Faeling

By late afternoon, Merritt had managed to organize an entire art show all by himself. In a month, Oz’s work would be displayed in Daedalus for the world to see. Something about the idea of helping her get ahead in the art world made Merritt feel better about his plans for her. He would keep close in touch with her over the coming weeks—help her prepare for the evening, get to know her—and hopefully the night of the exhibition he would win her.

The idea of finally realizing his own fate made him feel both vaguely sick and immensely powerful. It was sort of intoxicating.

Merritt had already contacted Janna and told her about the show—that he already had investors and critics at his disposal. On the phone she had sounded like she was trying to be unenthused about the prospects. She knew as well as Merritt that this could be a huge step in Oz’s career—she also knew his plans, however, and did not approve. She did tell Merritt, in an odd show of helpfulness, that she felt the show would go well—but that other things may not. Janna confided in him that she had a general feeling that something was going wrong... Something maybe having to do with Merritt and Oz... Something big. Merritt knew that Janna had the gift of foresight—not that anyone who had inklings ever saw anything specific or terribly useful. Either way, he took her vague warning to heart. He did not tell her about what he had seen or suspected about Rhiannon.

Frankly, Merritt still wasn’t certain that anyone had to know. He knew that as a younger man he had used his skills in ways that the Council wouldn’t exactly approve of—especially when his emotions were high. Once he had inadvertently started a fight in school because he was arguing with Theo and didn’t realize he was pushing the emotions of those around him. Granted, he had been thirteen and he hadn’t burned down any buildings.

He tried his best to push all of that from his mind—he would make a decision, but it wouldn’t be today. Today he was going to see Oz. Merritt reached into his jacket pocket to where he had hidden Oz’s business card as he was dressing. He showed the small purple card a brief smile before punching the numbers on it into his Blackberry. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding out of breath.

“Hello, hello? I’m here,” she panted.

“Hello, Ms. Dannel, this is Merritt Peters.” He let himself grin now, the charm oozing into his voice.

There was a brief pause and some shuffling and perhaps even a muttered curse. “I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of painting and almost knocked about six gallons of paint onto the floor. Who did you say this was?”

He fought a sigh. “This is Merritt Peters. We met the other day at Damn Fine. I spoke to you about the possibility of your work making it into a show at my gallery.”

“Oh! Yes, I am so sorry! Of course I remember you. I’m sorry. I just get a little caught up sometimes. How can I help you?” He could practically hear the blush spreading across her pale skin. He was surprised, yet again, that she managed to keep herself from calling him ‘sir’.

“I had a meeting cancelled from four to six and I was hoping that you might have time in your schedule to allow me to see some of your work—aside from your sketchbook. I can’t exactly accept your art into my gallery having only seen sketches and doodles.” She didn’t need to know that he already had a week-long exhibition set up with her name on it any more than she needed to know that there never had been any meeting.

“Four to six?” She wondered aloud, sounding concerned. “It’s three forty-five right now...”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of the time, Ms. Dannel,” he assured her in clipped tones. “Do you have time for this opportunity or not? There are plenty of other young, undiscovered artists who would be clamoring for this chance, you know. If you are not interested, please tell me now so we don’t waste any of each other’s time.” He finished with a smile on his face but let none of it come through in his voice. Merritt was a near-perfect actor.

“Yes, of course I have the time. Please give me a chance, Mr. Peters.” She sounded desperate but the note of conviction and strength in her voice surprised Merritt.

“Please call me Merritt,” he said in return.

“And I’m Oz,” she replied.

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, Oz.”

-----

At three fifty-eight Merritt was standing on the steps of a white two-family home with one black door and one green. According to Janna—whom he had contacted for Oz’s address—the green one was the one he wanted. Merritt rapped smartly on the wood and stepped back to wait. He heard another vague curse word from the depths of the house. A long moment later the door whipped open to reveal a flustered-looking Oz. Not that unflustered she looks much better, Merritt thought quietly before getting distracted by the décor. The home was filled with paintings and sculptures and bric-a-brac—all of it strangely beautiful. There were slowly revolving golden mobiles and wildly colored paintings and bizarrely shaped vases with dried flowers. She hadn’t been lying, however, about hardly being able to walk through the place. While Merritt was stopping to admire the artwork—not all of it made by Oz—she was apologizing profusely for the state of her apartment and herself and anything else she could think of.

“Is this Arturo De Luca?” He asked suddenly, interrupting her apology as he peered at the framed piece on her wall.

She looked at him, taken aback. “Yes, it’s just a print, but...” She trailed off, clearly amazed that he recognized it.

He raised an eyebrow at her, his sea-green eyes locking on her hazel ones. “I do co-own an art gallery, Oz.”

She simply smiled, blushed, and then seemed to forget that she was ashamed of the mess in her house or the fact that she was wearing paint-stained jeans that looked almost identical to the ones she had been wearing the first time they met. Suddenly she was confident in herself and ready for him to see her work.

Oz led Merritt through the cramped corridors to the kitchen, which was sparkling clean. He stood on the threshold and very nearly let his mouth drop open. It was a whole different world.

He must not have kept his face as blank as he meant to because she gestured to the small table by the refrigerator with a quiet laugh and said, “I know. It’s the only neat room in the whole place. I figured that might make it a good place for you to sit so I can show you a few paintings.” She paused. “Without either of us tripping over them.”

He gave her a heart-melting smile and sat graciously in the proffered seat. “Let the show begin!”

-----

What had started as an at-home art show had turned into a two-hour discussion about art and academics and the nature of things. They had looked at dozens of Oz’s paintings—even a few sculptures and photographs—but conversation had simply flowed so well between then that Oz had made (bad) coffee and they were both now sitting at her tiny kitchen table, talking like old friends.

Oz was still almost painfully polite but somewhere in there was a definite kick of sarcasm and righteous wit. Merritt surprised himself by actually enjoying her company. Though he would never admit it, there was a strange appeal to Oz—she wasn’t beautiful, but her honesty caught his attention and when she spoke her hazel eyes sparked with green fire and she gestured passionately with her exquisite slender hands. He found himself beginning to understand Janna Mason’s absolute devotion to this girl. Oz would never be beautiful or elegant or even charming in the way he was used to—but there was a definite allure to her. She was so real, and Merritt had so rarely come across that quality as abundantly in a single person.

They were discussing Van Gogh and his view of the natural world when Merritt happened to glance at his watch—seven thirteen.

“It’s seven thirteen,” he said blankly, almost in disbelief. He had been with Oz for over three hours.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry! Have I made you late?” She looked aghast.

He shook his head and threw her another knee-weakening smile that seemed to do nothing to her. “No, no, but I do have a dinner meeting in half an hour—don’t worry, it’s in town.”

She stood up and held out her hand, “Well, it was so nice to see you again, Merritt. I’m sorry to have kept you so long, though I did enjoy the conversation.”

“As did I,” Merritt assured her as he shook her hand and received a smile. “I will absolutely be contacting you in the near future about putting your work in my gallery.”

She sputtered, her hand still firmly clasped in his. “Thank you!” She finally spit the words out, blushing madly the whole time.

Another charming grin spread across his lips to no avail. “May I ask you a favor, however?”

“Yes, of course!”

He pulled her a bit closer by her hand and stage-whispered conspiratorially, “I have been wondering all night what it was you were painting when I phoned you.” Her face went redder, if possible. He immediately tried to probe her insecurities, wondering what could garner such a reaction—before realizing once again that he couldn’t.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

“What is it?” He asked, letting a playful tone come into his voice. “It couldn’t be that bad, could it?” He smiled at her reassuringly.

“No, it came out rather well,” she replied hesitantly, missing his joke entirely. “It’s just...” She met his eyes for a moment before looking away. He couldn’t see a damn thing in their hazel depths. Instead he raised his brows, inviting her to continue. “Well, I’m sure you noticed that I paint and draw a lot of portraits...” He nodded affirmation. Probably a good sixty percent of her work was portraits. “It’s just that sometimes I paint people I saw on the train or who I see as extras in films or...” She trailed off again, sighed, and held up a finger telling him to wait.

She came back to the kitchen holding a canvas in front of herself. “It’s not done, and it’s still wet but... Just don’t think I’m weird.”

Before he could issue a confounded reply, Oz turned the canvas. It was a perfect portrait of himself.