30. Taurus Season
TAURUS SEASON
A common thread in the astrology community is the idea that the universe has our back. All we have to do is listen to the signs.
I’ve never quite bought it. Never quite let myself believe that there are mysterious energies at work, guiding us. Helping us.
But on my mad dash from JFK to Manhattan to try to catch the tail end of Archer’s big night at the art gallery? I start to become a believer.
The wait for my Uber is one minute. The rainstorm that’s been causing all the flight delays lets up the second I step out of the airport. Traffic back into the city is almost comically nonexistent. And we make every single light.
The universe does indeed seem to have my back.
Right until the final moment.
When it’s just not enough.
Daphne is sitting on the steps of the SoHo gallery. She’d been tickled to learn from her connections in the art community that Archer had specifically requested that she receive an invitation. She’d accepted before things turned sour between Archer and myself, but I’m still glad that she went.
That at least someone was there for him. Supporting him.
I can see from her face and the dark building that I’m too late.
My eyes immediately flood with tears and I swipe at them, suddenly furious at the universe. At myself. “I wanted… I so wanted. Now he won’t know…”
“Oh, sweetie, it’ll still mean a lot that you tried,” Daphne says, coming toward me, dressed in a stunning orange halter dress. She pulls me in for a long hug.
“Everyone left about a half hour ago. I tried to stall things, asking like a million questions, but the champagne was gone, there were no pieces left to sell, and most critically, the guest of honor left the first chance he got.”
“But it went well?” I ask, pulling back from the hug and wiping my runny nose. “If there were no pieces left, that means they all sold, right?”
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Okay, so listen, I actually know the guy who owns this gallery. And he owes me a favor from when I let him stay late at the Maya Patel exhibit at MoMA a couple years ago, so I called in a favor.”
She holds up a set of keys.
“Are those…”
“For the gallery, yep. Because, sweetie, there’s something you really need to see.”
I follow her up the steps, and she unlocks the dead bolt and taps the alarm system keypad.
Daphne flicks on the light as I step into the trendy art gallery, but she stops in the doorway and doesn’t follow me in. As though she’s giving me space for whatever I need to see.
I blink, letting my eyes adjust.
I move fully into the main space, spinning in a slow circle as I take in each piece of Archer’s new series.
I’ve started crying again, but don’t realize it until I make a loud hiccupping noise that echoes throughout the room. “He didn’t do Paris.”
“No,” Daphne says softly. “He sure as hell did not.”
“And not acrylics, either.”
“There’s actually a little in there,” she says, gesturing to one of the pieces. “The leaves here. He uses a bit of color to capture fall. And the moon in each piece. A touch there as well. But the majority of it is just charcoal. I didn’t even realize he worked with charcoal, much less that he does some of the best work any of us have seen since Seurat.”
I have no idea who Seurat is, and really don’t care.
“I did. I knew,” I say quietly. “Though he never let me see his work.”
“Well, maybe now you can see why. You are his work. You’re Archer’s muse, Miranda.”
I don’t know anything about art. Or muses. But on this, I know she’s right.
Archer’s new series is twelve pieces. Each featuring the night sky. Each with its own zodiac sign. Each with a woman in motion. Watering plants in Aries. Feeding a goldfish in Pisces. Writing. Laughing.
A Capricorn kiss.
The woman. Me.
“All of this,” I say, wiping my nose. “And I wasn’t here. He invited me, and it was important, and I said no. I chose work.”
“Admittedly, the guy is hard to read,” Daphne says slowly. “But if I had to guess, I don’t think he would have wanted you to give up your work for his. I think he wants you to be happy. He didn’t want to distract you from what you wanted.”
I look at my best friend. “I want him .”
“I know.” She grins. “So get him.”
I’m already shaking my head. “It’s late. Really late.”
Daphne gives me a gently chiding look. “Sweetie, not a single one of these drawings doesn’t feature the night. Late night is sort of what you two do.”
I feel a little flare of hope, because she’s right.
And I know exactly where he’ll be.