“How can you be next-door neighbors to Guinevere Poe, knowing full well I’m in love with her work, and not say a word!”
Rolling my eyes, I walked into my kitchen, grabbing an aspirin and water. “Because she isn’t Guinevere Poe to me. She’s the fiancée of the man who ran off with Hannah.”
“What? That was her?” she whispered slowly, taking a seat on my couch, most likely as the whole scene replayed in her mind.
“You mean the second most-humiliated person on my wedding day? Yeah, that was her. Sebastian Evans was her fiancé.”
“This city is too damn small.”
It really was.
Chapter Five
Background Noise
Eli
I almost didn’t recognize Guinevere when she entered the café. Her hair was styled and curled nicely, and her red cotton shirt hugged every curve of her chest, making her stand out in an odd sort of way. Maybe it was because I had never seen her in heels that her legs looked longer under the white skirt.
“What?” she said, glancing down at herself when she reached our table.
“Nothing, it’s just the first time I’ve ever seen you look nice,” I replied, drinking my coffee.
“How is it possible for you to both compliment and insult me at the same time?” She frowned, about to take a seat, when my mother returned. For some reason, she stood back up again.
“Please don’t mind my son, I’m not sure where his manners have gone,” she said, placing a steaming cup in front of Guinevere. “I wasn’t sure what you took, so it’s just a cappuccino. I hope you don’t mind me ordering, the line was getting long.”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you so much,” she responded politely.
You would have thought she was the one asking for a favor.
“You said you’ve been trying to get in touch with me?”
My mother smiled sadly, looking between us. “Yes. I never realized we would be connected like this.”
“My mother is the chairwoman at the hospital, and was wondering if you could paint a mural,” I said, trying to speed things up.
“A mural?”
“I know you’re busy, but if you could consider it...you have no idea how much your work means to me. Eli doesn’t really understand art, so he thought I was crazy for buying your Whispers of the East piece. It brought me to tears.”
“That’s why he called me Con Artist.” She laughed.
My mother shifted her gaze to me. “Con artist?”
She just had to bring that up. Saying nothing, I drank my coffee.
“I can’t believe you bought that.” She sat up straighter. “I was shocked when it sold, I really didn’t think anyone would understand it but me.”
“I read that you drew it after the death of your grandparents? You said it hurt to breathe for a while. I saw the date; my husband actually died a week after that, and looking at it, I understood.”
For a brief second, I saw an expression on my mother's face I hadn’t seen in over two decades…since my father died. She had always done her best to stay upbeat and happy around us. Growing up, I often wondered how she could get on so well with her life, and now it seemed like that was not the case at all.
Guinevere shifted in her seat, gripping the cappuccino. “My grandparents meant more than I could put into words. Painting that was really therapeutic for me. I’m so happy it’s found a good home. As for the mural, I will talk to my agent, and I will have to look at the space, but I would be more than happy to do it, Mrs. Davenport.”
“Truly?” My mother smiled and took her hand. “Thank you. Eli can show you the space whenever you are free.”
“What?”
Guinevere kicked my foot under the table. “Great, I’m sure we will work out a time.”
“I have to run to a meeting, but please have your people contact me on the logistics.” She stood, as did I, pulling back her chair. “Oh no, please finish your coffee, I will see you all later. Oh, and Eli, call your brother.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She waved, already on her phone. Her driver appeared at the door, holding it open for her and giving me a short nod before leading her out.
When she was gone, Guinevere fell back onto her seat and took a deep breath. Her posture completely changed, and she placed her elbows on the table.
“Why were you so nervous?” I asked.
“I always get nervous around parents, or anyone over the age of 50, really. I don’t know, I always want them to like me.”
I fought back a laugh. “Why?”
“Do you want to be the person hated by old people?”
I wasn’t even sure what to say to that, other than, “You are an odd one, Guinevere Poe.”
“Please, just call me Gwen, and do you want this? I’m allergic to coffee.”
You’re what?
“Why did you take it?”
“Your mother bought it for me, so I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Guinevere, I’m sure if you told her you couldn’t have coffee, she wouldn’t have been offended. How bad of an allergy is it?”
“I just can’t digest it and drinking it gives me a small headache sometimes or my face swells. But it’s no big deal. And just Gwen.”