(Un)Common Love

By T.R Whittier

       The Boston blueblood with a bohemian secret. The penniless punk-rock street performer who dreams of becoming a classically trained musician. The underprivileged up-and-coming fashion designer who spends every night working her day job. The political science student who is beginning to show more promise than anyone – especially himself – ever realized. The once-popular painter who rediscovers the rich palette of experiences that life has to offer. And the stuffy old historian who receives an unexpected blast of fresh air. 

       Where would such an uncommon assortment of strangers ever even meet, no less fall inconceivably, irrevocably in love? Why, Boston Common of course!

But can true love transcend the challenges that arise from the intersection of extreme wealth, desperate poverty, suppressed snobbery, and relentless schoolwork? A gorgeous bully and a scathing sex scandal don't make things much easier for this motley crew...

       And yet, it's undeniable.

       It's unbelievable.

       It's (Un)Common Love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WhittierSideBooks
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201539269

Book preview

ALSO BY T.R WHITTIER

The Buck Pass

Fat Ballet

Reflections

The Runner’s Last Ride

Chapter One

As usual, there wasn’t much life happening in the living room.

The place was dark, dreary, and depressing. Thick, inky blue velvet curtains obscured the elegant floor-to-ceiling length windows, ensconcing everything in shadow; a funereal hush hung heavily in the air, broken only by the antique grandfather clock in the corner that stood softly ticktocking the time away; several silk-covered couches went un-sat upon, having lost their occupants long ago. In the fireplace, the remnants of one blackened, anemic log lay pathetically amongst a pile of ash – all that was left of that last, long ago gathering. It was a room ruminating on yesterday. A room whose meaning had been mummified. A room that hadn’t been the heart of the home in so long, the heart had all but gone out of it. The living room, for all intents and purposes, was pretty much dead.

Except for the large, leather wingback armchair in front of the fireplace, however, which was making loud harrumphing noises and emitting great big billows of smoke.

Good afternoon, Father, said Eugenia cordially, as she stepped towards it.

Eh? Harrumph! Clearing his throat and taking several successive puffs from his pipe, Mr. Revere looked up from the thick book he had been perusing. Ah, good afternoon, my dear, he replied, offering her his cheek. And how was class today?

Obligingly, Eugenia gave him a light peck. "Really quite fascinating, actually. We had a whole lecture about the political symbolism and controversy behind Picasso’s Guernica."

Picasso? Harrumph! He’s one of that modern art lot, isn’t he?

Eugenia rolled her eyes. "Well, not all that modern, Father. He painted Guernica in nineteen thirty-seven."

Yes, well, replied Mr. Revere noncommittally, taking another puff of his pipe, that’s modern enough for me. I never could understand the appeal of all those cubes... Shaking his head uncomprehendingly, he crossed one corduroy-clad leg over the other. Give me a good old-fashioned portrait any day. Like that one, he added, smiling fondly at the huge, golden-framed oil painting that hung above the fireplace. "Now that’s art. Honestly, my dear, do you know how much the MFA has offered me for it? An absolutely outrageous amount. And for a painting!"

Well... Eugenia hesitated. It really ought to be in a museum, Father. And where better than the MFA? It is ‘The Museum of Fine Arts,’ after all.

Harrumph! Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! Mr. Revere puffed passionately on his pipe. They already have a perfectly good copy hanging up on the wall for the public to look at, haven’t they? What’s wrong with that?

Everything, insisted Eugenia. ‘The public,’ has no idea that they’re looking at a copy. They think they’re viewing the original. It’s a horrid deception, Father, absolutely horrid. And as a student of art history, it makes me feel positively ill. I mean, honestly, how many paintings proudly displayed in museums actually are authentic? For all we know, every single one of them could be a copy, and the originals are hanging above the mantelpieces of random people who have no right to them!

We have every right to this painting, Eugenia, said Mr. Revere sternly. "Indeed, we have more than a right, we have a birthright. He was our – Harrumph! – ancestor, and essentially, the founder of our family. His portrait belongs here, with us, not in some bourgeois picture gallery... Having that painting above our mantelpiece is the only way we have of honoring his memory."

Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous, Eugenia snapped irritably. This is Boston, you know, and we’re talking about Paul Revere! There’s the re-enactment of his famous Midnight Ride... Plenty of places named after him, including the street we live on... Not to mention the actual Paul Revere House Museum! Folding her arms across her chest, she smiled smugly. So, you can’t possibly argue that owning that painting is the only way we have of honoring his memory.

Harrumph! grunted Mr. Revere, taking another puff of his pipe and burying his head back in his book.

And speaking of bourgeois picture galleries... Eugenia went on tentatively.

With a resounding thud, the book fell to the floor. Undoubtedly, the pipe would have gone that way, too, if it hadn’t been secured between Mr. Revere’s tightly-clenched teeth.

Oh no, he groaned emphatically. Not that blasted gallery again.

Father, you haven’t been to check on things in months, protested Eugenia. ‘Again’ hardly comes into it. Whereas, I’ve been popping in every week or so.

Yes, well... Harrumph! It’s not exactly a sacrifice for you, is it? You actually enjoy venturing into that dinky little hole in the wall and looking at a load of rubbish. He puffed peevishly on his pipe. And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s the inevitable slew of so-called ‘artists’ who are forever hanging around the place, hoping to be ‘discovered.’ Art history is one thing, he went on, his face hardening. I mean, in art history, most of the artists are dead, and dead artists I can just about handle. But I draw the line at living artists, with their greasy hair, unkempt clothing, and terrible attempts at small talk.

You promised Mother you’d look after the gallery, Eugenia reminded him quietly. We both did.

Mr. Revere’s stony expression softened; the pipe between his lips shook slightly. Ah, your mother... She did love that place, didn’t she? God only knows why.

It was her passion, Father. Her pride and joy. She loved finding new talent and taking it by the hand. The gallery was her whole world, her whole life.

"It wasn’t a very long life though, was it?" he grumbled bitterly.

Gently, Eugenia placed a hand on his shoulder. Not long enough, she whispered ardently. Not nearly long enough. Bloody cancer...

Don’t swear, my dear, Mr. Revere admonished her. It’s so unattractive.

Eugenia sighed. Right, well, I’ll make a deal with you, then. I’ll stop swearing, if you spend more bloody time at the bloody gallery.

Alright, alright, I know when to – Harrumph! – admit defeat. I’ll go. But not today. I couldn’t possibly go today. One needs at least a week of preparation in order to face a gallery full of artists with fortitude.

Oh Father, really... Eugenia heaved yet another sigh of exasperation. Fine, I’ll go today. But not just yet. I need an hour or so to study for my Latin exam.

Ah, Latin! Mr. Revere exclaimed, sitting up straighter in his armchair. Now that’s more like it! That’s something worth studying. Enough of this ‘Art History’ malarkey... Per Angusta Ad Augusta!

Er... said Eugenia uncomfortably, struggling with the translation. Something about difficulties and honors?

Through difficulties to honors, her father corrected her with a frown. Tell me, my dear, is old Professor Phillips still teaching? He was my Latin professor when I was at Harvard, you know.

Um, no, Father. I’ve got Professor Delano. She’s about twenty-seven and positively bursting with enthusiasm about the beauty of Latin declensions.

Eh, what’s this? A – Harrumph! – female professor of Latin? Egads, times certainly have changed since I was at school... He took a pensive puff from his pipe. Well, at least you’ve got a good role model in her, my dear. Perhaps she’ll inspire you to make Latin your major.

Father... said Eugenia hesitantly, I think I ought to tell you... She took a deep breath. I’ve decided to major in Art History.

Ah. Several seconds of silence stretched out between them. Well, it’s only your – Harrumph! – freshman year, my dear, you might change your mind. But, if you don’t... He sighed heavily. Of course, I can’t say it’s come as a complete surprise. In the blood, I suppose, this obsession with art. Must’ve inherited it from your mother. He gave her a feeble smile.

Yes, breathed Eugenia, relaxing visibly. I suppose I must have.

I imagine I ought to be grateful, really, Mr. Revere went on thoughtfully. "I mean, at least Art History is somewhat respectable. It’s not as though you actually want to be an artist. He gave a great shudder, causing the billows of pipe smoke to waver wildly through the air. I mean to say, artists.... Egads! With their long-haired, free-love, hippy-dippy ways, bits of dried clay embedded beneath their fingernails, and paint permanently splattered across their clothing.... Harrumph! If my daughter wanted to be an artist, I... I don’t know what I’d do. Probably stick my head in that new oven Mrs. Bea insisted we buy and turn the gas up as high as it would go."

Oh Father, don’t be ridiculous, huffed Eugenia, turning on her heel and heading for the door. And besides, she called over her shoulder before leaving the lifeless living room, the new oven’s electric.

OUT IN THE ELEGANT foyer, Eugenia kicked off her brown suede boots and flung her tan trench coat onto the wrought iron coat rack. Not wanting to waste a moment, she raced up the gleaming mahogany staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Past the second floor, which was dominated almost entirely by her father’s extensive collection of documents, artifacts, maps, and literature related to the American Revolutionary War; past the third floor, which, when her mother was alive, had been used as a sort of sitting room-slash-offsite office for the art gallery... And which was now essentially abandoned. And with a final burst of speed, she emerged at the very top of the staircase, the fourth and final floor of the townhouse, which was her very own.

Eugenia’s room was enough to make most young women weep with envy. Actually, it wasn’t so much a room at all – more like an entire apartment. And an enormous, incredibly luxurious apartment at that. There was a spacious seating area, complete with several pale peach satin armchairs, a glass coffee table, and a cream-colored carpet thick and plush enough to lose one’s feet in; there was a wall-to-wall mirrored wonderland of a dressing room that rivaled the size and capacity of a well-stocked department store. There was an airy open-plan study containing an enormous antique wooden roll-top desk, a white baby grand piano (in case the mood for pounding out a rousing rendition of Chopsticks should come over her suddenly), and several shelves full of art books. Picasso, Matisse, Gauguin, Van Gogh... All her favorite masters, ready and waiting, only a few short steps from the bedroom.

The bedroom.

Eugenia’s bedroom looked as though it had been lifted straight from the pages of a fairy tale. It was, beyond a shadow of doubt, the bedroom of the proverbial princess. Rounded walls made it feel like the turret of a castle; a pair of large, white lace curtained windows invited sunlight to stream in and saturate their surroundings. A skirted vanity table, sporting an array of expensive cosmetics and a handmade boar bristle hairbrush, dominated one side of the room, while the other was entirely taken up by a stunning bathroom complete with marble-tiled floor, a Jacuzzi bathtub with gold-plated taps, and a sink the size of a swimming pool. And in the center of it all stood the pièce de résistance –an exquisite four-poster bed, upon which rested a heavenly white silk comforter embroidered with tiny, pink silk roses, and over which hung a lacy, white silk canopy.

It was straight towards this bed that Eugenia hurried, peeling off her cashmere sweater and Harris Tweed skirt on the way. But it wasn’t into the abundance of silk and sumptuousness that she dove, oh no. No, Eugenia, after stripping down to her custom-made bra and panties, dove under the bed, where she rummaged around like a madwoman, muttering not-quite-curses until her hands caught hold of a large, well worn, slightly stained, smelly cardboard box. With a grunt of effort she pulled the box towards her, extracting it from its hiding place, and tore open the flaps.

A bunch of junk stared back at her.

Well, it might have seemed like a bunch of junk, anyway. At first glance. To someone who wasn’t looking very closely. A second glance and a closer look, however, would turn out to be a real eye-opener.

Swiftly, Eugenia unpacked the incredibly paint-splattered bed sheet and oversized t-shirt that occupied the uppermost portion of the box; next came the assortment of small metal tubes, containing every color it had been possible to purchase from a small art supply store in Cambridge. A bountiful selection of brushes, in all shapes and sizes, followed. From beneath the brushes she unearthed her much-loved wooden palette, upon which she had mixed, blended, and smoothed paint samples for many a happy hour. And finally, from the very depths of the dilapidated box, came a very large, very heavy can of turpentine, which, despite reeking to high heaven, was highly necessary to the whole painting process.

After spreading the paint-splattered bed sheet over as much of the plush cream-colored carpet as she could, Eugenia pulled on the equally stained, oversized t-shirt and pinned up her pale blonde hair. She arranged the metal paint tubes, the brushes, her palette, and the foul-smelling can of turpentine around her in a haphazard semi-circle, and then tiptoed towards the vanity table. A quick fumble beneath its frilly skirt revealed a portable easel, which she snapped together in seconds and placed carefully in the middle of her artistic enclave. Sighing in satisfaction, Eugenia stood back to admire the scene. It was all there, all ready. All, that is, except for...

With the practiced ease of one who has performed the maneuver many a time, Eugenia planted one foot firmly onto the bed, grabbed hold of a tall, brass bed post, and hoisted herself upwards. Precariously, she balanced on the edge, toes sinking into the soft, silk comforter and heels hovering in the air as she felt along the top of the canopy with her free hand. After a few seconds searching she found something solid, and, sliding her open palm beneath it, eased it over the side. Holding her prize like a precious pizza box, she stepped down from the bed, walked purposefully towards the easel, and positioned it in the place of honor.

Tilting her head to one side, Eugenia contemplated the canvas. She was no Picasso, she knew that. How could she be, when she had never had an art lesson in her life? Sure, she had her fair share of natural talent; her early experiments with landscape and still life painting bore testimony to that. But it was The Abstract that intrigued her. The Modern. The Intense. The Surreal. That which existed in the outside world, but could only be seen by distorting one’s perception. By squinting one’s inner eye. And Eugenia’s inner eye, much to her chagrin, insisted upon staying wide open.

No matter how hard she tried, her artwork refused to be abstracted. Every random line, every distorted geometric shape that she put down on the canvas seemed to resemble something from the real world. Flowers, scenery, people... That was all Eugenia’s mind was capable of coming up with. The Ordinary. The Normal. The Boring. Perfect, PG-rated pictures of the sort that might be admired by relatives and purchased by little old ladies who wanted something pretty to hang in their front parlor – that was all Eugenia could produce.

But still, she soldiered on.

Pressing her lips into a thin line of determination, Eugenia willed herself to concentrate. To really look at the canvas, and not see anything there. Well, anything recognizable. Intently, she stared at the colors, the lines, and the shadows, willing them to speak to her, to shout out helpful hints, such as Make me darker! Bolder! Bigger! Distort me like this! Abstract me like that! Enhance me, and I will entrance you! But they remained stubbornly silent. And so, with a sigh, Eugenia picked up a paintbrush and buckled down to business.

For more than an hour she mixed and dabbed, shadowed and shaded, lined and underlined. She broke two brushes and maimed a third, used half the turpentine and then, accidentally, spilled the rest of it down the front of her shirt. She got paint absolutely everywhere – her hair, her face, even behind her ears. And when she finally felt she had done enough for the day, Eugenia stepped back from the canvas, subjected it to scrutiny, and saw that she had produced... Trees. And not some forest of wild, funky trees, fresh from the depths of her imagination. No, Eugenia had, somehow, in spite of all her attempts at The Abstract, managed to paint a perfectly realistic replica of the trees in Boston Common, which happened to be right down the street from her house. It was The Ordinary. Again.

Eugenia blinked.

That was all. Just a blink, and a very soft muttering of Bloody hell. Nothing else.

Somewhere inside her, there was a Eugenia who was frustrated. A Eugenia who felt and expressed her anger, her bitterness, and her resentment at failing. Deep, deep down, there was passion, and a passionate person who wanted to tear the canvas off its easel, fling it onto the floor, and jump up and down on it until The Ordinary was unrecognizable. That Eugenia was in there. Somewhere. But she never showed herself. In the depths of her soul a fire might have been blazing brightly, but by all outward appearances, Eugenia was The Ice Queen.

Calmly, she began clearing away all evidence of her artistic endeavors. The brushes were cleaned and dried; the tubes of paint were twisted closed. Along with the oversized t-shirt and bed sheet, everything was placed carefully back into the cardboard box and shoved beneath the bed. The easel was disassembled and stashed back beneath the vanity table’s frilly skirt. And the painting... That boring, ordinary painting, the product of a week’s work, was dropped callously into the wastepaper basket – just like dozens of paintings before it.

Chapter Two

F ather, I’m off to the gallery now! called a freshly scrubbed Eugenia from the foyer on the first floor. Standing in front of a large, ornate mirror that hung on the wall, she adjusted her green tartan plaid headband and arranged her facial features into an expression of innocence, trying her best not to look like someone with a secret.

Mr. Revere poked his head through the living room doorway. Swiftly, Eugenia thrust her hands behind her back.

No need to – Harrumph! – shout, my dear, he chided her, before taking another huge puff from his pipe. How long do you think you’ll be at that dratted place, then?

I have no idea, replied Eugenia, still keeping her hands concealed. At least an hour, I’d expect, depending on how much needs to be sorted out... Why, does it matter?

It’ll matter to young Jasper-Johns, if he comes sniffing around here while you’re out, he chuckled.

Eugenia shrugged. Ken knows where the gallery is... If he wants to see me, he’ll just have to walk over and find me.

Playing hard to – Harrumph! – get, eh? That’s right, my dear, you keep him on his toes... Men love that sort of thing.

"Oh Father, honestly, huffed Eugenia. You can’t lump Ken in with ‘men.’ I mean, I’ve known him since I was about three years old."

Dawdled along in diapers together, the two of you did, said Mr. Revere reminiscently. The best of friends for ages. And then last year, when you were both home for the winter holidays... Harrumph! Well. He blew out another billow of pipe smoke. And quite right, too. You make a perfect pairing. Same upbringing, same values... Yes, my dear, I do approve of young Jasper-Johns. He’ll make a fine husband for you.

Father, I’m nineteen. I don’t want a husband.

Well no, of course not my dear, not – Harrumph! – now. I didn’t mean now. But, eventually. Eventually, young Jasper-Johns will do nicely. Yes... Very nicely, indeed.

Mmm, replied Eugenia distractedly. Her hands, still lodged firmly behind her back, were starting to tire of staying in the same position for so long. Well, if he does come by, just tell him I’ve gone to the gallery. Slowly, she started backing towards the front door. Goodbye then, Father. I’ll be back in a bit.

Goodbye, my dear. Try not to talk to any artists, won’t you? They can be so intolerably impertinent.... Shaking his head, he pulled it back through the living room doorway.

Impertinent... muttered Eugenia, bringing her hands – and the despised painting that she held between them – to the front of her body. More like ‘inconspicuous.’

And pulling open the heavy front door, she stepped out into the street.

But instead of turning left and trudging further up the steep, cobblestone-covered hill that was Revere Street, Eugenia took a right turn towards Charles Street. For three and a half blocks she walked willfully, a woman on a mission, until coming to a stop in front of a familiar garbage can. And then, without batting an eyelash or brushing away a tear, she dropped the painting straight into it.

Having disposed of yet another creation, Eugenia retraced her steps. Back down Charles Street she strode, onto Revere Street and right past her house, going up, up, up the steep hill until, finally, she came to a stop in front of a squat little red brick building with the name Revere Street Gallery scrawled across the front in faded golden letters.

The gallery. Her mother’s gallery.

The building that she had saved in the late nineteen seventies, when it had been scheduled for demolition due to unsound structural components. Plans for a sympathetically renovated luxury townhouse had been underway, and a high-bidding couple from out of town, keen on owning property in Boston’s prestigious Beacon Hill, had been about to snap it up. But Mrs. Revere had put a stop to that. Zealously, she had campaigned for the building to stay standing, to be preserved as a place of historical interest, art, and culture for the community. For the better part of the eighteenth century, she had argued, the building had served as the studio retreat of John Singleton Copley, the famous portrait painter, and for that reason it would be more appropriate to turn it into an art gallery than anything else. The court, after deciding that the building could be made fit for the public so long as it would never be used as living accommodation, granted Mrs. Revere permission to buy it – and that was that. In next to no time at all, the dilapidated hovel had been made structurally sound, was spruced up beyond all recognition, and, thanks to the copious quantities of love and attention that Eugenia’s mother had lavished upon it, turned into an art gallery that flourished and blossomed.

But then, of course, Eugenia’s mother had died – and the place had pretty much gone to seed.

The building’s red brick exterior was beginning to crack and crumble, as were the cobblestones that made up the sidewalk in front of it. Flanking the entrance of the gallery were two old-fashioned wooden barrels, which, once upon a time, had been bursting with seasonal displays of foliage; now, they were bare. A thick film of dust and dirt clouded the once-sparkling windows, which, Eugenia noticed with a frown, had been displaying the same paintings for more than a month. Less than two years ago, such negligence would not have been tolerated; it had been her mother’s policy to feature new artists every fortnight. As Eugenia pulled open the chipped, faded front door, which had once been painted a bright, cheerful shade of blue, a loud creaking noise reverberated through the air, and the hand-carved Open sign, which hung precariously from a rusty nail that had been hammered haphazardly into the old wood, fell to the floor with a loud crash.

Wha-a? grunted the exhausted young intern behind the reception desk, jerking her disheveled brunette head up from her folded arms and trying desperately to blink the sleep out of her kohl-rimmed eyes. Sitting bolt upright, she began launching into her spiel. Welcome to the Revere Street Gallery, national historic landmark and former studio of eminent Bostonian artist John Singleton Copley, how may I help...? Oh, it’s you, Eugenia. With an audible sigh, she slouched back down in her chair.

Hi, Ellie, replied Eugenia sympathetically, as she bent over to retrieve the Open sign and hung it back on the rusty nail. Been burning the midnight oil again?

A yawn so huge she didn’t even try to stifle it flew out of Ellie’s mouth. S-s-sorry, she managed to murmur whilst in the middle of it. Midterms. I’ve been trying to study whenever I get the chance, but there’s not much time for it between classes, shifts at the restaurant, and my hours here. A guilty expression came over her face. I thought I’d try to cram in a minute or two today, since the place has been kind of quiet...

No problem, Eugenia assured her quickly. I understand. I’ve got midterms, too. Honestly, I think it’s amazing that you’re able to get any studying done, what with two jobs and all. I haven’t even got one and I can barely manage to make the most of my time... Which reminds me, I still need to go over my Latin declensions. Bloody hell!

Ellie grinned. Well, you’re more than welcome to pull up a chair and join me. We could form a little study group and be unbelievably productive... Assuming I don’t fall asleep again.

I might just take you up on that, if the place stays this empty. I mean, what on earth is going on? Alright, so the gallery has never exactly been big on customers, but we usually have artists coming out of every nook and cranny, practically begging us to show their work.

Oh, they were here earlier, replied Ellie with another yawn. Dozens of them, this morning. And the morning before that, and the one before that. I’m pretty sure they all think they’ve got a better chance if they get here bright and early.

Well, that’s just daft. We don’t take artwork based on who gets here first. It’s talent that matters.

Tell that to the old fart who tried to bribe me with breakfast... In his bed.

Ugh! Eugenia shuddered. How horrid!

That’s the art world, said Ellie with a shrug. Sex and Sargent. Drugs and DaVinci. Rock n’ Roll and Rembrandt. Artists will do anything to get their work displayed. And speaking of the display...

Yes, I know... Eugenia heaved a heavy sigh. It needs to be changed. Desperately. I noticed that on my way in. Raising her eyes skywards she added, Mother’s probably up there right now, plotting to murder me for leaving it so late.

Well, we can’t have that, now can we? Ellie grinned sleepily. So, if you’re ready to do the honors, why don’t I get out the contenders? That way we can get the display done and avoid your murder.

Great idea, replied Eugenia, grinning back at her.

With all the speed of a sloth, Ellie reached down beneath the reception desk. Using both hands and what remained of her energy, she slid a stack of canvases out from underneath it.

Oof! There’s about twenty-seven here, she grunted, heaving the heavy paintings onto the desktop. There were about a hundred and twenty-seven, but I filtered out all the truly terrible ones...

Oh dear, said Eugenia, cringing as she picked up a dreadfully dull portrait of a fat white cat wearing a blue silk ribbon around its neck. There were some even more terrible than this?

That’s one of the best ones.

Eugenia stared at her. Surely not? she whispered, a faint note of hope in her voice.

Ellie shrugged. See for yourself.

Nibbling her lip in trepidation, Eugenia put the cat portrait to one side and began perusing the rest of the paintings.

Three shiny-coated Irish setters stared up at her vapidly from the next canvas.

A tranquil seaside scene – somewhere on Cape Cod, by the look of it – came after.

Then, a pair of nondescript children grinning widely...

And Boston Common...

Boston Common...

Boston Common.

Followed by Boston Common at sunset.

Eugenia blew her breath out in annoyance. It was The Ordinary again. Insipid, realistic, everyday scenes stemming from uncreative, unimaginative minds. Why anyone would even want to submit such shoddy attempts at art to a gallery, she had no idea. As far as Eugenia was concerned, every single painting in the pile belonged right next to her own – in the garbage.

Every single one... Except the very last one.

The last painting was a riot of color, broken up into a plethora of outrageous, abstract shapes. A myriad of different brush stroke techniques had been employed, none of which appeared to follow any particular rhyme or reason. At first glance, the scene seemed totally crazy and unconnected; after blinking, however, the eye became acclimated and the subject matter morphed into a vase of what could only be described as fractured flowers.

It was the most beautiful thing Eugenia had ever beheld.

Ellie, she croaked hoarsely, her throat having gone dry from the shock of finding such a treasure amidst the pile of trash, did you see this?

Mmmm? Ellie, whose eyelids had been on the verge of fluttering closed again, leaned forwards and craned her neck in order to see the painting from her side of the desk. Her eyebrows lifted in recognition. Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that one... Intriguing, isn’t it? She came in a while ago.

She?

The artist, Ellie clarified, pointing to the barely legible signature at the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas. F. Day. A real, old school hippie type, from the look of her. Long red hair with lots of gray streaks in it... Flowing silk scarf and skirt... Tons of jangly necklaces and bangle bracelets, plus a ring on every finger. Including her thumbs.

Never mind what she bloody well looks like, this painting of hers is incredible, said Eugenia, gazing at it in admiration. Could you give her a call and see if she’s got any others we could show alongside it? I think we should give her a solo exhibition, and feature it in the next window display.

Let’s see... Pulling a thick notebook filled with the contact information of all the artists who submitted work to the gallery towards her, Ellie ran a finger down the list of names. Day. Day, Alfred. Nope. Day, Clementine. No.... Aha! Here we go. Day, Felicia. ‘F. Day!’ Her number’s six-one-seven...

Uh huh, said Eugenia, grabbing the telephone that stood on the reception desk and starting to push the relevant buttons.

Eight-five-seven.

Right, got it...

Ninety-five sixty-two.

Great. She grinned at Ellie. It’s ringing.

The number you have dialed... Six-one-seven-eight-five-seven-nine-five-six-two, a clear, mechanical voice announced in Eugenia’s ear, is no longer in service. Goodbye. And the line went dead.

Bloody, bloody hell, she grumbled, slamming down the receiver.

What? asked Ellie, stifling a yawn. Did it go straight to voicemail? Why didn’t you leave a message?

I didn’t have the chance. Apparently, the number’s ‘no longer in service.’

Weird, said Ellie, shrugging. Oh well, no worries. I’m sure Felicia Day will make another appearance. Artists always come back to the gallery... Even when we don’t want them to.

Isn’t that the truth. Eugenia laughed. Well, if and when she does come back, make sure to ask about her other work, won’t you, Ellie? In the meantime, let’s put this beauty up on display. Carrying the painting of the fractured flowers over to the set of easels that stood in the window, Eugenia positioned it in the place of honor – front and center.

We can call the artists who were featured in the old display, she went on, frowning down at the realistic reproduction of the Charles River she had just taken from pride of place. Let them know they can come and pick up their work. As soon as possible.

Will do, for sure, said Ellie with a smile.

Right. Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out. Finding something good enough for the display is so stressful. I don’t know how Mother managed it all the time.

Sounds like she was a pretty awesome lady.

Oh, totally awesome, agreed Eugenia wholeheartedly. She put her heart and soul into this place, and loved everything about running it. Unlike me, she added, lowering her eyes guiltily.

Well, you’d have to be a saint to love everything about working in a gallery, said Ellie. I mean, it’s not all ‘ooh, look at the pretty pictures,’ like everyone thinks it is. Running an art gallery is a business. And the business side of it can be pretty damn boring. Abruptly, she cleared her throat. And speaking of the business side of it...

Oh no, groaned Eugenia.

Don’t worry, it’s nothing major, Ellie assured her quickly. Just a few papers your dad has to sign. Pulling open the reception desk drawer, she took out a stack of paperwork and pushed it towards Eugenia. Bills, mostly. Electricity, phone, heating... That sort of thing.

Oh, no problem, replied Eugenia, popping the stack of papers into her purse. I’ll make sure they get taken care of. She eyed Ellie expectantly. Anything else?

Well...

I knew it.

Well, it’s nothing much, said Ellie, chewing on a fingernail anxiously. It’s just... Well...

Come on, then. Out with it.

Well... You know how I’m supposed to get paid every two weeks, right?

Right.

Well, it’s been more than a month now.

More than a month since...? Not since you’ve been paid! gasped Eugenia in horror.

Got it in one, muttered Ellie. Look, I know your dad can be a little forgetful... I mean, he’s been late with my paycheck before, but he always remembers in the end. And he usually throws in a little extra, as a way of apologizing. She gave Eugenia a minuscule grin. So normally, I wouldn’t say anything. But tips at the restaurant have been kind of light lately, and my landlord’s raised the rent again, so I really need the money.

Oh Ellie, of course. Blimey, I’m so terribly sorry! That bloody father of mine is going to get an earful when I get home, I’m telling you... Eugenia’s cheeks burned angrily. How much does he owe you, Ellie?

Well, I get ten dollars an hour, she said thoughtfully, doing some quick arithmetic in her head. And I’m here twice a week, for three hours a day. So, that’s sixty bucks a week.

And he hasn’t paid you for what, about six weeks?

More like five, Ellie corrected her.

Five, then, said Eugenia, pulling her wallet out of her purse. Swiftly, she retrieved a bunch of bills from its folds. Five weeks, five hundred dollars, she announced, counting out five crisp one hundred dollar bills and putting them down on the desk.

Either you’re really bad at math or you apologize the same way your dad does, said Ellie with a smile, as she pocketed the cash.

Both. Eugenia smiled back. Must be family traits.

Well, hopefully you won’t inherit the ‘forgetting to pay employees’ trait, huh? joked Ellie, as she gave Eugenia a playful nudge with her elbow.

That’s not an inherited trait, replied Eugenia darkly, her smile fading. That’s just being irresponsible. Ooh, I’ll read him the bloody riot act when I get home, I will!

Now come on Eugenia, don’t be too hard on him. I mean, it worked out fine for me, and he’s an old man...

‘Old man’ my foot. He’s as sharp as a tack and not half! He didn’t forget to pay you, it’s just that he can’t bloody well be bothered to get over to the gallery and give you your check!

It’s okay, Eugenia, really, said Ellie soothingly. It’s no big deal.

Oh yes it bloody well is. He’s embarrassed me and been unfair to you, and he won’t get away with it. Turning abruptly on her heel, Eugenia marched angrily towards the door. Goodbye, Ellie.

‘Bye, Eugenia, called Ellie, as the front door of the gallery slammed shut and the Open sign fell to the floor again. Briefly, she thought about getting up to replace it, but her head seemed so heavy all of a sudden. Maybe she would just rest it on the reception desk, just for a moment...

Chapter Three

F ather! shouted Eugenia , bursting into the living room in a blaze of fury. Father, I’ve just been to the gallery and do you know what Ellie told me? Determinedly, she strode over to the wingback armchair – only to find it empty.

Hmph. Typical. He’s never here when I want to yell at him, she muttered irritably. Right, then...

Pulling the thick stack of gallery papers from her purse, Eugenia slapped them down on the seat of the leather armchair. Then she strode over to her father’s writing desk, swiped a sheet of high-quality, monogrammed writing paper from within one of the drawers, and scribbled out a hasty, yet strong-worded note. This, she slapped angrily on top of the pile of papers before folding her arms across her chest and scrutinizing the conspicuous set-up with satisfaction. There, she said aloud to the armchair. "If that doesn’t get the old duffer’s attention, nothing will. I’d still like to give him a piece of my mind, though... If I could find him."

The armchair, inanimate object that it was, said nothing. But it didn’t have to. Eugenia had already arrived at her own conclusion.

He’s probably gone for more pipe tobacco or something, she announced to the living room at large. And, without another moment’s hesitation, she marched back out into the streets of Beacon Hill.

But Mr. Revere wasn’t at the tobacco shop. He wasn’t buying his evening paper at the corner drugstore, either. Nobody had seen him at the coffee shop, where he sometimes went for a light piece of pastry before dinner (much to the disapproval of their cook, Mrs. Beauchamp), and, according to the attendant at the wine shop, he hadn’t been in to buy any spirits.

So, where the bloody hell was he?

Weary, frustrated, and suffering from a lack of any better ideas, Eugenia ambled over to Boston Common. With a sigh, she plopped down on one of the hard, wooden benches and settled in for a good look around. Like most Bostonians, Eugenia loved looking around the Common. On a fine day, the lush, green, manicured fields were filled with romping puppies; young children whooped merrily as they rode the carousel or frolicked in the giant wading pool known as The Duck Pond. Students from nearby colleges and universities staged protests with the consistency of clockwork, while activists handed out pamphlets and television reporters scanned the crowds for willing interviewees.

Oh yes, there was always something happening in the Common... And that day was no exception.

As Eugenia sat on the bench, resting her legs and attempting to get her blood pressure back down, she became fully aware of the fact that there was some sort of show going on. A group of oddly dressed people danced wildly in the field before her, singing at the very tops of their lungs and playing the sort of instruments that Eugenia had heard –thanks to the number of illicit late-night parties that had gone on in her boarding school dormitory – but never actually seen.

Rock instruments.

As in the kind used to make rock music.

And that, thought Eugenia excitedly, could only mean that the people playing them must be real, live, honest-to-goodness rock musicians. Leaning