Page 15 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

“He’s not going to see it that way. He’ll think I’ve betrayed his trust. He’s not wrong to think so either. Why would he want to be with someone who could throw everything away on a whim?”

“It wasn’t a whim.”

“It’ll seem like one to him.” But that wasn’t quite fair either. Samuel was balancing many things at once: his professional obligations, his relationship with Vivi, and his own internal compass, which never steered him awry. He might not have believed there was anything to find under the pentimento, but he hadn’t completely dismissed her. He would never. “Anyway, moving in together is the least of his concerns now—or mine.”

“Well, you know what I say about all that. Cohabitating, marriage. It’s for the birds.” Calla’s tone was blithe, bordering on offensively casual.

“You didn’t say that at your own wedding.”

In their early twenties, Calla and Wayland married in a sparkling winter ceremony of oligarchic resplendence at the Cultural Center, all bankrolled by Wayland’s parents. Vivi stood beside Calla as her maid of honor, wearing an icy blue gown draped with a faux fur stole, smiling until her cheeks flamed with the effort. Calla had stared adoringly into Wayland’s eyes as he recited his handwritten vows, promising to love her through the storms of life.

Calla covered her wounded expression with a grin. “Yeah, well, I’m older, wiser now. And what I know is that the world is lousy with men,Bee. No use going to pieces over one. Could you imagine yourself, anyway, as some soccer mom hauling around juice boxes for the next decade of your life?”

Vivi thought of Phoebe onstage at the recital in her tulle skirt, searching for Vivi in the crowd, face falling once she glimpsed the empty chair. The way Samuel used to draw droopy hearts in the condensation of the shower. They’d taken turns writing messages inside each, some dirty, others sweet,V+S 4Ev, like a pair of teenagers.

“I guess I won’t ever know,” Vivi said, staring hard at the road in front of her.

“Freedom tastes sweet, I’ll tell you that.”

Vivi was about to respond, perhaps with something snippy and regrettable, when she felt Calla’s hand slide over, squeeze her knee. Once, twice. In that gesture, Vivi sensed the words her sister didn’t say.I see you. I hurt for you.Her anger deflated.

How much trouble would be saved, if they could all just say what they meant.

Dr. Quân’s lecture hall was already full. The air conditioner was turned to the highest setting, but it still wasn’t powerful enough to ease the heat of packed bodies. Vivi and Calla found a seat in the back next to a woman in a milkmaid dress and a thousand jangling bracelets. Calla was jiggling her foot, twisting her neck to look at the other attendees. Finally, just as Quân was introduced, Calla shot to her feet.

“It’s too stuffy in here, Bee. I’ll find you afterward.”

“Seriously?”

“Gonna check out the old studio, see if the skeletons are still roaming the department.”

“Now? This was your idea, Button,” Vivi hissed. “Calla.”

“Give me the CliffsNotes after.”

Shaking off Vivi’s grasp, Calla rushed out, whispering apologies as she stepped over the disgruntled bodies. They all craned past her for aglimpse of the elusive Dr. Quân. The woman with the bracelets shot Vivi a sympathetic look. Vivi turned away, resisting the urge to provide excuses for her sister’s rudeness.

Paul Quân walked across the stage with long strides, recalling the image of a circus performer on stilts. A small yet distinguished man in his early fifties, he exuded a bullish authority that came not so much from his appearance, but from his carriage and voice. When he spoke, his whole body quivered so that his black hair grazed his shoulders and shook.

While in her graduate program, Vivi had attended dozens of lectures. But she’d never witnessed any like Paul’s. He galloped across the stage, gesticulating as he hammered each point into his listeners’ ears. With his wild hair and wilder manners, he resembled a Marxian revolutionary more than a staid scholar.

For one exhilarating hour, he brought early-twentieth-century Paris to life. In rigorous detail, he outlined the petty dramas of artists; the sums of money each significant painting commanded; the affairs that brought men to their knees. Those faded old salons emerged in ravishing color, bristling with scandals and musings and the frenzy of youthful inspiration. She wished Samuel was sitting next to her, with his incisive questioning, his deeply thoughtful listening.

His last text message had been brief.Don’t walk away from this, Vivi.

She’d drafted hundreds of replies in her head and sent none. It frightened her, how much pain she was capable of inflicting.

At the Q&A after Paul’s lecture, there were numerous questions about Breton and his group of devotees. Even a century later, all they wanted to know about was the gossip. The woman with the bracelets asked about the dearth of women in the field. Another art historian wanted to know about the solvents used in the early twentieth century. Collectors probed about specific artists, trying to suss out a good cocktail story about their recent purchases.

The breadth of investments was staggering. Art could bring out more passion and intrigue than nearly any other human achievement.

Finally, impatient, Vivi stood without waiting to be called on. “Canyou tell us more about the painter K. P.Lý? You didn’t mention him in your lecture.”

“Because he was a hermit,” Paul said loudly. “A nobody.”

Despite herself, Vivi felt defensive ofLý.Tu?nhad carved out a season of his life for the painter. Just a day before, Vivi had likely destroyed her career forLý. He had to matter.

“So youdon’tknow anything about him?” A note of challenge steeled her question.