giggle I was unaccustomed to hearing. It gave me a glimpse into that fresh-faced girl who was first swept off her feet by the smooth, pretty Cubano music man decades past. “I think so. Problem was he was the one for a bunch of others too.”
I didn’t discuss it further, but wondered how I could feel that Dawn was the one yet be drawn to Ava in such a similar fashion. But maybe my mother had spelled it out for me. I was my father’s son, after all. And for as much as I did to avoid being anything like him, perhaps fate had other plans.
13
Back at home, I decided to do some research, but different from my legal pursuits by day. I figured maybe I could learn as much about Ava as she knew about me. Dawn was in the kitchen checking on her gumbo, so I used that time to slip into the home office. Not having a last name, I quickly pulled up Google on my laptop and entered the only full name I had associated with Ava-Charla Nuttier.
A few entries popped up in the search results that matched what I was looking for. The most relevant one looked to be from an online Houston Style article referring to an unusual new artist who suddenly burst onto the scene over a year ago. Dawn entered the office, looking over my shoulder as I clicked on the entry. I didn’t hesitate, quietly observing her for any signs of deceit or nervousness.
“Ever heard of her?” I asked of Dawn as the woman I knew as Ava filled the screen, one of her larger paintings on display behind her. It was like that of New York City, yet with the Twin Towers intact, but different. The architecture was simultaneously familiar yet otherworldly, including the strange sailboats on the Hudson River.
“No,” Dawn replied, resting an elbow on my shoulder. Her face passive, but showing interest in the article I was perusing. It stated that the mysterious Charla Nuttier’s paintings seemed to be, as quoted from the review, inspired from the most mundane parts in the life of a child to voices from worlds beyond our own, but with both equally reminding us of our humanity. That was all we were allowed to read without being a subscriber to the magazine’s premium content.
“You sure you don’t know her?” I asked again while she stared at Ava’s image. Felt a bit like I was deposing my own wife.
“I’m positive. Why?”
“I dunno. Figured as a new artist in the area that you might’ve heard of her. Your sort of thing.”
“Nope, but her stuff looks interesting and eclectic. Thinking about buying some pieces for the house? Didn’t peg you as an art man.”
“I’m not, but it catches the eye. Saw some of her more ‘regular’ stuff on display in the Breakfast Klub,” I mumbled, fixated more on the artist than the article. “Hmm. Don’t know her by name, but her face looks familiar. Like maybe she went to college with us.”
Dawn leaned over me, her eyes narrowing in response to my observation. “Nope. Don’t remember seeing her on campus. But she is very beautiful. Don’tcha think, baby?”
“She’s cute, I suppose,” I said, carefully treading the minefield of a spouse’s goading. Was she simply kidding or was there something more sinister? Was everything just what it seemed or was there something entirely different bearing out in our conversation? Thanks, Jacobi, for making me distrustful of my wife.
My phone, which rested on the desk, buzzed suddenly. Not a call, but a text. It was from Ava. I quickly moved away from Dawn’s line of sight, guilt eating away at me.
“Jacobi,” I said with a sigh. She was used to that sort of intrusion.
“More work?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
“I’m going check on the gumbo,” Dawn said with an apparent eye roll. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I responded with a smile.
I turned to read the message before she’d taken two steps.
You didn’t call.
Wasn’t going to.
I hastily replied.
Ur scared. I can understand that. So am I.
Of what?
Rejection. Don’t know what I would
I didn’t discuss it further, but wondered how I could feel that Dawn was the one yet be drawn to Ava in such a similar fashion. But maybe my mother had spelled it out for me. I was my father’s son, after all. And for as much as I did to avoid being anything like him, perhaps fate had other plans.
13
Back at home, I decided to do some research, but different from my legal pursuits by day. I figured maybe I could learn as much about Ava as she knew about me. Dawn was in the kitchen checking on her gumbo, so I used that time to slip into the home office. Not having a last name, I quickly pulled up Google on my laptop and entered the only full name I had associated with Ava-Charla Nuttier.
A few entries popped up in the search results that matched what I was looking for. The most relevant one looked to be from an online Houston Style article referring to an unusual new artist who suddenly burst onto the scene over a year ago. Dawn entered the office, looking over my shoulder as I clicked on the entry. I didn’t hesitate, quietly observing her for any signs of deceit or nervousness.
“Ever heard of her?” I asked of Dawn as the woman I knew as Ava filled the screen, one of her larger paintings on display behind her. It was like that of New York City, yet with the Twin Towers intact, but different. The architecture was simultaneously familiar yet otherworldly, including the strange sailboats on the Hudson River.
“No,” Dawn replied, resting an elbow on my shoulder. Her face passive, but showing interest in the article I was perusing. It stated that the mysterious Charla Nuttier’s paintings seemed to be, as quoted from the review, inspired from the most mundane parts in the life of a child to voices from worlds beyond our own, but with both equally reminding us of our humanity. That was all we were allowed to read without being a subscriber to the magazine’s premium content.
“You sure you don’t know her?” I asked again while she stared at Ava’s image. Felt a bit like I was deposing my own wife.
“I’m positive. Why?”
“I dunno. Figured as a new artist in the area that you might’ve heard of her. Your sort of thing.”
“Nope, but her stuff looks interesting and eclectic. Thinking about buying some pieces for the house? Didn’t peg you as an art man.”
“I’m not, but it catches the eye. Saw some of her more ‘regular’ stuff on display in the Breakfast Klub,” I mumbled, fixated more on the artist than the article. “Hmm. Don’t know her by name, but her face looks familiar. Like maybe she went to college with us.”
Dawn leaned over me, her eyes narrowing in response to my observation. “Nope. Don’t remember seeing her on campus. But she is very beautiful. Don’tcha think, baby?”
“She’s cute, I suppose,” I said, carefully treading the minefield of a spouse’s goading. Was she simply kidding or was there something more sinister? Was everything just what it seemed or was there something entirely different bearing out in our conversation? Thanks, Jacobi, for making me distrustful of my wife.
My phone, which rested on the desk, buzzed suddenly. Not a call, but a text. It was from Ava. I quickly moved away from Dawn’s line of sight, guilt eating away at me.
“Jacobi,” I said with a sigh. She was used to that sort of intrusion.
“More work?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
“I’m going check on the gumbo,” Dawn said with an apparent eye roll. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I responded with a smile.
I turned to read the message before she’d taken two steps.
You didn’t call.
Wasn’t going to.
I hastily replied.
Ur scared. I can understand that. So am I.
Of what?
Rejection. Don’t know what I would
Similar Books
