Painted Blind Part 1

Painted Blind.

by Mich.e.l.le A. Hansen.

For Nathan.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind."

-William Shakespeare.

Prologue.

It was always a bad sign when his mother arrived before breakfast. The horses were in the courtyard. She hated waiting, so the young man slowly poured himself a gla.s.s of orange juice and cut another slice of warm cinnamon bread.

He existed; that was enough to anger her. She could rage all she wanted. He didn't really care. When the gla.s.s was empty, he dragged himself off the stool and adjusted his sash. Before leaving the kitchen he set his shoulders back and made his expression pleasant.

His gait was confident. Most would say he inherited his mother's pride along with her beauty, but the young man disagreed. His character was molded by humble hands not of his blood, and he was forever indebted. "Mother, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

The sun glistened into a halo on his mother's hair as she took him by the shoulders and kissed his cheek. If only she were as angelic as her face. "I don't need a reason to visit." But she always had one. She'd traveled without maids. A personal matter. Only her bodyguard, Theron, stood beside her.

Theron was not welcome here, and she knew it. He was closer to the young man's age than her own, and that was the least of his flaws. His greater crimes were known by all and spoken of by no one.

The mother sank onto a pillowed chair in the parlor. There was no need for pretended niceties. "Have you seen this?" She motioned to Theron, who pulled from his cloak a fashion magazine made by mortals. He offered it to the young man open to a dog-eared page.

The spread was a modern take on a familiar scene, and the girl on the page was stunning, even to immortal eyes. "It's just an advertis.e.m.e.nt," he said.

His mother's expression went hard. "It's an insult." She smoothed a lock of hair from her face. "I want you to avenge me."

"Me?" He glanced at Theron, confused. Dirty errands were her lover's specialty. The young man wanted no part of it.

"I went to see her, but she was gone," Theron replied, clearly disappointed.

The son looked at the photo again and tried to stifle the shudder in his chest. This mortal girl had no idea how lucky she was-how close she'd come to living her worst nightmares. Other mortals had not been so fortunate.

Theron offered him a card. There was a name and address printed on it. Now he understood why they were here. He owed his mother nothing. "And if I don't?"

"I'll send Theron to deal with it." She threw an affectionate glance at her bodyguard, who grinned.

"Not in my kingdom."

His mother stood. "She's mortal. Technically, it's not your..." She broke off when her son's fists balled and his shoulders tightened. He was hot-blooded, and it pleased her. That made him even angrier, so he sighed and stood expressionless as she drew nearer. "You'll do as I ask," she whispered.

He had no legal recourse when it came to mortals, and he wouldn't allow the girl to be brutalized. "What do you want me to do? Dust her?" He laughed. Really, it was ridiculous. All of this over a stupid photograph.

"I want you to dispose of her to the most despicable creature you can find."

Ironic choice of words. The most despicable creature alive was standing right in front of him holding his mother's cloak. "Fine." His mother waited until he muttered, "Yes, I'll do it," through gritted teeth. It took great will for him to offer, "Will you stay and dine?" as the cook entered with a tray for the guests.

"Thank you, but no." As soon as she got what she wanted, his mother retreated quickly. "Before the next moon, or we'll deal with it ourselves."

He didn't see them out. When they were gone, he showed the advertis.e.m.e.nt to the cook. "Local girl. Familiar name, too."

"Are you going to do it?" Her expression tossed a dagger of guilt into his heart, but he nodded.

The alternative was worse.

Chapter 1.

I swore my dad would never find out about those photos, but I felt kinda sick facing him.

He was waiting for me in baggage claim, just past the giant bronze grizzly meant as a welcome to Bozeman, Montana. Dad was clean shaven, and across his forehead was a light streak where he usually wore a baseball cap. This time of year, his skin was always deep brown. After unloading the bag from my shoulder, he hugged me with his other arm.

I hugged back hard, unwilling to say how much I'd missed him. I pulled away feeling stupid as the alarm blared and bags slid from under the segmented plastic curtain.

Evening sun slanted through the skylights and threw a blinding rectangle on the wall. Outside the air smelled of smoke, and the eerie pink haze of fire season marred an otherwise cloudless sky. As we crossed the parking lot, Dad said, "How does a fresh rib-eye sound?"

"With your signature barbecue sauce?" Heavenly. "I've been dying for a good steak."

"I can tell." He lifted my suitcases into the bed of a diesel pickup that carried the words "Middleton Concrete Contracting" on the door.

"C'mon, Dad. It's only seven pounds, and I'll probably put them back on tonight."

He grumbled, "Let's hope so," and climbed into the driver's seat.

As we traveled the familiar streets, the threads of anxiety knotted in my chest finally started to unravel. Half a mile past the hospital was a giant Quaking Aspen, the landmark of our street. I'd never been so glad to see the weathered gray paint on our house.

After hauling my luggage upstairs, I settled into a chair on the deck while Dad lit the barbecue. Of all the things I missed while I was away, his cooking topped the list.

He began with the obligatory first question, "How's Jill?" He never called her my mother anymore.

"Fine." I wanted to avoid the subject as much as he. There were things I didn't tell him in my emails. Jill's sudden absence was one of them.

She called last spring and said her friend had a job for me. The modeling agency offered to pay my airfare to and from Italy as well as my living expenses. Dad was dead set against me modeling, but Jill said, "Oh, Psyche. At the very least it's our chance to see Europe for free." I was naive enough to believe "our" meant she was staying. With visions of us strolling through Rome, I agreed to the job, a decision I regretted more than he could know.

"How's business?" I poured two gla.s.ses of lemonade and handed one to Dad.

He leaned against the deck railing and took a sip before answering. "I had to turn down a contract for fifty condominiums."

"For what?"

"A mini mall." Though he worked manual labor, my dad had a good head for business. We lived modestly, but it was more a choice on Dad's part than a necessity.

"Nice." The mall contract would pay nearly twice that of the condos.

Dad poked at the sizzling steaks, then moved them aside to put down foil and saute fresh vegetables.

Somewhere down the block a lawnmower buzzed. On the breeze drifted the aroma of fire-grilled steaks and freshly cut gra.s.s. This was the summer I gave up to model abroad, and I wished I had come home sooner.

In the largest cottonwood tree an ancient tire swing drifted to and fro, a tribute to my spent childhood. Dad had gotten rid of the swing set and the outgrown bicycles, but the tire swing remained, its rope captive in branches that grew up with me.

My stomach grumbled when Dad set a steaming plate in front of me, even though I ate in Minneapolis and had a snack on the plane. Nothing in an airport compared to this. "I guess you won't have to borrow from my bank account." I knew he wouldn't do that, even if he was starving.

"No, I'm doing just fine." He settled into his chair and pa.s.sed me the barbecue sauce. "Speaking of your bank account... You kept the rules we set, right?"

It was just one rule: no nudity.

Dad's idea of nudity and my agent Blair's were a wide, rocky river apart. Technically, I had not done any nudity, but my ears burned when I thought of the shoot with the waist-length wig. I choked on my answer, "Yeah." Did he know somehow? Could he see it in my face? "Why?"

"Do you have any idea how much money is in your account?"

With all my expenses paid, I rarely touched the money and had the statements sent straight home to Dad. "No."

"Fifty-seven thousand dollars," he said slowly, like the numbers stuck on his tongue.

"No way." I knew Blair booked me as one of her premiere models, but I didn't know how much that meant per hour. I didn't shoot catalogs or soap commercials; I did designer advertis.e.m.e.nts and runway. That's why I had to lose seven pounds. For the runway they wanted twelve, but seven was all I could manage. "I guess college is paid for."

When he looked up, I saw the real question in his eyes: What did you have to do to make that kind of money? He didn't ask, but it hung there in the air between us.

I cut a big chunk of steak and chewed slowly. When I left three months ago, I vowed not to disappoint him. It was one advertis.e.m.e.nt. He didn't read fashion magazines. He would never see it. Still, I knew I'd let him down.

Dad's cell phone rang, a corny, country-music chime. "It's the guy who owns the mall. I should take this."

"Sure." I ate while he talked, and before he hung up, I fled to my room. There my luggage stood like soldiers guarding my secret summer.

No one but my parents knew I was in Europe. Even my best friend Savannah believed I spent the summer on my grandparents' farm in South Dakota. A box on my dresser helped maintain this story. Grandma Dee didn't understand why I was so fond of Mount Rushmore key chains and T-shirts, but she was happy to send them to me.

Since most of the clothes I brought home were dirty, unpacking was easy. I grabbed the heap and dumped it into the dirty clothes hamper. I was careful to bring home exactly what I took with me. The only exceptions were packed in plastic at the bottom of the largest suitcase: two designer dresses. One for homecoming and one for prom. Buying both had been wildly optimistic. I had never been asked to any dance ever. I took the dresses carefully by the hangers and slid everything aside to make a place for them at the back of the closet. If I hadn't worn them by next summer, I would sell them on eBay to someone who actually dated.

I was picking through my portfolio updates and postcard collection when Savannah texted me that she'd picked up my cla.s.s schedule and reserved our lockers side by side.

Get ready for the best year ever!

I didn't text back. Instead I piled the stuff into a box with my boarding pa.s.ses and other souvenirs from Europe. I stashed it on a shelf in the top of the closet before collapsing onto the bed. When I closed my eyes, stars spun behind my lids. I knew it was jetlag. Still, I slept in fits. I dreamed of Dad and Savannah in a room stacked with magazines and nowhere for me to hide from my lies.

Chapter 2.

I sat in my car as minutes blinked away on the digital clock. I didn't mean to be early, but Dad roused me for a pancake breakfast just after six to celebrate my senior year.

There was nothing to celebrate. I hated school. The learning and the homework and the grades were fine. Even the rules were okay with me, but going into a building with hundreds of my peers-that was torture.

The door facing the parking lot led to the senior hall. When the weather was warm, everyone hung out on the gra.s.s and the waist-high retaining wall that flanked the door. Perched right in the center of the wall was Travis McDowell, two-time state champion in the 100-meter b.u.t.terfly. Every summer he life-guarded at the city pool during the day and trained after the gates were closed. The pet.i.te blonde with her head against his shoulder was Savannah, unusually tan. From the looks of it, she spent a lot of time at the pool this summer. Anything beyond eight weeks was out of Savannah's usual guy cycle, but she and Travis had been dating since April.

The warning bell blared, and I grabbed my backpack with a groan. It was officially time to start a new school year. The crowd dispersed, but Savannah lingered at the wall.

"About time," she said when I approached. Travis held the door open for us, and she continued, "We were just talking about the Last Bash Carnival." We moved down the hall toward our lockers. "It's tomorrow night." There was a suspicious tone in her voice. The Last Bash was the Montana State University fraternities' tribute to the end of summer, and Travis's brother was a Kappa Sigma. "It's going to be so fun." She paused. This was the part I was dreading. "And this year, you are coming with us."

"Yeah, right," I replied.

Travis nodded at two boys coming our way. "I'm heading to cla.s.s." He kissed Savannah on the forehead.

She waited until he was down the hall before saying, "Hunter just dumped his girlfriend."

"And I care because...?"

"Oh, come on, Psyche."

"A Kappa Sig?" My dad would go into convulsions. He could barely handle me attending a co-ed high school.

By then we were in the middle of senior hall, which made it impossible to continue our conversation. Every two feet someone said h.e.l.lo to Savannah, and she went into full Homecoming Princess mode, greeting everyone with a smile and a compliment. Savannah thrived on attention and, therefore, loved school.

Savannah and I had only third hour Chemistry together. The rest of the day was a blur of slouching in back rows trying to be invisible. Last period I had second year drawing. Instead of giving out a course overview or reciting the rules, Mr. Mayhue handed us each a sixteen-by-twenty-inch sheet of drawing paper and a handful of pencils.

It was the first time all day I felt completely at ease. I sketched the art cla.s.sroom in perspective while sitting in the corner farthest from the door. I continued sketching after the bell rang. When the din in the hallway ceased, I handed in my sketch and went to my locker. Now the school was just the way I liked it-completely empty.

The parking lot was dotted here and there with cars. With a sigh I dropped my backpack onto the seat of my Subaru. One day down, a hundred seventy-nine to go, I thought as I pulled onto Main Street toward the bank to exchange the Euros I brought home from Italy.

Traffic was painfully slow. Friday would mark the beginning of Labor Day weekend, then a break in the tourist season until snow fell thick enough for skiers. This week the sidewalks bulged with shoppers, and not one parking s.p.a.ce emptied as I inched east between the brick buildings of old downtown. I parked behind the bank then walked along the side street toward the front. I rounded the corner and froze.

A new billboard stood at the end of the block. The perfume ad was a look-alike of Botticelli's Birth of Venus, and there in the center, beneath a waist-length wig, was me. Stark. Freaking. Naked. On Main Street. I choked on my breath. That one mistake, the one photo I swore my dad would never see was right there.

The photo didn't show how my eyelid twitched or that my armpits were dripping sweat. It didn't show the excruciating pain in my chest that made my arm numb. No, my face and body were dusted with gold, and my fearful expression looked half innocent, half seductive. A scream of panic pushed at my ears. My dad would see it. Every guy in town would see it. Savannah would see it, too.

My lunch jumped into my throat. I stumbled to a trash can and hurled.

Thunder cracked overhead. I looked up and that's when I saw the guy down the sidewalk staring up at the billboard, hands on his hips. He spun around shaking his head, but he stopped when he saw me. Even from a distance, he was dazzling. I felt his gaze like a punch in the chest that struck suddenly and sent my pulse screaming. His eyes narrowed, and in that momentary glance, he looked past the ratty jeans and oversized T-shirt. He saw Venus, and it made him clamp his jaw tight and glare. Rain pelted the sidewalk between us, but I couldn't pull myself away until he turned and disappeared around the corner.

Absently I walked into the bank, unable to free my mind from the angry set of his jaw. I set an envelope of Euros on the counter and saw surprise in the teller's eyes when she looked at my face. She made a quick glance out the window and back to me again.

"It's not me." My voice was unconvincing. I studied the dark spots made by the rain on my shoes. I didn't hear her reply. My mind saw only the guy who hated me without even knowing my name.