Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
ISABELLE
“The event is a success,” Antoine said once Isabelle finally had another moment to slip away from her guests.
She looked around the room, at the familiar and not-so-familiar faces. The art critics and reviewers, the journalists and magazine editors, the fellow gallery owners and other artists, some of whom she’d featured, some of whom she hoped to. And her family. Camille—and Rupert! And little Flora, who was not so little anymore. Sophie. And Papa.
And…
“Hugh.” Her heart felt like it was stuck in her throat for a moment as she watched her husband glide through the open door, look around the crowded room, and then, spotting her, hold his hand up in a wave, oh so casually, as if nothing was amiss.
For a moment she wondered if she was going crazy. If she had it all wrong. If his assistant had misspoke. If she’d seen someone else kissing a woman on that street corner the other day. It would be so easy to believe, and Hugh, being here, walking toward her, weaving his way through the groups of people, huddled together, clutching wineglasses, talking animatedly, would have her believe so.
She could go along with it. Live out the life she’d created in Paris. Maybe even have that baby she wanted so badly.
“Hugh?” Antoine’s voice was deep with confusion, close in her ear.
“My husband is here,” Isabelle said, her eyes still locked on the man coming her way, approaching one step at a time until suddenly, a couple parted and there he was, standing right in front of her. She looked up at him, at the familiar light brown eyes she’d stared into for the past six years, the ones that had always seemed so transparent, so readable, and then lower, at the lopsided smile that had never seemed to carry a hint of malice but now seemed to possess a bit of smugness, a sense that he’d gotten away with something, perhaps, that he knew something that she didn’t.
Only he was wrong about that. And she had been wrong about a lot of things.
“Hugh,” she managed to say, her tone one of reasonable surprise. “You’re here.”
Why, she didn’t know. He’d been hiding out for weeks, possibly longer, and he decided to show up now, of all nights, at the most important event of her career. Had his girlfriend suddenly dumped him? Rather timely, if she did say so.
He bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and for once she was pleased that Hugh had never been one for public displays of affection. At least not with her.
A memory of that passionate kiss on the street hit her full force and she felt a wave of sickness pass through her as his cologne washed over her. She pulled back, needing to get away from it, from him. She wished he’d never come.
She should have listened to her sister. She should have confronted him sooner.
But she hadn’t been ready then. Seeing him now, she remembered something Camille had said about how she would know how she felt when she saw Hugh again. And oh, her feelings had never been more clear. Crystal.
“I just got in. Dropped my bags at the apartment and came straight here. Didn’t even stop to unpack.” Hugh grinned.
Isabelle stared at him, in awe of how easy it was for him to let the lie roll off his lips, wondering just how many times he’d done it before, and how many times she’d believed him.
“You didn’t need to,” she told him, her tone frosty but polite. They were in a public setting, after all. There was press. Journalists. Reporters. She didn’t want to take the spotlight off the art, and she certainly didn’t want to shine it on her divorce.
Because that’s what was happening here.
She was going to leave Hugh even though it didn’t seem that he intended to leave her. No, it seemed that Hugh planned to continue as he had all along, living a double life, stopping at the apartment to visit her when it suited him, and dashing off to Tokyo or Berlin or…the Right Bank…when he saw fit.
That was the life that he wanted.
And it wasn’t the life for her.
“I knew how important it was to you,” he said, standing a little straighter.
“Yes,” Isabelle said, nodding thoughtfully. “And you also knew how important this marriage was to me.”
The smile slipped, along, Isabelle thought, with the mask. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing, assessing what she might know, or what she simply suspected, calculating his next move.
“The game’s up, Hugh,” she said, deciding to make this easy for them both. “I know you weren’t in Tokyo.”
He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“Please don’t insult me again by continuing to lie. I know the truth. Not all of it but enough.” She stared at him, waiting for the emotion to set in. For her heart to start pounding, for the tears to fill her eyes, for…something. But instead, she felt nothing. Not for this man, at least. It was as if all the emotions that she’d ever felt for Hugh had been spent, used up over time, exorcised in the weeks since she’d discovered his betrayal. The man standing before her might be named Hugh, and he might look like Hugh, but he certainly wasn’t the man she married, and he wasn’t the man that she loved.
Maybe that man had never existed. Or maybe he had, for a little while.
Either way, he was gone.
“Isabelle, you know I love you,” Hugh said urgently, reaching for her hand.
She snatched it back, taking a deep breath. She looked up at him, straight into his eyes, and knew that the next words she spoke were important. “Maybe you do, Hugh. But actions have consequences.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
“I’m saying that it’s over, Hugh.”
“Come on,” he said, giving a little smile. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. After the event.”
“I don’t see a reason to talk when your word means nothing,” she told him, trying to back away.
He stepped toward her, but this time, Papa stepped between them. “I believe my daughter has asked you to leave, Hugh.”
Isabelle looked up at her father in alarm, but a warm glow washed over her when she saw the twitch of his jaw and the set of Hugh’s. Camille was watching it all in shock, and Rupert was standing by, ready to intervene, but Isabelle knew both of these men.
Papa wouldn’t back down. He was passionate about the things he loved. And the people, too.
And Hugh. He was a coward.
Eventually, Hugh held up his hands, surrendering, giving her one fleeting look before moving to the door. Isabelle just shook her head and turned back to her family, letting them all surround her with the love and support that she needed. Everyone who she needed was right here.
But she realized with a skip of her pulse that one person was missing.
Someone who she had come to count on, and looked forward to seeing. Someone who she wanted in her life, not just for tonight, but for tomorrow, and the day after that.
Isabelle weaved her way through the crowd, which seemed to have grown even thicker in the time she was arguing with Hugh. Had she invited this many people? The gallery was small. Too small to hold this many. She shouldn’t complain. The show was a hit. Her career would be a success. But what did it matter if she had no one to share it with?
She managed to get to the back of the room and poked her head into the storage closet, but it was empty aside from the paintings and pieces that she stored there. She stood on her tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd, but it was no use. She wasn’t exactly tall, and most of the men in the room had at least six inches on her, if not more.
She moved through the groups, trying not to interrupt conversations, her eyes flitting and searching as her heart pounded.
He’d come, for her. To show his support. To be her friend. Maybe even to be something more.
And so had her husband. Her soon-to-be ex-husband. A man who hadn’t been much of a husband at all for a very long time. Just one who had floated in and out of her life, never planning to stay for long, only ever playing the part.
She plucked her phone from her small handbag and checked for messages, but there were none. Everyone she knew was either here tonight or knew she was busy with the event.
Fighting back tears of frustration and loss and overwhelming emotion at the highs and lows that had occurred in just a matter of hours, she stepped outside into the cool night air and stopped.
There, sitting on a bench just a block down, under the glow of a streetlamp, was Antoine.
“Antoine?” she said breathlessly. She wasn’t sure if she should approach him, but then, he hadn’t gone home yet, so she walked across the cobblestone, her steps quickening when she saw the encouraging lift of his smile. “I thought you had left.”
“Just needed some air,” he said. “I…needed some space. And…I thought you did, too.”
She nodded and then sat down beside him. “Space, yes. But…not from you.” She glanced at him shyly, seeing him frown at her uncertainly. “You missed quite a show back there. My father and my husband—I mean my soon-to-be ex-husband—almost got in a fistfight.”
Antoine’s eyebrows rose. “ Non! ”
“ Mais oui .” Isabelle nodded, then, remembering the scene, started to laugh. It wasn’t funny, not in the least, but it was so unexpected in every possible way that the only thing she could do was laugh, because if she didn’t, she might cry.
And she didn’t want to cry tonight, because tonight was too good of a night to waste with tears. It was a night that she wanted to remember for being the start of her next chapter. With her family. With her gallery.
And maybe with her heart.
“I suppose you should probably get back inside in case there’s any more drama,” Antoine said.
Isabelle felt her smile fade. He was giving her a hint. A polite one, but a hint all the same.
She nodded and then stood. He did the same.
“With my family, you never know what can happen,” she said, trying to keep things light, even though her chest felt heavy. “Thank you. For coming. And…for everything.”
Antoine gave a slow smile. “If it’s all right with you, Isabelle, I think I’ll stay.”
“Oh?” Her heart fluttered with that old familiar feeling. Hope. She’d never let it go, even when others had, and even if it might have made sense to, she still kept coming back to it. She still believed.
In good. In people.
In love.
That was the thing about her, she supposed, as she looped her arm through the crook of his elbow and walked back into the gallery, admiring the colorful paintings that filled the space. She saw beauty and goodness and potential in every moment of her life here in Paris, even on the difficult days, even when it made more sense to focus on the gloom and the rain. And she believed in love, even when it was complicated, and even when it was fleeting, and even when she had every reason not to.
Life, like art, was full of beauty and infinite possibilities, if you were willing to open your mind and sometimes look below the surface.