A Beautiful Secret

By Lawren Moccia

Tegan Favreau has spent her life in the Louisiana bayou - but a sudden move to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, shakes her loose from everything she's ever known. While coming to grips with her sexuality, Tegan focuses on photography, art, and the life of Claude Monet to fill the void. But when her love life bursts into bloom, Tegan finds herself swept up in a challenging new world. As she comes of age, Tegan plunges into the art world - and will uncover a mystery that could shake art history to its roots. Will her new girlfriend come along for the ride? Tegan's mental health might steal everything she's fought for.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawren Moccia Pubishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986915128

Lawren Moccia

Lawren Moccia was born, raised and lives in South Florida. Studying computer science at Florida International University and a degree in Internet Services Technology led to years of experience in technical support management, technical illustration, and technical writing. This is Lawren’s first full length novel.

Book preview

Chapter  1

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When I have a little money, I buy books;

and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes.

Erasmus

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Her eyes opened at six-thirty, but since it was Saturday, Tegan rested in bed for another thirty minutes before slipping out from under the sheets. Hearing the coffee grinder whirring in the kitchen, she pulled on a pair of canvas shorts and a tight white tank top. The coffee maker was burbling the last drops as she poured two mugs, both black. Sliding open the glass door, she delivered one to her father in the Florida room. Facing west at the back of the house, the room remained shaded and cool, with three walls of jalousie windows cranked open as the ceiling fan spun overhead.

Her father acknowledged her with a nod over the top of the newspaper. The same newspaper announced home deliveries would cease at the end of the month; they lived too far from town.

Out on the deck, Tegan put down her mug to cool and sat in a plastic chair with an unobstructed view of her mother sitting in a canvas sling chair on the dock, overlooking the canal which emptied to the Gulf of Mexico. Across the hundred-foot-wide waterway, a dozen long-legged birds stepped between the cypress trees, using shadows to disguise them from their skittish, scaly prey. Off towards the horizon, semi-dry hammocks of trees interrupted the bayou that stretched for miles beyond, with no evidence of civilization in sight.

She plucked at her shirt and blew on her chest, where a light mist of perspiration glistened in the valley between her modest breasts. After taking a sip of coffee, she ran over the mental checklist in her mind.

Wallet, phone, cash, debit card, cooler, shopping list.

Despite wanting to prolong the silence, she went inside and asked, Is everything you need on the list?

Setting the paper in his lap, her father said. I think so. When are you leaving?

She looked at her diver’s watch. It’s quarter to nine. I guess now. I’ll say goodbye to Mom.

As she held her mom’s hand, a large school of black mullet swam past the dock in the brackish water. Tegan considered sprinting for her cast net. Dipped in Cajun spiced flour, egg wash, and cornmeal, fried mullet was a delicacy. But not today. It would require catching and cleaning them, taking a shower, and changing clothes.

She kissed her mother on the cheek and whispered in her ear, I love you.

Then she blew a kiss to the school of fish as they disappeared.

Au revoir. Catch you later. Literally.

Although it was five minutes before nine, Alli was sitting on the porch swing, ready to go. When she skipped down the steps, Tegan got goose bumps and felt the tiny blond hairs on her arms stand up.

The same outfit would elevate most other girls from plain to middling, but on Alli, it was stellar. Tennis shorts, tennis shoes, little socks, and a polo-collar crop top. With her medium-length dirty blond hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones, and that radiant smile, she could be a model for a tennis magazine.

She hopped in the passenger seat and buckled up. Then she turned to Tegan, batted her eyelashes and said, Hi Honey. Miss me?

Tegan rolled her eyes and pulled away, saying nothing.

Alli flirts with me because she knows it makes me uncomfortable. I’m not sure which is worse, that I love it or that I hate it, although I would never want her to stop.

With no hurry and light traffic, she let Alli babble on about what had been going on at her house. She loved to talk, and Tegan loved to listen. Alli had that effect on people. She was so funny and charming that it was hard to keep track of time.

They found a decent parking space and as Tegan went to get out of the truck, Alli grabbed her arm. Seriously? she asked with a significant glare.

What?

You can’t go out in public wearing that top. You need to cover up.

The tight, white top emphasized the powerful muscles of Tegan’s torso. Her nipples, riding atop her bulging pectoral muscles, stood out through the fabric.

Tegan pulled on a plaid flannel button-down shirt and tied the tails around her waist. Happy now?

No. Alli laughed. But I’m your best friend, so I can say things like that. You need to stop being so damn grumpy.

Before noon, they headed to the checkout line with full carts. In the truck’s bed, a chain and lock protected a 120-quart cooler in the back. They loaded it with perishables that wouldn’t endure the forty-minute trip home in the hot Louisiana summer sun.

On the way, Alli fiddled with the stereo. They sang along to 'Broken Halos' with the windows down, their hair whipping in the wind, getting at least half of the words right.

Up ahead, traffic had stopped at the road going through a tiny town, so Tegan turned onto a county road where the deputies liked to sit under the trees with a radar gun.

Cut-down trees, old appliances, and furniture gathered near the street in front of every fourth or fifth house showed a bulk trash pickup was coming soon. An assortment of fold-up tables covered with bric-à-brac and a garage sale sign would not have normally caught Tegan’s attention, but it was summer, and they had plenty of time.

Tegan asked, Want to check it out?

Sure, said Alli.

As they walked up a woman studied them.

The woman was no longer young, as the streaks of silver in her otherwise jet-black hair suggested, but the beauty of youth lingered. Her rich mahogany skin remained smooth and free of lines. Her full figure was curvy and not just a little sexy. Tegan understood the woman’s distrust when a white girl in boots and an unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt climbed out of a four-wheel-drive pickup truck in front of her house.

Good afternoon! Tegan greeted her.

We closed at noon, the woman replied. It was twelve-forty.

I’m sorry. I was just on my way home and saw the sign. Extending her hand, she went on, Hi! I’m Tegan Favreau, and this is my best friend, Alli. Could we look, please?

The woman took her hand. Pleased to meet you. I’m Ellie. Since you’re here, go ahead.

All that remained was Tupperware, mismatched drinking glasses, old chairs, odds and ends, and boxes of books in the garage.

Miss Ellie, are the books for sale?

Yes, but they were too heavy for me to drag out here.

The first two boxes held a mix of classics and best-selling hardcover books in pristine condition. On top sat a copy of C. S. Forester’s first Horatio Hornblower novel, which Tegan had read years ago, and loved. The next two boxes held music, fishing, and hunting magazines. The last box was full of hardcover coffee table books on art, photography and wildlife. She had collected dozens of similar books over the past few years.

I’m interested in some books. How much? Tegan called out.

Ellie walked over. Hard cover books a dollar, magazines five for a dollar, the picture books five each.

The six picture books, plus Hornblower, totaled thirty-one dollars. Tegan tried to hand over the money, but Ellie stopped her.

Whatever doesn’t sell is going out to the road, and it breaks my heart for a book to go to waste. How about forty dollars and you can take them all?

Tegan handed over two twenties.

At the Riveras’ house, Alli unfastened her seat belt, scooted over, and gave Tegan a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You are the best friend ever.

After unloading at Alli’s, her mom shooed them away to go take the rest of the groceries to Tegan’s house. After pulling up to the side door to the garage, Tegan’s mom and dad came out to help unload.

In her bedroom, Tegan sprawled out on one of the two twin beds, but Alli stopped to look at her painting of an osprey that had just plucked a fish from the water. It was almost complete.

My God, Tegan! It’s beautiful! Alli admired the painting. How long did it take you?

A week, off and on. Maybe another day or two to finish.

What are you going to do with it? Alli asked.

Not sure. I may have it framed and hang it up. I like it.

Like it? I love it. It’s so realistic, it’s like I’m there. How did you dream it up? You must have a heck of an imagination.

Tegan laughed and tapped the space bar to wake up the computer from sleep mode. It’s not made up. Look. Tegan pulled up the original image on the computer.

Wow! said Alli. I didn’t know places like this still exist.

They do but are hard to get to. This little bay is inaccessible except by canoe.

The picture is beautiful, but the painting is even better. Have you ever considered selling your work? Alli flopped on the spare bed.

I might. How would I do it?

I don’t know. Maybe you could leave some at a gift shop or store on consignment.

Tegan shrugged and changed the subject. Alli, help me go through these boxes of books. The book fair is next weekend, and I want to donate the books we don’t want to keep.

Okay.

Sorting through the boxes of books and magazines from the garage sale, she created two distinct stacks: what to keep, and what to donate. The Friends of the Library was a non-profit which supported the Terrebonne Parish Library. Once per month, Tegan would go to the Book Fair, donate her unwanted books, and buy a dozen to get her through the next month of reading. The old fishing and hunting magazines held no interest for her and went into the donations pile.

Whoa! said Alli. Look at this. She was holding the January 21, 1970, issue of Rolling Stone, covering the Altamont Free Concert and the killing of Meredith Hunter by the Hell’s Angels biker gang. I saw this in a documentary. This thing is like, fifty years old.

Another edition from later in 1970 included an interview with Charles Manson when he was in the LA county jail, awaiting trial. They sparked but a tiny memory for Tegan, since she had been born over thirty years later.

You take them. They might be worth some money on Ebay, Tegan said.

A faded item caught her attention. Piano sheet music; Deux Arabesques, by Claude Debussy, published by A. Jacques Durand in Paris 1905. She could read music, but not owning a piano, her interest had waned years ago, and she could not play this complicated piece. As she cradled the century-old book, two sheets of paper fell out, the size of the pages of the music book.

The first revealed a pencil sketch of a woman in a fancy white dress sitting on a quilt with a picnic basket. Only a few bold lines composed her face, but it suggested her attitude, a woman waiting for a friend—or more likely, a lover.

The second drawing of the same woman depicted her looking off into the distance. She appeared pensive and concerned. Although standing still, her long dress swirled in a gentle breeze, and the leaves of the trees shone with vivid light, contrasting the deep shadows. The intensity of the drawing created a portal in time.

She dragged her eyes away from the woman and saw the signature on the drawing: Claude Monet.

Tegan and Alli stared at the sketches.

Could they be real? Were they drawings by the master, or just wishful thinking on the part of some romantic forger?

Holding a sketch against the window closest to the sun showed a watermark in the corner: ‘Arches ∞ France’, with no date.

Alli leaned over her shoulder. Oh, my gosh!

Both girls bolted for the computer to verify the watermarks. On the internet, Tegan found the Arches Papers website. The watermarks did change over the years, but she couldn’t find a way to determine the year of the paper’s manufacture.

Alli, do you think I should return them to Miss Ellie?

Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. If they were a family heirloom or old photographs, I would say yes. But these were destined for the trash. If you hadn’t taken them, who knows what would have happened? You bought them fair and square, as is.

Tegan agreed with Alli, and she put them in her flat file cabinet with her artwork for safe keeping.

Chapter  2

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The essence of the motif is the mirror of water, 

whose appearance alters at every moment.

Claude Monet

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The following morning at 5:30 AM, camera at the ready, Tegan Favreau swatted mosquitoes in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise. A week ago, she’d found the perfect subject for a new painting deep in the bayou, but the dozens of pictures she took were mediocre. Sunset was not a picturesque time of day for this location.

There were five species of Louisiana Iris, but Iris nelsonii was only found within a few dozen miles of this very spot. With leaves of deep green and blooms of blue and lavender, she hoped the early morning sun would bring out the colors and cast long shadows and reflections on the mirror-like surface of the water. A soft yellow hue illuminated the shifting scene as she captured shots.

Images landed on the storage chip as a catspaw raced across the lake, leading a sudden squall straight towards her. The first fat drops came down as Tegan scrambled to protect the camera in a waterproof case.

The torrent crashed down hard, drenching her to the bone. It became as dark as if morning had never broken, but there was no point in hurrying. With her gear in the canoe, she paddled for home. Twenty minutes later, the sun came out, and the day began again.

With deep water ahead, Tegan reached into a bucket for a silver-dollar-sized blue crab, put the hook through the tip of the carapace, and tossed it past the shallows to let it drift with the current. Redfish were too skittish to venture up into the canal but had no problem waiting at the mouth to snap up the shrimp, fish, and crabs caught in the outgoing tide. After five quick twitches of the popping cork, the cork went under, and she set the hook.

Damn, using twelve-pound test line may have been a mistake. This is a bull!

Pulling and reeling, the fish came close to the canoe. She eased a net under the redfish and lifted it into the cooler. As the canoe slid onto the sand behind her house, Tegan jumped out over the front and tied it off. She brought only her camera case into the house and got into a hot, steamy shower. With dry shorts and tee shirt donned, all she needed to become human again was a strong cup of the chicory coffee she smelled coming from the kitchen.

Her dad turned as she entered the room. Hey, honey. Where were you?

Doing her best zombie imitation, she growled, Coffeeeee!

He laughed and poured her a mug.

Deprived of the elixir of sanity, she remained silent and surly.

When she didn’t answer, he tried again. I thought you wanted to take the traps out of the water.

After a few sips, she decided to cut him some slack. I can start tomorrow. I just wanted some time off.

That’s a good idea. You have plenty of time. He dared not disagree with the coffee monster.

Thanks for the coffee, but I have some new pictures I want to look at.

He nodded, and off she went. In her bedroom, she inserted the memory chip from her camera into the computer, then launched the images with the editing software. She chose the best one and adjusted the image. Her dad poked his head in the open doorway.

What do you think? she asked him.

Wow, where did you find that? he asked, his hand on her shoulder.

On the edge of Buttonwood Bay, she said as she set up a new pre-stretched watercolor paper and backboard on her art table.

I think it’s great. The colors are amazing. Why don’t you just print it out instead of painting it? Wouldn’t it be quicker?

That earned him an exaggerated teenage sigh. It would. But a photograph isn’t the same.

Tegan sketched the scene onto the paper. When her stomach growled, it was past noon.

She found her father at the dining room table, poring over his papers from work. On a Sunday. Hey, Dad. She kissed him on the forehead. I’m making turkey sandwiches. Would you like one?

He turned and gave her a quick hug. Sure.

I was thinking of cooking some redfish in the pan with pesto pasta and a salad for dinner. Is that okay? she asked.

Sounds good. I know your mom will love it.

I’ll be in my room for a while.

Her osprey painting had dried, so she could start on the next phase. Her technique was to build layer upon layer of colors, from the lightest to the darkest. Propping the board and paper on her mid-century drafting table, she worked with a thin brush and filled in details. After comparing the colors against the photo, she cleaned her brushes and capped the tubes of paint. Now it was another day of waiting for the paint to dry.

In a hot cast-iron pan, the three thick portions of seasoned redfish sizzled on contact with the butter. As the pasta water was heating, she dropped romaine lettuce, red and green bell peppers, and sliced tomatoes into three bowls.

Within thirty minutes, dinner was on the table. Other than smooth jazz on the radio, the only sound was the tinkle of silverware on plates.

Her father cleared his throat. This is very nice, honey. Thank you.

You’re welcome, Dad. Glad you like it.

Mom, as usual, said nothing. Diagnosed three years ago with early onset dementia, any loud sounds or noise distracted her for a moment; then she would disconnect. Tegan had turned off the electric stove at the breaker panel in the garage. Her mom had a habit of putting water on for tea and forgetting about it.

With only the three of them, her dad worked, and Tegan took care of her mom and the household. When her mom and dad bought this house years ago, they assumed someone would build new houses on the empty lots. But an environmental moratorium halted new construction. Between every house, there were two, three and sometimes four empty lots, and they lived on the far end of the cul-de-sac, another name for a dead-end road.

At least Alli’s family lived a mile closer to town, where they had actual neighbors. The Riveras and the Favreaus lived farthest away from any of their classmates. With so few other kids around, their relative isolation pushed them to become friends.

Tegan returned to her room to see a text.

Alli: What are you doing?

Tegan: Nada

Alli: Can I come over?

Tegan: Sure!

Sitting on the tailgate of her truck in the twilight, Tegan could see Alli coming down the street in her mother’s car. She got out and sat beside Tegan on the tailgate without a word. A gentle breeze caressed their faces. The night was mercifully free of bugs. The moon had risen, to bathe the earth in a soft glow as the sun dipped behind them.

Alli spoke first. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been living here my entire life. Once you leave the city, it’s almost like nothing has changed for a thousand years.

For some of us, nothing has, Tegan said.

Clouds drifted overhead, obscuring, then exposing the stars.

How do you do it?

Do what?

Alli sighed and looked away. Everything. You make it seem so easy.

Tegan reached out and turned Alli’s face to hers. It’s not easy. I just do what I have to do. So do you.

Alli felt Tegan’s hand on her cheek and resisted the impulse to lean forward and press their lips together. Tegan’s eyes bored into hers, making it hard to turn away, but she did. When we moved here the summer before ninth grade, Alli said. I had to leave all my friends behind. I didn’t know a single soul. And now we’ve been out here for three years.

Tegan gave her a shoulder bump. But you moved just in time. I was dying to sign up for volleyball and didn’t have a ride home after practice. When your mom offered to drive me home after your tennis practice, I was so happy.

And now you have your truck, and I can ride with you instead of the stupid school bus. They smiled at each other.

Can I tell you something? asked Tegan.

Yeah.

I was so afraid that if we weren’t friends, or if your mom didn’t like me, she wouldn’t give me a ride anymore.

Alli laughed. That’s crazy talk. They totally love you. Remember when Rick was towing Andy on his bike and they crashed into the metal culvert? We were all so freaked out at the blood that we just stood there. You pushed his wounded flesh together, tied your shirt around his foot, picked him up, and ran all the way home with him in just your bra. The doctors said that if you hadn’t been there, Andy would have needed skin grafts before he could walk again. We didn’t even know where you came from.

Tegan was quiet for a moment. I was fishing down the canal and heard the screams.

I’m sorry you had to worry. Alli slipped her hand into Tegan’s, and their fingers intertwined. I can’t imagine a world where we wouldn’t be friends.

In bed that night, the pulpy bestseller Tegan was reading wasn’t helping her to fall asleep. Under a single sheet in just a pair of panties, even with air conditioning, she was always hot.

Maybe it was the book. The plot featured a main character who lived on a boat and was all manly and stuff. Then he met a super-hot, rich chick so far out of his league that she couldn’t resist falling for him. He fended off her advances until she cried, wondering what was wrong with her. Being the gentleman that he was, he tossed her a pity fuck. She became so giddy that everyone realized he was boning her, which only enhanced his legendary status.

Tegan threw the book towards the waste can and missed.

If I was that dude, I would have made that shot.

Lying in bed in the dark, Tegan relived the author’s description of the main character. A handsome—but not too handsome—weather-beaten face, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, and a few streaks of premature gray that he was way too self-confident to worry about.

What kind of guy is my type? It’s not like I can pick and choose. I’m a six-foot three tomboy with broad shoulders, no boobs, a square face with thin lips, and ordinary hazel eyes. And skinny.

Tegan ran her fingers through her hair, down the sides of her neck, and over her chest. She slipped her hands inside her shirt to see if anything had changed.

Nope. Still no boobs. But thank God for testosterone.

Some boys from school showed an interest that had led to a few make-out sessions. Doug was the best kisser so far and didn’t have a hangup about the six-inch difference in their height.

Maybe it’s a turn-on for him. Being with an amazon. Alli says I look like Karolina Pliskova, but I know she’s thinking, ‘just not as pretty.’

Then she felt a warm tingle. She had been comparing many types of men in her mind, and only when she thought of Alli did something happen.

What would her lips feel like?

She groaned, put her pillow over her head, and forced herself to sleep.

Chapter 3

Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.

George Bernard Shaw

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Monday morning, she got on the internet and searched the Nicholls State University website for art teachers. On the third try, someone answered.

Machter.

Hello, Professor Machter. I’m Tegan Favreau, and I would like your advice.

She paused and waited.

Well? he asked. How can I help you?

Tegan took a deep breath. I came across two sketches. They are signed ‘Claude Monet.’ What research I have gives me no clues as to their authenticity, and I would like an opinion whether to investigate or not.

I’m not an expert on Impressionists. Could you send me a scan or images of the sketches in question?

Yes, of course. I have high-resolution digital images of them both. In fact, I’m emailing them to you now.

Some clicks, then, Wow. It might be possible they are by Monet. I’m very busy this week, but I will be at LSU on Friday morning filling in for a professor on maternity leave. There is someone you should meet. Can you bring the sketches with you?

Tegan was delighted. Yes. What time on Friday?

My class is at ten. Say nine or nine-thirty? He gave her the building and office where he would be waiting.

After the phone call, Tegan pulled on her work clothes and set out for a long day. A half-hour later, her sixteen-foot aluminum jon boat coasted up to the buoy attached to the crawfish trap resting on the bottom. This was the last pull of the season. The crawfish had lost their appetites and burrowed deep in the mud, making it unprofitable to continue to harvest. As each trap came into the boat, she emptied the catch onto the sorting table, stacked the trap in the stern, and pulled her way to the next.

The boat could only hold one-fourth of her traps. It would take four trips and four times the effort to get all the traps out of the water. She usually pulled them every day, but since they’d been soaking since Friday, the catch was large for the end of the season. A decent haul: two thirty-pound sacks of fresh crawfish soaking in a tub of water. Time to get paid.

Rusted from many such trips, the ancient Jeep pickup growled as Tegan pulled around the back of The Captain’s Cove Restaurant. Smitty, the head chef, recognized the sound and called the owner on the intercom to tell him Tegan had arrived.

Soon after, Mr. Jessup called out through the screen door, Heya Tegan. Why don’t you come inside and have something cold to drink while I cut you a check? How many?

Hey Mr. Jessup! Two! Holding up two fingers, she poured the contents of the first sack into one of the holding pens. The crawfish needed at least three days to purge the mud from their bodies before Smitty boiled them up in Cajun spice. After the second sack was in, she leaned back and stretched, then pulled off her muddy boots and gloves.

Sprawled on one of the Naugahyde chairs clustered inside the double screen doors of the kitchen, Tegan was glad to take a load off. Stainless steel pots and pans simmered with Cajun delicacies, while the exhaust fans overhead vented out the nearly toxic cayenne plumes rising above the stove. Mr. Jessup had an office inside, but the back of the kitchen was the gathering place for the cooks, servers on break, and the many friends and family that dropped by with regularity.

Returning from his office, Mr. Jessup handed her a diet Pepsi and a check. A cool breeze dried her sweaty head and neck as she took a pull from the soda.

So, what are your plans for the summer? Mr. Jessup asked.

Taking care of my mom. Cecil wants me to work in the bait and tackle shop. I may go to Thibodaux and check out Nicholls before the new school year begins. It’s not like I have a choice. Nicholls and Fletcher Tech are the only public colleges within forty miles.

I have all summer and one more year before graduation from Pelican High to decide my fate.

Maybe you could look into going away to school. To a bigger university in a bigger town, he suggested.

I can’t. My mom needs me, and we don’t have that kind of money. Dad’s business has been terrible.

Then try harder. There are scholarships, grants, and loans. With your grades and instate tuition, you should apply to LSU.

"Thanks, Mr. Jessup. I’ll think about

Reviews for A Beautiful Secret

[Spyke Gunster · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great book to curl up on the sofa and remind me why I love to read. Going from southern Louisiana, to Fort Lauderdale, then Paris, the story is interesting and the prose kept me up way beyond my bedtime. It's hard to define this book because it has several themes occurring simultaneously; coming of age, a life disrupted, first love, betrayal, isolation, found family and art history. The central character Tegan, is complex with the uncertainties of her teen years that I can identify with. It's really not like anything I have read before and I am looking eagerly for a sequel.