Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(80)

“There she is, the muse,” the redheaded young man said, standing as she approached. Jilo had been so overwhelmed by the sight of Guy, she’d all but forgotten the white boy was there.

“Muse?” she said, incapable of either looking fully at or fully away from Guy.

“Yes,” he said, drawing closer to the edge of the porch. “You must know that you’re hanging, well, your image is hanging in galleries all over New York.”

“Well, the better galleries, at least.” Jilo froze at the sound of Guy’s voice. He kept his seat in the swing, not rising as the buckra had. She raised her eyes to take him in. Hoping she would hate him, certain that she would. But oh, how she had to fight not to run right up those front steps. Struggle not to throw herself in his arms. “The last one. The large painting I was completing when . . . well, the day . . .” His voice trailed off. “It sold to a private collector. For quite a nice sum.”

“Yes, but it isn’t about the money . . .” the redhead began.

“Spoken like someone who’s always had it,” Jilo found her tongue. “For the rest of us, it’s always about the money.”

The young man looked at Guy, and they both burst out laughing. “You’re right about this one, Guy,” the young man said, surprising Jilo by how he pronounced the name to rhyme with “my” rather than “me.”

“Listen,” Guy said, standing and coming forward, wrapping his arm around the young fellow’s broad shoulders. “Jilo, this is my friend, Edwin Taylor.” He nodded toward her. “Edwin, this is my ‘muse’—” He hesitated, almost like he was looking for a more precise word to describe her. “—Jilo.” Guy released Edwin, then padded forward to the head of the steps and held his hand out to her. “Or as I understand it is now, ‘Mother Jilo.’ ”

Jilo felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her.

“Yes, indeed,” Edwin said. “I was surprised enough to learn the vison in Guy’s paintings lived in my own hometown. Imagine my astonishment when I found she was also the rising star of Savannah’s magical community.”

“It’s just an act. To help make ends meet.” Jilo forced herself to look him in the eye. “There’s no such thing as magic,” she said, the well-rehearsed words shooting out like shrapnel.

Edwin, ignoring the rising bile in her tone, smiled and tilted his head to the side. “Is there not?”

“I met Edwin in the city,” Guy said, coming down the steps, taking her hand in his own. The sparks she felt at his touch nearly made her question her own disavowal of sorcery. “The other night we got to talking about my art. About you.”

“Of course, I’d heard of you,” Edwin said, slipping back into the porch swing. “All of Savannah knows about the amazing Mother Jilo Wills.”

“When we made the connection, we realized we had to see you . . . I,” Guy said, tipping her chin up so her gaze met his, “had to see you.” For a moment, Jilo felt the world around her fall away, leaving nothing beyond the feel of Guy’s gentle touch and the glimmer in his eyes. The old feelings, the good ones, rushed up, like a wave intent on carrying her out to sea.

“So,” Edwin spoke, stifling the inchoate spell that had only just begun to build. She turned to face Guy’s new friend. “We hopped into my car and drove pretty much straight through. It’s a long drive, but then again, I know a few shortcuts.” The way he spoke that last word made Jilo feel it held a different, or maybe enhanced, meaning to him that other people didn’t share. There was something odd about this boy; he struck her as being somehow strange and familiar at the same time.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Guy said, putting his arms around her. Pulling her close. Pushing away her concerns about the Taylor boy. “I can’t get you out of my mind. I’ve drawn you from memory, painted you, every day. Carried on full conversations with your likeness.”

Jilo felt her heart weakening, but then her mind registered the gist of his last few words. She put both hands on Guy’s chest and pushed him away. “Yeah, ’cause the Jilo in your pretty pictures never talks back, does she?” A hell of a world she was living in, with one man, a stranger, imagining her as his ideal, borrowing her likeness to build his fantasy, and another, the man who’d held her heart, redacting her memory, tracing, erasing, and redrawing the lines until nothing was left of the real her. “Those weren’t conversations, Guy. You weren’t talking to me. You were masturbating.” She pushed around him and mounted the steps to the porch.

“When do you plan on telling me about that baby I heard crying in there?” Guy called after her, causing Jilo to spin on her heel to face him. “The one Binah and whoever the hell else that is in your house are hiding.” He drew near the porch, resting one foot on the steps, and leaned in toward her. “Is it yours?” he asked, watching her. She folded her arms over her chest, trying to look calm, unaffected. She held her tongue. “More importantly,” he said, shifting his weight and mounting the steps to stand before her, “is it mine?”

She tilted her head back, defiant, as if that might stop the tears brimming in her eyes from falling. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is he yours? Have you fed him? Have you clothed him? Made sure he had a roof over his head? Or did you just skedaddle off to the big city so you could play the big man?”