“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says proudly, and it’s so obviously a lie I can’t help but smile.
Art taps on the side of the box with his fist, but there’s nothing but a blank screen. Judy clicks another piece into place. “Art, give it up. You’ve been trying to fix that old thing for twelve years. Put it out of its misery and put the radio on before I start hearing voices.”
He does, and the soft strum of folk music springs forth from a portable radio I hadn’t noticed. Art sinks back into the armchair and picks up a pad and pencil.
Judy looks up from her puzzle. “Has Kyle asked you for a loan yet?”
“Yesterday, in fact,” Art replies, sounding as done with Kyle’s BS as I am. We should start a club. Come to think of it, I might have just been pulled into my first meeting. “Joe’s starting to waver, but I reminded him of exactly how much we’ve given that boy and the precise amount of zero he’s repaid.” There is black coating Art’s fingertips and the edge of his palm. “I overheard him angling Dale for a job.”
Judy’s hand stills, a piece of cloud hanging in the air before she pushes it into place with a soft click. The calculating pinch between her eyes is back. “That’s interesting. He came at me with the same request, albeit clumsily aimed at getting Hayden to add him as coproducer.”
This grabs Art’s attention, his head popping up in a shot, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “For theTimelinereboot?”
Judy nods.
“He asked Reed for a job too,” I add, sensing chum in the water. Screw talking to Richard. It’s clear his whole agenda is covering for his kid, but the rest of the family? The wheels are already turning. Maybe it’s time to give them a little nudge. And, hey, my mouth got me into this mess; I might as well let it have some fun.
“Really?”
With fresh gossip on offer, Judy and Art turn to me. I keep my expression clear, even though I’m buzzing inside. “Yeah. Right after he pitched everyone on investing in his buddy’s start-up. Reed shut both down.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, considering the verbal lashing Reed gave all of them at the will reading. Kyle must be getting desperate,” Art says, immediately making him my new favorite person.
“Serves him right after those embezzlement rumors surfaced.” Judy stretches her neck out. She’s in a more casual outfit than I expected— a shift dress that seems at odds with all her right angles. There’s pale pink on her nails and a hint of lip gloss on her thin lips. But she makes it work.
Art brushes excess charcoal off his pad, humming along to the radio. Papa passed when I was still a baby, but Nonna told Ciara and me stories; how he loved to ballroom dance, and would sit outside for hours, listening to birds sing. Wherever he is now, I like to imagine him in a garden, striped shirt and sun hat, a smile on his face.
Art reminds me of him, which I know is ridiculous and not even possible, but he hasn’t stopped smiling since Judy hauled me in here. How does a man so full of life voluntarily stifle himself in this stuffy house every year?
I have to know.
“Art, why do you come here if you hate it so much?”
“Oh, it’s not all bad,” he says. “I never laugh half as hard as the drive home, when Joe is reading everyone for filth.”
“Joe’s funny?” I ask. I honestly can’t picture it.
“Oh, yes,” he says gleefully. “You wouldn’t have recognized him fifty years ago. He was a rogue of the highest order.”
“Like Lincoln,” I say without thinking.
“Indeed,” he replies, his eyes shining with mirth. It doesn’t seem like it should work, Art’s jubilance and Joe’s intensity, but maybe there’s balance in it. Maybe that’s what real love is, falling for every version of your partner as you grow and change together, over and over again.
I wonder who Lincoln will be in fifty years. I want to meet him. To see if his eyes still sparkle with mischief. If he still takes an hour to wake up in the mornings. If he’ll still look at me as though I’m the only one he ever wants to see.
“What are you sketching?” I ask, walking over to him.
He hands the pad to me, and just as I suspected, it’s full of Joe. “He was my first model,” he says. “Stumbled into my studio like a newborn foal one day, and I was smitten.” As I flip through the pages, there are studies on hands, smiles, wrinkles, but even in these disparate parts, there is love in every line. “I never thought he’d be interested in me,” Art says. “With his button-ups and vests, who his family was, it meant hiding a lot. We were "roommates" for a very long time.”
“They’re beautiful.” I hand back the pad.
Art clasps his hand around mine briefly. “There will always be someone to disagree with who you are or how you live, but I can no longer allow the world to tell me who I am is wrong. The older you get, the more you recognize that no amount of ‘comfort’ is worth denying humanity. Let the bigots be uncomfortable.”
“Bold words in this house,” I chance, and Art smiles. “Here I was hoping I could spice things up by mentioning my torrid bisexuality at dinner tonight.”
“Please do. Joe will love it,” he chuckles. “I always knew Lincoln would find a good one.” His scrutiny is gentler than Judy’s, but no less intimidating.
All of a sudden, I don’t want to lie anymore. Not about Lincoln. The way I feel about him is too big, too real.
