Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

MATILDA GOODNIGHT STEPPED BACK from her latest mural and realized that of all the crimes shed committed in her thirty-four years, painting the floor-to-ceiling reproduction of van Goghs sunflowers on Clarissa Donnellys dining room wall was the one that was going to send her to hell. God might forgive her the Botticelli Venus shed painted in the bathroom in Iowa, the Uccello battle scene shed done for the boardroom in New Jersey, even the Bosch orgy shed painted in the bedroom in Utah, but these giant, glaring sunflowers were going to be His Last Straw. I gave you a nice talent, He was going to say to her on Judgment Day, and this is what you did with it.

Tilda felt her lungs tighten and stuck her hand in her pocket to make sure she had her inhaler.

Beside her, Clarissa wrapped her thin little arms around her size-two chenille sweater and squinted at the brownish-yellow flowers. Its just like his, isnt it?

Yes, Tilda said with regret and handed her the museum print of the original.

The flowers look so angry, Clarissa said.

Well. Tilda closed her paint box. He was nuts.

Clarissa nodded. I heard about that. The ear.

Yeah, that got a lot of press. Tilda shrugged off her paint shirt. So Ill take my completion check-

Did you sign it? Clarissa said. You need to sign it. I want everybody to know its a real Matilda Veronica mural.

I signed it. Tilda pointed the toe of her paint-stained canvas shoe at the bottom where shed scrawled Matilda Veronica.

Right there. Now I have to be going-

You didnt sign it van Gogh, did you? Clarissa bent down. Wouldnt that be forgery?

Not unless he had a Kentucky mural period we dont know about. Tilda tried to take a deep breath. So Ill take that check-

Write your name bigger, Clarissa said, straightening. I want everybody to know you painted this. Im going to keep the magazine right here, too. So they know that its a real Matilda Veronica-

Clarissas enthusiasm for her as a brand name had lost its appeal many days before, so Tilda changed the subject. Well, Spot was certainly a champ about the whole thing. She nodded at Clarissas elongated little dog on the theory that people were always pleased when you talked about their animals.

His tail is almost hiding your name, Clarissa said.

Tilda let her glasses slide down her nose a little and looked over the rims at Spot, quivering at her feet. Shed done some dog face-lifting in the mural since Spots beady eyes almost met over his long knife-edged nose. Shed softened the gray that streaked his dark, shaggy coat, too, so he didnt look so much like a very small, mutant wolf.

You have to sign it again, Clarissa said. Sign it up at the top. Bigger.

No, Tilda said. Everyone will see it because theyll be comparing Spot to the painting. People always do that, look at the dog and then look at the painting-

No they wont, Clarissa said, triumphant. He goes back to the pound today.

Youre taking your dog to the pound? At Tildas feet, Spot pressed against her, shedding on her jeans.

Hes not my dog, Clarissa said. You always put dogs in your murals-

No I dont, Tilda said.

-it said so in the magazine, so I had to have one, too, or people wouldnt think it was a real Matilda Veronica, so I went and got the only purebred they had.

Spots a purebred?

Silver dapple, longhaired dachshund, Clarissa said. Hell be fine back at the pound. Hes used to it. Im the third person whos adopted him.

Tilda pulled out her inhaler and inhaled.

It made sense when she thought about it. Clarissa was exactly the kind of woman whod go to Rent-A-Dog and get a designer second for fake warmth in her faux Post-impressionist wall painting. Spot looked up at her now, shaking, almost as pathetic as he was ugly.

I am not going to rescue you, Tilda thought, capping her inhaler. I cant save everybody, Im asthmatic, and I dont want a dog, especially not one who acts like he snorts coke and looks like he rolls in it.

Sign it again up here, Clarissa said. Ill get you a Sharpie.

No, Tilda said. I signed it. Its done. And Ill take the completion check now, thank you.

Well, I dont know, that signature- Clarissa began, and Tilda pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and turned steely eyes on her. Clarissa nodded. Ill go get that check, then.

Left alone with Spot -a hell of a name for a dog that had none- Tilda tried to think of something besides the pound. There was the mural, another success, another chunk of money off the family debt, another two weeks painted from her life by ripping off art history-

Her cell phone rang and cut short her stab at optimism. Tilda flipped open the cover. Hell-o.

Tilda, her mother said, we have a problem.

Really, Tilda said, staring at the sunflowers. Whod have guessed?

Its bad, Gwen said, and Tilda stopped, taken aback by the seriousness in her mothers voice. Gwennie did muffins and Double-Crostics, not serious.

Okay, so whatever it is, well fix it. She looked down at the dog again, and he gazed back at her, desperation in his eyes. What is it?

Nadine sold a Scarlet.

Tilda jerked her head up as her stomach cramped. In the background on the phone, she heard her sixteen-year-old niece say, I still dont get what I did wrong, and she went cold all over.

There arent any Scarlets. Tilda tried to draw a deep breath while not throwing up. Dad sold them all.

Not the first one, Gwen said. Remember? He couldnt because it was of our building. Nadine found it in the basement. And the woman who bought it wont give it back. I asked.

Clarissa came back with the check and Tilda took it. Thank you, she said to Clarissa and then spoke into the phone. Ask again.

I tried. She hung up on me and I called again and Mason Phipps answered. Shes staying with him. Gwens voice grew slower. Mason was an old friend of your fathers. Hes the one who told her about Scarlet and the gallery. And he invited me to dinner tonight.

Oh, good. One of us will have a hearty meal.

So I thought Id go and distract them and you could sneak in and steal it, Gwen said. And then we can bury it in the basement again.

Tilda turned away from Clarissa and whispered into the phone. You do realize you dont get muffins in prison? She tried again for a deep breath, fighting back the nausea. And when we get it back, were burning it. If Id known it was down th-

Something wrong? Clarissa said from behind her.

No, Tilda said to her. Everything is peachy. She spoke into the phone. Im coming home. Ill be there in four hours. Do not do anything until I get there.

We never do, Gwen said and hung up.

I certainly hope everythings okay, Clarissa said, looking avid.

Everything is always okay, Tilda said bitterly. Thats what I do. I make everything okay. She stuffed the check in her shirt pocket and looked down at Spot, trembling on her foot. Which is why Im taking your dog.

What? Clarissa said, but Tilda had already scooped Spot up, his long body drooping over her arm while his feet tried for purchase on her hip.

Just saving you a trip to the pound, Tilda said. Have a lovely day.

She carted her paint box and the dog out to her beat-up yellow van, simmering with exasperation and another emotion she didnt quite recognize but thought might be fear. It put an acrid taste in her mouth, and she didnt like it. Once on the passenger seat, Spot simmered, too. Oh, calm down, she said to him, as she put the van in gear. Anythings better than jail. Spot looked at her strangely. The pound. I meant the pound. She talked to him all the way home, and by the time she pulled into the fenced lot behind the Goodnight Gallery, Spot was asleep and she was calmer. When she shut off the motor, he jerked awake, his eyes like marbles, and she carried him, now heaving with anxiety, into the shabby gallery office and deposited him on the floor in front of her mother and niece, both of them looking blonde and blue-eyed and cute.