A Beautiful Sin (9 page)

Three weeks passed and my anger toward the esteemed Father Sullivan hadn’t diminished in the least. At least he’d had the courtesy to act contrite. No doubt thoughts of him sent my blood pressure soaring. And if that weren’t enough, he was one more man who had shown his true colors.

The whole Jonathon issue with him selling my painting from under me still rankled, and I didn’t quite know what to do about it. He saw it as nothing but a giant dollar sign, but to me it was a part of my past that will forever be lost. Losing that piece almost felt like my mother died all over again.

So I threw myself into my work, like I often did. Escaping into my canvases was my therapy. My production was off the charts according to the asshole Jonathon. Small pieces were scattered all over my workplace like litter on the streets of Chicago. It didn’t take long for Jonathon to come and collect them, claiming how spectacular they were. I ignored him. They meant nothing to me except they were a way for me to release the emotions that had built up inside me in the few short weeks I had been back in my hometown.

Wrath fueled my artistic hands. Canvas wrapped around a giant frame so large I needed to get help from the gallery employees. It was almost the size of a wall. And then my hands went to work.

Dark colors emerged, forming splashes in the sky. Reds, purples, grays, and navies blended into a cloud-filled sunset that looked as ominous as my life was back then. Soon the background had been shaped. Days later, as I painted, I knew what was manifesting. It was a memory.

A young girl stood with her back facing me, posture hunched as her arms hugged her frail body. What should’ve been a shelter of the church in front of her proved to be no shelter at all. And facing her was a boy, not much older than herself. Dark-haired and handsome, whom she thought to be carefree with the world at his fingertips, turning her away and sending her back into an Inferno.

I hardly ate and slept as my hand continued to wield colors of paint, mixing and adding touches here and there, until the memory was complete. Only the painting wasn’t quite an accurate representation of the truth. Reality had happened during the day, which wasn’t stormy. My anger had fueled the colors to create the tempest in this reflection of the past and I was positive why.

As I inspected the finished product, I began to notice something. Canaan’s eyes. How could I have painted him and not been aware of his pain? His brow was drawn and furrowed, and his green eyes matched the incoming storm. Did I do that intentionally or did I pull that from memory?

“Holy shit! Where is all this coming from, Haven?” Jonathon stepped in front of me to scrutinize my work.

I was so engrossed in examining my own memories that I hadn’t noticed his arrival. “Yeah, uh, I…” There was no adequate answer, so I let my voice trail off.

“Jesus, Haven, this is brilliant. It’s like you’ve had an epiphany or something.”

“Or something.” The fury that had driven me could be partially laid at his feet. But I had to reserve some of it for Canaan.

“When will it be ready?”

“This afternoon,” I muttered.

I put my final touches on the painting. It loomed large and foreboding before me. I couldn’t get Canaan’s eyes out of my mind. He said he thought he’d been doing the right thing. Maybe so. He had been just a kid himself.

Stop this! Let it go!
There was no resolution so it was time to move on. He was the one who screwed up, not me. I’d been an innocent then, not so much anymore. I’d lost that label long ago.

As I stared at the painting, the pain of the beatings nailed me. I flinched, imagining the bite of the buckle as it bit into my flesh. Squinting, I looked again at Canaan’s eyes. Were they a reflection of my own? Did I displace my pain onto him? Or was it there all along?

The brush lifted as if it had a life of its own, adding the final strokes to him before I felt it was complete. I stepped away to take my final assessment. I always looked at my work with one eye closed. It gave me perspective to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Satisfied everything was in order, I considered the painting finished.

Grabbing my bag, I walked down to the private bathroom that was in the back for employees and artists. The first thing I noticed was the reflection in the mirror. It reminded me of my mother with her haunted eyes. Since I was planning on meeting Macie for dinner later, I changed into my extra clothes because the ones I had on were paint splattered.

Running some gloss over my lips, I headed up to my workspace. The painting drew my attention as soon as I entered the room. It sparked with life, almost as if lightning were going to strike from the cloud-streaked sky. Once again, Canaan’s eyes pulled me in. Pain spoke loud and clear, making me want to soothe it away.

What the hell is wrong with you, Haven?
I shook myself, tearing my gaze away from the gigantic piece of art.

“Miss Richardson, we’re here to move the painting.” It was one of the workers.

“This is the one. Be careful because the paint is barely dry.”

It took four men to move it and they placed it with the rest of my work. Jonathon was there to supervise along with the display expert to figure out where to place it. They decided to showcase it in a separate space since it was so unique and large. Undoubtedly, it would be an attention getter. How could it not?

“Unbelievable. Just look at it, Haven.” It was Jonathon who spoke.

“I am. It’s kind of hard not to. The thing’s so damn huge.”

“First your interview with the Chicago Tribune, and now this—you’re going to be at the top of the A list, my dear.”

The interview. That had been interesting. They wanted me to talk about myself. And I wouldn’t. It made for an interesting hour, the reporter trying to pull information out of my bared teeth hidden behind my fake smile.

“Don’t try to make nicey-nice with me. You’re still on my
shit
list.”

He chuckled. “It’s okay. I’ll make us both a lot of bank on this.”

And that was that as he walked away, leaving a trail of dollar signs. I wondered if in the end it would be worth it.

Unfortunately, he was right about one thing. The painting attracted all kinds of attention, even as soon as it was staged. Like moths to a flame, every patron who walked through the door stopped in front of it as though they couldn’t resist it. During a lull, I took a picture of it with my phone so I could show it to Macie that night. I needed to ask her a question about it.

It was five in the afternoon when I made another round, chatting with customers, answering questions. Then I turned around and saw him.

Father Canaan Sullivan stood bathed in light as if he were haloed. Only I knew better. I watched him for a second as his pensive expression fixed on what essentially was himself. Caught up in the intricacies of my work, he didn’t notice my approach. I took in his handsome physique. He was certainly still as striking as he’d been when we were in school, despite the fact that he was dressed in black and had that little white thing around his neck, informing the world that he was a priest.

“What are you doing here?” I asked coolly.

My tone wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t care less about his station in life. His head whipped around as my frank words startled him. Composing himself took a second as his eyes dug into mine briefly before he addressed me. That gave me a moment to assess how tired he looked, exhausted, in fact. Then he turned back to the painting.

His words were quiet, but clear. “You did this?”

My lip curled as I hurled back a snarky response to his idiotic question. “I am H. Richardson as you can see by my name on the painting.”

He bowed his head for a second, his eyes closed. When he opened them, I could see recognition. “That’s…it’s…” He ran his hand through his hair as he stared at it. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

My tone had lost some of its bluster. He was clearly rattled, maybe even more than me.

“From that day. Long ago. The day I destroyed your life.”

I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. But his words only reminded me of all the hurt I’d endured.

“Yes.” My tone was unfriendly and clipped. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh…I saw the article. The…the interview with you in the paper. I wanted to see your work.”

I brushed aside his stuttering words. He wasn’t the victim here; I was.

“Well, you did. You can go now.” I moved to leave him.

“Wait, please.”

Just like that night, his voice caused me to stop and face him.

“I also came to tell you it was wrong of me.”

He turned and studied the painting. His hand reached out to touch it.

“Don’t,” I warned.

He quickly drew it back.

“I only finished it today so it’s not quite dry.” I didn’t understand why I felt it necessary to explain that to him, but I did.

“The likeness. How did you—”

“Memory, obviously.” My tone indicated he was an idiot, yet he said nothing in response to that.

He shook his head. “How could you know?”

“Know what?”

He flicked his head toward the painting. “Nothing. Never mind. I’m so sorry for everything I caused you.”

“I think it’s best that you leave.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “I want to…no, I
need
to tell you some things.”

“I don’t want to hear any
things
from you.”

“Haven, is everything all right over here?”

It was Jonathon. Of course he would come and check on me, his new moneymaker.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Jonathon stood there, waiting for an explanation. When one wasn’t given, he asked, “Is this man causing you trouble?”

I released a long slow breath. “As I said, I’m fine. This is Father Sullivan, and he was just leaving.”

Canaan turned to Jonathon and they exchanged a few words. I didn’t pay attention to what was said. As it was, I could barely focus on staying on my own two feet.

As he moved to leave, Canaan said, “Your work is magnificent, Haven. It is truly a gift from God. I’m sorry to have distressed you. Have a nice evening.” And he slipped out the door before I could think of a response.

“That’s a first,” Jonathon remarked.

I had forgotten he was standing there. “A first?”

“I can say I’ve never had a priest visit one of my galleries before.”

“Oh.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. I felt like a zombie the rest of the evening, walking aimlessly, unable to think. I planned to meet Macie at eight for dinner and drinks. In the state of mind I was in, I was fairly useless, so I told Jonathon I was leaving early. I sent a text to Macie to let her know I was on the way.

The restaurant we decided to meet at was only a short distance from the gallery. It was an off the beaten path place that we knew wouldn’t be crowded and had great food with cheap drinks. When I walked in, the first thing that greeted me was the huge bar. Since I spied some empty seats, I decided to wait for Macie there. The room was dimly lit and I was texting a message to Macie as I walked. I grabbed the first seat at the bar and planted my butt on it.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“I think I’ll just have whatever hard cider you have on tap to start with.”

“Coming right up.”

As I waited for my drink, I scanned through my emails. I felt eyes on me and glanced up. He was staring at me. Of all the places in Chicago, what were the chances of me running into Father Sullivan again?

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“I sort of do,” I snapped.

He was sitting two seats away.

“I promise I won’t do anything to bother you.”

“You’re already bothering me. And is it normal for priests to hang out in bars?”

“Not really, but given that I’m Catholic, Irish, and that ever since I learned the truth about what happened to you, I’m finding I’m doing a lot of things I probably shouldn’t be.” I noticed a bit of hope spark in his eyes.

Before I could stop myself, the sharp retort flew out of my mouth. “I am aware that Catholics drink. I lived with my uncle who drank on a regular basis. And I paid dearly for it.”

My words extinguished his spark of hope like a bucket of water tossed on a flame. “It seems I keep digging a hole for myself where you are concerned.”

“That hole you’re digging? You dug it for me years ago. You’re welcome to jump into it anytime. At the very least, it’s probably best if you go your way and I go mine.”

“Haven, that’s not possible for me. You see, I’m in the business of forgiving and helping others do that.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me, Father Sullivan, if I don’t buy into that crap. My soul doesn’t believe in God, nor does my mind, because He abandoned me a long, long time ago. And forgiveness? I’m not sure that’s even a word.”

You would have thought I’d slapped him the way he recoiled from my words.

“Haven, you can’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“But God’s love is so great and vast. To not believe is…well, you must. You’re missing out on the greatest glory.” His convictions were so obvious.

“That’s your path, Father, but it’s not mine. And don’t try to impose your values on me.”