

Byron shrugged. “Young company. We both know you’re sick of me already.”

Jackson had the grace to look guilty, and there was another painful silence while he digested the thought.

Amphora cleared the dishes and brought out dessert, and Byron made another desperate stab at conversation.

“So, Deo. How’s school,” he asked, accepting an enormous wedge of pie from Amphora.

“It’s okay,” she said, tentatively attacking her own slab of dessert. “I wish I could get a better art class, but freshman are at the bottom of the barrel when it comes to picking electives.”

“Freshman!” Jackson spluttered through a mouthful of crumbs. “What are you running here—kindergarten?”

“You’re only a couple of years older,” Byron said mildly. “You’re hardly in a position to lord it over her.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No buts,” Byron snapped, his patience obviously wearing thin. “It’s unfortunate there’s only the two of you,”—here he scowled at Amphora, who demurely poked her pie and refused to look at him—“but those are the breaks. Let’s make the best of it.”

They finished eating in silence, and Deo could sense the sudden switch in mood. There was a distinct undercurrent, like swimming in secret waters, Deo thought, where everyone knows about the riptide but you.

Well, she had a secret too, and she wasn’t about to share it. She wanted to be judged on her artistic abilities and not her reading level. If Jackson knew what a dork she was, there would be no chance of striking up a friendship. And despite his bad attitude, he really was cute.

“Excuse me,” Byron said abruptly. “I have to go call Mundial, and see if he’s set to hang Friday. We’ll critique in a half hour.”

He strode out as Amphora sighed and began hustling dishes from the table to the sink. Jackson threw his napkin on the table, gave Deo one last smirk, and then he left, too. Unsure where to go, or what to do next, Deo wandered back through the dining room, checking out the requisite artwork on her way. The whole house was filled with paintings and drawings of a bygone era. She could hear Amphora rustling around in the kitchen, but apart from that, the house was silent. The air was thick with it; a cold, cloying silence that wrapped itself around her, deafening her, smothering her. The overpowering smell of iodine wafted in through the French windows. It felt to Deo as if the whole house was frozen in a moment of time.

Maybe this is a time warp, said the all-new DeoQ blithely. Maybe you’ve entered another dimension. If you go outside, you’ll probably see Owen Whatisname setting up to paint.

Deo gave herself a mental shake and stumbled out onto the porch, suddenly anxious to get away from the chilly atmosphere of frozen time. Almost straight away she collided with Jackson, striding along with a wet canvas in each hand.

“Rat’s teeth,” he muttered. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

“Why don’t you?” she countered, following him around the corner to the seaward side of the house, now bathed in the evening light. “What are you doing?”

“This is where we have the crit.,” said Jackson, propping his paintings against the porch railing and shifting chairs into position. “Also known as Death of a Thousand Cuts. He tells you what you’re doing wrong—because you’re never doing it right—and he doesn’t hold back. It’s what they call suffering for your art. And as I’m the only one here, he takes all his frustrations out on me.”

“I thought it was hard to get into his workshops,” said Deo. “Where’s everyone else?”

A shifty look slid into Jackson’s blue gaze. Looking around first to make sure they weren’t likely to be overhead, he leaned in close to Deo and whispered, “Promise not to tell I told you?”

Deo solemnly crossed her heart and hoped to die. Jackson dropped his voice even lower, and she had to strain to catch the words. His warm breath tickled her ear.

“There were two other ladies here when I arrived last week,” he said in a husky whisper. “And then one of them, Mrs. McCall, had a heart attack, and her sister was so scared, she refused to stay in the house any longer.” He paused dramatically, looked around to make sure they were still alone, and then dropped his bombshell. “See, Byron won’t admit it, but Willow’s Harp is haunted.”