Vice (H.S)

CHAPTER 8 - PATRON OF THE ARTS

"New York is dreadful," Peggy spits out over a game of rummy in the back garden. "Everything smells. And the people are shrewd, distasteful. The whole trip was rather... soulless."

"That's a lot of big words, Peggy," I tease, revealing a winning hand once again. She rolls her eyes, striking a match to light her second cigarette of the afternoon. It's always like this with us; she mindlessly plays along, feigning fury when I inevitably win. After all these years my card skills have been honed to near-perfection.

"I spent all day every day thinking about you."

"Me?" She nods, leaning back in her lounge chair, soaking up the California sunshine like someone who's been in hibernation for decades.

"My cousins are dull. It was so much more fun to imagine you were back home doing something exciting."

"Like what?"

"Like... interviewing travel agents? Planning some sort of extravagant multi-country honeymoon?" her lips turn up, revealing a crooked-albeit-endearing grin. When I don't smile in return, she narrows her gaze and takes a long, deep inhale of smoke.

"Humor me, Win. What'd I miss?"

I shrug, shuffling the cards.

"How was the benefit?" she tries again. "I can't believe I missed an opportunity to see Misty Bates pregnant. I bet she looked like a hot air balloon." This elicits a small smile from me. But when thinking back on that night, it isn't Misty I remember.

I decide not to tell her that he was there.

"It was an absolute bore without you there, Peggy," I offer instead. "I never wish to be parted from you again." I lean across the table to playfully kiss her cheek mid-deal for our next game. My answer seems to satisfy her because she immediately invests her attention in playing the world's worst hand of rummy in the history of all time. It's an absolute massacre from my end.

"How on earth are you so good at this?" Her brow crinkles in frustration.

"Boredom," I sigh. "Years of absolute boredom."

"We ought to do something better with our time."

"Do you have any ideas to propose? I'm all ears. I beg of you."

She mulls it over momentarily. "The New York cousins do lots of benefiting work."

"Like what?"

"Like... pulling together funds for schools and things like that. I was considering becoming a patron of the arts."

"You say that like I'm supposed to know what you mean. How are you going to become a patron of the arts, Peggy?"

"Oh, you know. Supporting artists. You should do it with me! Oh, it'd be such fun. You have more money sitting in that bank account of yours than you know what to do with." I roll my eyes but she persists. "Put it to some use. It'll be like we're business partners."

I tug gently on my necklace— a delicate gold locket. It's a habit I need to put an end to, I can feel the hinge loosening and it's only a matter of time before I pull the damned thing entirely free.

"I don't know, Peg." I never touch that money. It just sits there, slowly accruing interest. My father supplements with a ridiculous monthly allowance.

"C'mon. You've always loved art!" She isn't wrong. I have always been extraordinarily passionate about art. As a hobby, of course. Exclusively as a hobby.

"Let me give you some more ideas. We could sponsor a new exhibit at the museum. Or, we could donate money to improve art programs in grade schools." I have to give her credit. She seems to have thought this through. "No! I've got it." She clears her throat, building the tension before dropping her winning idea. "The film studios."

My hands freeze, fingers ceasing to tug at my loose locket. "The film studios?"

"It's perfect. Johnny gives us an in. You're welcome for having a gorgeous, movie-producing boyfriend, by the way. We can set up some grants for filmmakers, support up-and-coming actors, sponsor a film or two. Plus, invites to all the premiers."

"It's not a bad idea," I confess. "For the charity of it, of course."

Another plus? This one is sure to rile up my father.

Elwin Banks: patron of the arts.

"Maybe we'll even run into a certain dreamboat while we're at it," she adds innocently, tamping out the remainder of her cigarette.

My jaw slacks at her mention of him, but I reveal nothing. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

And although I keep my gaze confined to the cards in my hand, I know my friend well enough to picture the look on her face: the knowing, scheming, smirk of someone with a complicated plan in the works.

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