CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dear Mr. Stephen Storm:

Have you talked with people about their college years? Even though everyone’s college experiences are different, there are common themes in their stories. They talk about how excited they were, how much fun they had, and the discoveries they made about themselves.

To help you commemorate college, one of the most important times in your life, enclosed you will find an Official Certificate of Acceptance. We think you will want to save it for a lifetime.

We’re excited about your joining our community of artists and look forward to a rewarding collaboration.

Sincerely,

   Dean, School of Ar

Some days the best thing to do is go back to bed. I was having a day when the best thing to do is hide beneath the covers.

I’d learned about rumors circulating that Nagasaki and I not only bowed to each other, we were doing it with each other. I’d learned that the Mad Chef wanted me outta my job and was scheming to get rid of me.

And there was the empty nest issue.

The topper came when I checked my cell phone for messages after finishing up at the gym.

The message was from Davin, who had called from my house. Since I hadn’t heard from him in days, I listened with interest.

“Jill, you asked me to warn you ahead of time when I’m bringing dinner. I’m ordering Chinese. See you later. Bye.”

What a tool. I finally hear from him and he’s not asking if I want dinner, he’s already ordering it. What if I didn’t feel like Chinese? What if I had plans?

I actually had plans—for introspection. I needed to think about what Connie said and that whole self-awareness shtick. I needed time to figure out what was going on in the jambalaya of my life.

I needed time to think, not someone to annoy me.

And Davin Wesley never failed to annoy.

Hiding under my bed was sounding better and better.

By the time I arrived home, I’d worked up an attitude. I took one look at Davin and held up my hand to silence him. “Don’t talk to me yet.” I made a beeline to my bedroom, dumped my junk on my bed, then sailed into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Only after pulling on a pair of jeans and a comfy T-shirt did I make an appearance in the living room. “S’up?”

“Better now?” asked Davin, sidestepping my question.

“Much. Is dinner here yet?”

“It should be in about ten minutes.”

Did I mention an attitude? I was in a mood. I looked at him lounging on my sofa, in my living room, after spending time with my son, and it irked me. “In the interests of being very clear, when I asked you to warn me about dinner, I meant that you should ask if it was a good time. Not announce impending food deliveries.”

He stood up in reaction to the sting in my tone. “Normally I would have, but we need to talk.”

“I thought I also made it clear I didn’t want to talk—at least not about us. Obviously we’re having communication problems.” I took Davin’s hand in mine. “We do not need to talk about our relationship because we don’t have one.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I talked over him.

“Yes, I know I said we are friends.” I petted his hand. “We don’t have to talk about our friendship, do we?”

Again he started to speak and again I interrupted.

“Friendship means never having to talk about your relationship.”

Davin lightly placed the forefinger from his free hand over my lips and whispered, “Shh.” With his other hand he gave my palm a gentle squeeze. “Are you finished?”

“For now.”

“Good. Because we seriously need to talk.”

This time he interrupted me when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Can you please be quiet long enough to listen?”

I dropped his hand and sighed. “Fine.”

“We need to talk about Stephen.”

“Is something wrong with him?” I made a move in the direction of his bedroom. I could bear all the career and romantic turmoil but if something happened to my kid … “Where is he?”

“He’s in his room.” Davin put his arm around my back and guided me to take a seat on the sofa. “He’s not sick, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“So what is it?”

Davin settled next to me and spread his arm behind me on the back of the sofa. “Stephen has been forging artwork.”

“I know.”

“Copying the masters.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have a problem with this?”

I shrugged. “Isn’t it part of learning how to paint?”

“It is if you’re not trying to pass the art off as the master’s original work.”

Stephen had created a number of paintings, similar to the ones painted by various artists. “He’s trying to pass off his paintings as having been painted by famous artists?”

“I think so.”

“Why would he do that?”

“For as long as there have been successful artists, there have been forgers trying to capitalize on their fame.”

“Stephen’s doing it for the money? For college tuition?” I asked hopefully, not that I wanted my kid to commit crimes for college, but I could understand that motivation.

“No and no.” Davin looked apologetic. “It’s more likely because of the challenge—because he can. Or wants to know if he can. It’s pretty typical of teenage boys.”

“Forging artwork?”

“That’s not what I mean.” He patted my shoulder. “They test things, the status quo. It leads some kids to computer hacking or writing viruses. They do it because they can. To see if they can get away with it.”

“Oh.” My son the forger. Not something I wanted to brag about in my yearly Christmas letter.

“Some boys have a talent with computers. Stephen has a gift for artwork.”

“I’ll make him give the money back.” My chest ached and my heart slowed. “He won’t be arrested, will he?”

“Not unless he actually tries to sell something. I don’t think he’s done that yet. I checked his paintings and none seem to be missing.”

“That’s a relief.” My heart started beating again. He wouldn’t have to share a jail cell with Dad. “Are you sure he’s planning to try?”

“I wasn’t sure until this afternoon. What first got my attention was when he started using materials from the correct time periods, like the old canvases he was collecting and the lead-based paint.”

Stephen’s use of lead-based paints had seemed unusual. I felt like slapping my forehead. I knew he and Tom had been up to something. Duh. “What happened today to make you sure?”

“Today the paintings were signed.”

“He always signs his paintings.”

“Correction. Until today he’d always signed with his own name.” Davin grinned. “You have to hand to the kid. He did a great copy of Van Gogh’s signature.”

“I’m going to hand it to him, all right. Right on his butt.”

“Surely that won’t solve anything?”

“Of course not.” The man who thought I was a candidate for Worst Mother of the Year had just conclusively proved that I was even worse at mothering than I thought. To top it off, judging by his serious expression, he thought me capable of beating my child. “So what do I do? What can I do?”

“He needs to understand the consequences of what he’s doing,” said Davin as the doorbell rang.

Our dinner had arrived.

I automatically got out plates and flatware while worrying over what could have happened if Davin hadn’t noticed the signatures.

Davin brought the sacks of food into the kitchen.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your noticing what Stephen’s been up to. I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there for him … for us. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Whether we’re in a relationship or not, I care about both of you.”

“Thanks. I suppose my next step is to talk to him.” I reached for tumblers from the cupboard.

“Do you want me to talk with him, too?” asked Davin, opening one of the bags and sniffing the aroma of Moo Goo Gai Pan. “Or would you rather I leave?”

“Would you mind staying? He likes you a lot and respects your opinion.”

Davin stood beside me, pulling boxes of fried rice out of the bag. “No matter what he’s done, he’s a good kid.”

“I think so, too. Let’s talk to him over dinner. It’ll come up more casually that way.” When I grabbed the stack of plates, Davin grabbed the food, and we walked into the dining room.

“Casual is good,” he said. “You ready?”

I nodded and took a seat. My voice squeaked, “Ready.”

“I’ll call him.” Davin stepped into the hallway and said, “Stephen, dinner is here.” He then rejoined me and sat down at the table.

“So, how was school today?” I asked Davin, struggling to sound normal. My voice seemed to be an octave higher than usual.

“Good. We’ve been working on adjectives this week and the kids have been doing very well.”

As Davin spoke, Stephen came in and settled into his seat.

Davin continued, “I was just telling your mom what a great group of students I’ve got this year.”

I looked at Stephen more closely. Was he now sporting green streaks along with the neon blue spikes in his hair? This probably wasn’t the moment to ask, but I wished the lighting was better. “How was your day, Stephen?”

“Bien.”

We passed around the Chinese food containers.

Once we began eating, Davin’s gaze met mine over the Sweet and Sour Shrimp. I think he wanted me to bring up the subject of art forgery. I couldn’t come up with a way to approach it. Since he seemed to be in such a hurry, he could do it. I crammed my mouth full of egg roll and shot him an innocent look.

Davin shook his head, then cleared his throat. “During my break today, I had an interesting discussion with the art teacher.”

Stephen looked up from his plate. “Mrs. Donovan?”

“Yes. She’s been doing research for her Ph.D. thesis on art forgery.”

Stephen lowered his head and took a quick bite of General Tso’s Chicken. He’d obviously learned the art of conversation avoidance from a master, namely moi.

“How interesting.” I shot Stephen the Look. The Look I learned from my mother. The one she learned from hers. The Look all children wish to avoid.

“Mrs. Donovan said even though there are huge legal penalties for art forgery, people keep doing it.”

Stephen kept his gaze lowered.

“I was surprised,” continued Davin. “What amazed me was how many kids evidently try it, despite the fact that when they’re caught they face years of prison.”

Stephen tossed down his fork and it clattered on the table. “You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”

“Where’d you get that idea?” Davin asked.

“Never mind.” Stephen picked up an egg roll and bit into it. A minute later he said, “The kids forging artwork are minors. They don’t go to jail.”

“Technically, they’re minors. These days, most kids your age are tried and sentenced as adults.”

Stephen looked at Davin, then looked at me, then jumped from his chair. “What is this, an intervention?”

“You got it,” I said. “You’re just lucky I didn’t invite your grandmother. By this point she’d be chasing you around the apartment with turpentine.”

“Like, she’d be worse than you?”

“Like, she is.” I lowered my fork to my plate.

“Like, she doesn’t spend all her time chasing traveling salesmen. At least she’d be chasing me.”

I cringed. Stephen had a good point, one that hurt like hell. Had I been ignoring him, funneling my attention to chasing salesmen, rather than giving him the attention—and supervision—he needed?

My excuse had been that if I found the right salesman, the college tuition issue would be resolved. Was I being selfish?

“Sit down, Stephen.” Davin’s tone was not to be argued with.

Stephen took his seat.

I was majorly impressed. How had Davin done that? If I’d told Stephen to sit down, he would have cursed at me in French.

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to paint over the signatures on your artwork and replace them with your own. You sign them. They’re good.” Davin’s voice was calm and quiet, but even I heard the steel in his tone. “Claim the work as your own.”

“Why should I?” asked Stephen.

“Because we told you to,” I piped up.

“You’re a gifted and talented artist,” Davin said, “and you’re entering them in the art show coming up.”

“There’s the little matter of entrance fees.” Stephen smirked, as if he had the last word.

Davin pulled his checkbook from his rear pocket. Talk about coming prepared.

But Stephen is my kid. I don’t let other people pay when it’s my obligation. “Put your checkbook away. Stephen, you have birthday money saved up. You’ll pay half and I’ll pay the other half.”

Davin glanced back at Stephen. “How much?”

“Twenty-five dollars per entry.”

“You’ve got six paintings.” Davin turned back to me. “Since it was my idea, how about thirds? Fifty dollars from each of us.”

“Yeah, Maman. It was his idea.”

I knew Stephen was thinking about the twenty-five dollars he wouldn’t have to pay, but it was sweet of Davin to offer. He’d feel bad if I didn’t let him participate. I smiled at him. “Okay, but next time dinner is on me.”

By the time I returned to the dining room with my checkbook, Stephen and Davin were chatting comfortably. Stephen looked almost relieved. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to be a forger?

Their topic of discussion was my mom’s anniversary party, which reminded me that I needed an escort or she’d spend the entire evening attempting to fix me up with someone unsuitable. It was an anniversary party. Since my mom would necessarily be attending stag, I’d feel embarrassed to do the same. I needed someone hot. I needed someone charming. And if I couldn’t have that, at the least I needed someone presentable.

I eyed Davin, who was a lot more than merely presentable. He was the answer to my dilemma. But would he agree to come, especially after I’d been so rude to him earlier? I cleared my throat. “So, Davin …”

My voice squeaked, so I tried again. “Since you seem to be into the whole rescue thing tonight, want to help me?

“My hobby is rescuing damsels in distress. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I need an escort for Mom’s anniversary party. I was hoping you’d come with Stephen and me.”

He didn’t say anything right away, so I quickly said, “Never mind. Stupid idea. Besides, you probably don’t dance.”

“Oh,” his voice deepened, “I dance.” He looked at Stephen’s hopeful face, then glanced back at me. “How formal is it?”

“I can get you a discount on tux rental.”

“I have one of my own.” He shook his head at Stephen, then cocked a half smile at me. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d love to come.”

“You’re a true knight in shining armor. Thank you!”

“It’s all in a day’s work, ma’am. Now where did I leave my white horse?” He rose from his chair and turned to Stephen. “Come on. I’ll help you paint over the signatures.”

While I did the dishes, wondering exactly what I’d gotten myself into, they went off to remove the evidence.

Which brings me back to where I started when I arrived home. My job was in jeopardy. My new boss was spying on me and starting rumors about me. My Salesman a.k.a. Tuition plan was down the tubes. And now my parenting skills were below the baboon level.

On my birthday, I’d made out a list of my life to date. Little had I known then, but it was optimistic compared to now.

1. A failed marriage. (That was the least of my worries.)

2. My recent breakup. (Screw the Asshole Professor and the sports car he rode in on. My skillet was hopelessly lost to me.)

3. 1,000 in savings and nearly $2,000 in checking. (Now it was more like $500 in savings thanks to the new outfits I bought for my salesman dates.)

4. A wonderful son. (He’s still wonderful, but was he an inmate-in-the-making? He also still needed a fortune in tuition, a fortune I was even farther away from coughing up.)

5. My job as sous chef. (What a laugh. I’d be lucky to be employed at all by month’s end. And I’d found making three thousand identical Southwestern chicken breasts repetitive?)

6. Fabulous friends. (Thank God, I still had them. But that was about all I had left.)

Self-awareness is scary and something I don’t recommend you try at home. Connie’s mention of an empty nest made me feel uncomfortable. Stephen’s barb had hit home. Did I have separation anxiety? Were my attempts at finding a salesman simply methods to avoid facing my upcoming reality?

Was I afraid of being alone?

My life had gone from sucky, sucky, sucky to miserable, miserable, miserable, and now it had reached down-the-toilet, down-the-toilet, down-the-toilet.

I placed the last plate in the dishwasher, set it to run, and then wandered back into the dining room.

The stack of surveys piled on top of my desk snagged my attention. Why had I thought anything like a survey could change my life for the better? I’d totally crashed and burned with the traveling salesmen, and if I valued my job, I’d stop hunting for one.

Gainful employment is mandatory to support my lifestyle, such as it is. I opted for my job.

I grabbed the survey responses and jammed them into the file drawer at the bottom of my desk, then literally and figuratively wiped my hands.

I was forty flipping years old, about to face an empty nest, and was envious of the parenting skills of the-man-who-most-annoyed-me—and he wasn’t even a parent.

C’est la vie, non?