Read Online Contessa by Lori L. Otto - Free Book Online

home. ”
    “ Liv– ”
    “ It ’ s not fair, Dad! ”
    “ Livvy, will you just listen to me for a minute? Keep your eyes on the road. And breathe, okay? It ’ s not good to be so agitated. ”
    “ Well then why are you pissing me off? ”
    “ Language, Livvy. ”
    “ Sorry, but– ”
    “ Livvy! ” His voice is stern, and I bite down on my lip to stop myself from saying more. “ Are you going to listen to me now? ”
    “ Yes, ” I mutter.
    “ Watch your speed. ”
    “ I am. ” I let off the gas pedal a little.
    “ I don ’ t have a problem with you going out with him, Tessa. I ’ m just not going to let him take you there for your first date, that ’ s all. ”
    “ Really? ” I ask him meekly. “ Well, what did you decide? ”
    “ He ’ s going to have dinner with us the Saturday before your birthday so your mom and I can get to know him a little better. And then, after you turn sixteen, maybe I ’ ll feel a little more comfortable letting you out of my sight with him. ”
    I clap excitedly.
    “ Hands on the wheel, Livvy, ” he reminds me.
    “ Sorry, Dad. ” I grip the steering wheel at ten and two, like Mom reminded me to. “ And thank you. ”
    “ You ’ re welcome. Maybe you two could watch a movie or something downstairs after dinner. ”
    “ That sounds okay. ”
    “ Good. And you ’ re right, Livvy, he does seem like a pretty good kid. ”
    “ I think he is. ”
    “ I trust your judgment. Now take this exit, ” he tells me.
    “ This isn ’ t the way to Grandma and Grandpa ’ s. ”
    “ I know, we ’ re going to make a stop first. We ’ ll meet your grandparents for dinner. ”
    He directs me to the art museum Mom had told me about, and I act surprised like I promised her I would. The studio is amazing. He stays a step or two behind me as we look at all the different works of art on display. He asks me what I like about the paintings, or what I don ’ t like, and attempts to follow my pattern of thinking. I can tell he ’ s really trying, and for the first time in awhile, I start to drop the barrier I ’ d had up just a tad.
    We go into an adjoining section, a brighter, dome-shaped room that has large paintings of all shapes and sizes carefully strung with thick wires from the rafters. On a pedestal beneath each canvas is a card with information about the piece of art and the artist. I quickly realize we ’ re in the New York artist exhibit, and I ’ m amazed at the array of styles that the people of one city– my city–can create. It inspires me, and makes me remember the conversation I had with my mother about finding my aesthetic.
    Again, my dad pays attention to the pieces I linger at longer, and he asks what stands out to me. I ’ m mesmerized with one particular abstract piece, and when I look at the placard beneath it, I know why.
    “ The artist, ” I answer my dad ’ s question. “ That ’ s what stands out. ”
    “ Someone you know of? ” he asks, looking down to read over my shoulder. “ Wow. ” He takes a few steps back to take in the large painting. “ Nate ’ s, huh? ”
    “ It ’ s amazing, isn ’ t it? ”
    “ You know, I ’ ve never really understood the abstract thing. Like, tell me what you like about this one. ” Of course he wouldn ’ t understand the texture of the brush strokes, the strong movements he would have had to take to create such emotions in this particular painting... and then the tiny nuances of tones that add a subtle depth that I ’ d never seen captured by another artist. Combine that with his use of scale and perfect choices of color, and it was the most masterful thing I ’ d ever seen.
    “ It ’ s just really good, ” I tell him. “ I mean, even to your untrained eye, you should be able to see the conflict in this, ” I tell him with an air of superiority.
    “ Do you think it ’ s pretty? ” he asks me, wanting me to explain in more detail.
    “ No, it ’ s not pretty , Dad. It ’ s complicated