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FRANCO and ELIZABETH: PORTRAITS
by Tessaray
CHAPTER ONE
Elizabeth stands awkwardly in Franco's studio, adjusting to an atmosphere that's so very… Franco. Colorful, peculiar, overwhelming, with hard edges, dark corners and just enough mystery to keep her off balance.
He'd all but dragged her here from a lunch at the Floating Rib that had turned… emotional. And now he's noisily digging around in a big metal shelving unit, engaged in a monologue on the topic of art-supply storage through the ages. She tries to listen, but it feels so strange to be standing here in broad daylight...
It's her first visit since their doomed date, since he was hauled off on murder charges and subsequently cleared with her help, since she worked up the courage to tell him about her past, since their first kiss and second and third... and drama after drama that has somehow embedded him so deeply in her life that she can't imagine it without him anymore — not having him to lean on, laugh with, help her make sense of her chaos…
Franco. Of all people.
Never in a million years would she have thought—
A cocktail of scent grabs her attention — linseed oil, turpentine, Dammar varnish — oil painting solvents. She hadn't noticed the smell during their date. Maybe it had been masked by her nervousness, or by wine and candles, or the oils he'd cooked with. No matter. It's surrounding her now, a potent trigger that threatens to sweep her away into memories...
"Toulouse-Lautrec!" Franco cries, startling her. He's bent over a table with his back to her, and she hears a strange, rhythmic tapping. "He had this bizarre habit — oh, you'll love this, stop me if you've heard it…"
She wants to focus, knows the anecdote will be odd and entertaining, like everything he says, but her mind spins her back to their lunch conversation and the nagging feeling that she'd revealed too much to him again.
He'd asked her a simple, very personal question: What had been the hardest thing to lose in the explosion that had reduced her home to rubble? She'd paused, could have answered with something obvious and true — the boys' artwork, of course, or their baby teeth, or the heirloom Christmas ornaments passed down from Gram's mother — but those things weren't what first sprang to her mind. And anyway, she knew that Franco wouldn't be interested in an itemized list... he'd want to go deeper.
And after everything he'd done for her, she'd been willing to oblige.
So honestly, and a little sheepishly, she'd admitted that the hardest thing to lose was the big, rotting cardboard box with the peeling duct tape that had lived in a corner of her attic. She'd lugged it up there herself and hadn't opened it in years... but she described the box and the old art supplies inside: the stubby pencils and oil colors dried to concrete in their tubes, brushes stiff with poorly-removed paint, yellowed sketchpads filled with things real and imagined... all pretty much useless, but they'd been hers — the person she'd once been, or at least had imagined herself to be, and maybe could be again... if she could only find the time or the space or the peace and quiet…
As long as that box existed, so did potential... and the loss of those old, useless things felt as final as a death. But it's okay, she told Franco and herself. She's a mother. She's a nurse. She has an identity in this world, and it's a good one, and it's enough…
He'd watched her eyes, listened quietly to her halting rationalizations, but he hadn't let her stop there. He'd pushed at the subtle bruise in her voice until she told him what she'd had no intention of telling him — that the real reason the box had meant so much was that it had contained an unfinished portrait, carefully wrapped in craft paper, now blown to smithereens.
A portrait of Emily.
Elizabeth can remember the day she'd made it so vividly... her very first portrait, with Emily, her best friend, as the guinea pig. As Elizabeth had dragged a big wingback chair around her old studio looking for the best light, they'd chattered and giggled about Nikolas and Lucky, about dreams and adventures in a future so vast and exciting they could hardly wait to get there. But when they'd finally settled down to work, it had been oddly awkward as they each took on new, unfamiliar roles — Elizabeth, the observer behind her easel... and Emily, the observed, perched stiffly in the chair, bathed in cool northern light. But gradually they'd relaxed and drifted into a shared, affectionate silence that grew to feel almost sacred, everything fading away but color and form and the soft light on Emily's face. Elizabeth had lost herself then, in the delicate features taking shape on the canvas, in the challenge of capturing more than a simple likeness... but an essence informed by years of friendship and love...
Too soon they'd had to stop and get on with other things, but there would be time to finish the portrait. There would always be more time... until there wasn't. But unfinished or not, what came out of that afternoon was a precious, intimate moment of connection captured in brushwork and oils. And now it's gone… just like Emily, just like Nikolas, and that innocent time, those naive dreams…
She'd told Franco all this, but kept her distance from it, spoke offhandedly like it was no big deal, apologized for sounding so pretentious — captured in brushwork and oils, oh please — and it was only when she noticed how pale and stricken he looked that the depth of the loss hit her.
"That's a goddamned tragedy," he'd said.
"It was just a painting. No one was hurt in the explosion. That's the important thing," she'd responded quietly, reasonably, the way a good mother/nurse/grownup should… even as she'd turned away from him with tears in her eyes.
"You were hurt," he'd said, and laid a gentle, tentative hand on her arm… and the tears had come then, in a flood. He'd made her cry, dammit — he always seems to make her feel more than she thinks she's ready for — and he'd let her cry until she was done, until she felt it might be possible to heal wounds she hadn't even known she still carried. Then he'd dropped money on the table and abruptly stood up.
"You're coming with me."
#
Elizabeth covers her ears against a shocking screech as Franco drags a heavy wooden easel across the concrete floor to the middle of the room. He positions it next to one that's already set up and moves to a table against the wall, piled high with what looks like garbage. He clicks on a stand-light, shifts it, plays with shadows…
"So yesterday I set up this still life," he says excitedly. "Found objects… this kind of urban-decay thing I've been exploring…"
"You've been dumpster diving?"
He stops at her tone, looks down at the pile.
"You hate it."
"No, no, it's your project, do what you want..."
But he comes back to her with a mischievous smile, angles the fresh easel slightly, checks the line of sight. "You're right-handed, right? So you'll look to your left."
She gapes at him. "Me? Franco, no, I—,"
"—Here." He produces a fresh canvas from nowhere and props it on the easel. "Next time you can prep your own. I obviously didn't have time to gesso it, but you can work on raw canvas and pretend you're an Abstract Expressionist!"
"You… did you just stretch this… for me? Is that what you were doing?"
"Sure. What did you think?"
"Franco, that's… thank you, but I'm… I'm not dressed for painting," she stammers, looking helplessly down at her skirt. "I don't have—,"
He thrusts a handful of blue fabric at her. "Here's an old shirt. You'll be fine. You might want to lose the heels."
She stands there dumbfounded. As usual, he's rushing in without consulting her, wanting so much to fix things, assuming he knows best… making her feel bulldozed.
She lays a firm hand on his arm. "Franco, this is ridiculous. I can't up and start painting again, just like that."
"Yeah. You can. You really can," he says in that irksome, imperious tone... the one he uses when she's doubting herself. He pulls a folded blanket from a shelf and drops it in front of her easel. She knows that he means for her to stand on it instead of the cold concrete floor... taking care of her, as usual.
Hesitantly, with petulant little grumbles, she pulls on and buttons the shirt that smells vaguely, comfortingly, like him. It's a soft, nearly threadbare denim, covered with clumps of dried paint, and so huge it falls halfway down her thighs... giving the impression, she realizes, that she's got nothing on underneath. His eyes scan her appreciatively, linger a bit too long on her legs... but she lets him look, tosses her head, rolls up the sleeves five turns, steps out of her shoes and onto the blanket… and suddenly she feels incredibly short next to him — tiny, fragile… vulnerable.
It's one of those increasingly rare, unwelcome moments when who Franco was — his violence and cruelty, the anguish he'd inflicted — comes rushing back to her in a hot wave of revulsion.
Aiden, Jake, Cam...
She snaps to her reflexive mental inventory of the boys, needs to see each one in turn in her mind's eye — where they are, what they're doing — before she can relax, reassured that they're safe. But she can never relax completely; there's always pressure in her chest, a low hum of anxiety that says they're never safe never safe… and this man is partially responsible for that…
She sways, swallows down the remnants of ancient hate, reminds herself forcefully, as she has a thousand times, that this man is not that man. This man has been nothing but kind and supportive — an honest, unwavering friend when everyone else had turned their back on her after the Jake/Jason debacle. He may be presumptuous, inappropriate and socially awkward, a bit emotionally immature, but she understands — he's still getting used to life without the dark, twisted filter of his brain tumor, and he's got some catching up to do. If she's honest, it's a privilege to be invited along on his journey, to witness his struggle to be whole. Plus, he makes her laugh. He makes her feel not alone… and, as Jake has pointed out, he makes her happy.
She trusts him. She does.
Mostly.
She leans over, fumbles with the mast adjustment on the easel, but it's too tight. He loosens it, moves the shelf down until it's the right height for her, and smiles at her fondly, his light eyes sparkling with excitement. She smiles back, tension easing…
"Just like riding a bike," he says. "Oh!" He pivots suddenly, long hair sweeping his shoulders, and disappears into the corner, starts banging and rummaging. "I've been saving these for a special occasion," comes his muted voice. He reappears, and like a gambler with a royal flush, he presents to her a handful of beautiful, brand new paint brushes, with bristles the color of—
"Sable," he says. "Yours forever, to replace those crusty, blown-up brushes of yore."
"No… no, Franco, I know that brand. They cost a fortune."
"I got them when I had a fortune. We're only as good as our materials, you know. Go on."
She reaches out hesitantly, like he's offering her gold... she used to dream of owning these very brushes. She takes one, weighs the balance, strokes the belly over her open palm, tests the tip against her forefinger. He's watching her so intently that she feels a blush rise.
"On one condition," she says.
He lifts a brow.
"I only use them here."
He gives her a stunned look, laced with wonder and gratitude.
"Deal," he says softly.
##
Elizabeth stands awkwardly for the second time that day, not quite remembering how to prep the materials Franco has laid out on the utility table next to her easel. There was a time she could have done this in her sleep, but now her muscle memory lies in packing lunches and inserting IV needles. So she watches him do what he's done thousands of times, admiring his practiced ease as he selects tubes of oil paint from an ancient wooden box and squeezes dabs onto his varnished, well-worn palette. The colors are so pure and vivid that their names appear in her mind like the names of beloved old friends: Cerulean Blue, Burnt Umber, Cadmium Red, Yellow Ochre…
With large, graceful hands he carefully wipes the mouth of each tube with a clean rag before recapping it, rolling the bottom up like a tube of toothpaste and replacing it in its proper slot in his paintbox. So ritualistic, so reverent... so unlike Elizabeth, who used to toss things around, leave tubes uncapped and neglected in her eagerness to get to the actual work. But watching him and his focused care, a word pops into her mind that makes her pulse quicken…
Foreplay...
A picture flashes — of those hands on her body, seeing to her needs with that same patient skill...
She swallows, drops her eyes, busies herself with prepping her palette as he's doing. He glances over and slows down, becomes more methodical in laying out his colors, filling dented tin cups with his special solvents, arranging his materials for ease of access and selecting his clean, well-tended brushes from a coffee can. He mixes a pile of neutral gray, then, without waiting for her, he attacks his canvas with sure strokes. She appreciates that he's not explaining things, not treating her like a novice, is giving her space and respect…
He's well into his block-in when he stops and glances over at the few noncommittal marks she's made on her canvas.
"You're not feeling this, are you?"
"It's… it's garbage, Franco."
"Give yourself time, Elizabeth, you'll — oh, you mean the still life?"
She's eyeing the contents of the table with distaste. "What's in there, exactly?"
"It's… oh, what's in there...," he vaguely waves his brush. "You know... urban detritus, discarded bric-a-brac, this and that…"
"It's… don't you smell that? And what is that thing… is that a prosthetic leg?"
He sets his palette down on the table beside him and scratches his head. "Yeah, you're right. First time back in the saddle, you want something inspiring, don't you. Something beautiful."
She wrinkles her nose. "Just something less—"
"—Bio-hazard-y. I get it. Less vermin magnet-y. Tell you what... I'll dismantle this and you can—,"
"—No. Franco, no, keep it. You were getting into it, you should keep working." She sets down her own palette with a frown, starts to unbutton the soft blue smock. "I'm not really up for this today, anyway. I think I'll—"
And then he's in front of her, eyes wide, his hands wrapping around hers.
"You don't have to go," he says a bit breathlessly. "You said we had all afternoon."
She suddenly feels old, worn out. And so disappointed.
"What's going on, Elizabeth?"
"It's just… Franco, I appreciate everything you're trying to do here. I do. It's all just so… foreign. It's not me anymore, you know?"
"Okay." He takes her elbow, leads her over to the small kitchen table and guides her into a chair. "Okay. I get it. I pressured you. I did. I basically dragged you here. But there's no goal, Elizabeth. No right or wrong. This is just about getting your feet wet again. I know you want it to be the way it was… easy, comfortable, like pulling on an old pair of jeans, but—"
"—That don't fit anymore…"
"But maybe that's good!" he says, squatting before her, soft, concerned eyes level with hers. "Maybe they're out of style now, anyway. You don't want to be walking around in acid washed denim or, God forbid, mom jeans, do you? Maybe there are different jeans out there for you, way cooler jeans, with awesome stains and strategic slashes… and all I'm saying, Elizabeth, is that if you quit, you'll never know what kind of jeans are the perfect fit for you now."
"Is this your idea of a pep talk?"
"Yeah, like it?" he says with a lopsided smile. "Look, we've been at this for, what, fifteen minutes? Some days I can barely tie my shoes in fifteen minutes, so give yourself a chance. You don't dig that still life, we'll do something else, whatever you want. What do you say?"
She looks at his bright, earnest face and feels a slight stirring of excitement.
"Well... maybe if I ease into it. Do you have a pencil and paper?"
"Do I have a pencil! What kind of starving artist would I be without a pencil?!" He leaps up, dashes to a tall cabinet. She cringes at the hideous metallic squeal as he yanks open a drawer. He digs around, calling out... "I got your H family, your B family, their little bastard kid the HB, I got an F, whatever the hell that is, I got wood — yikes, that didn't come out right — I got mechanicals... and oh, I got charcoal! You want charcoal?"
And then he's pawing through a stack of drawing pads piled high on the metal shelf. "I got white, toned, cold-press, hot-press, rag, acid-free, you name it… shout out when you hear it..."
In spite of herself, Elizabeth giggles like a kid in a candy store.
To be continued...