11. Chapter Eleven
11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
January
Seven Months Earlier
New York
In the coming weeks, Sam threw her entire soul into her art. The final push toward the grand opening was filled with interviews, parties, and pop-up exhibits, too many to count. Every waking moment was scheduled, leaving little room to breathe, let alone think. Mall events, meet and greets, anything and everything to spread the news about The Gallery.
Today was the day before the grand opening, and Sam heaved an exhausted sigh when a FaceTime call popped up on her cell phone from her parents.
She’d been expecting it, yet somehow, she wasn’t ready. It wasn’t the conversation that she dreaded, but her mother’s guilt which would rip her heart apart. Sam’s mother had a debilitating fear of flying, and no matter how many times Sam assured her that it was fine that they didn’t come to her grand opening, her mother’s shame wouldn’t hear it.
Samantha loosened the apron around her neck, wiped her hands on the fabric, then opened the call. “Hello,” she said, hanging her apron on a peg as she walked toward the living room.
Her parents’ faces appeared on the screen side by side. “Sammy girl!” her dad spoke as though she were still five years old. “How’s our favorite artist?”
Her parents sat in the middle of her childhood dining room; the background filled with balloons in shades of silver and gray, with a large congratulations banner hanging above their heads.
Sam smiled. “You got me balloons!” She lowered herself to the couch, her eyes instantly brimming with tears.
“Nothing but the best for our girl,” her dad answered. “Are you ready for the big show tomorrow?”
“Just about.” Sam stacked some books on the coffee table, arranging them just so, until she could prop her phone against them. “It’s been a whirlwind of a week,” she stated. “My dress is finally back from the seamstress. I’ve confirmed my hair appointment for tomorrow. The only thing left to do is wait, which, surprisingly, is taking up all my time.”
Her mom’s voice cracked. “We’re so proud of you, honey. If it wasn’t the dead of winter, we would have made the drive, you know that don’t you?”
“Mom.” Sam picked up the phone as though trying to get closer through the screen. “I know,” she whispered. She could see her mom was close to tears. “Things will be hectic tomorrow. I have so many responsibilities that I probably wouldn’t have had time to spend with you, anyway.” Which was a total lie. She would have made time for them. She would have taken them to all her favorite places in the city, and they would have loved every moment. Especially her father, who always got so excited by bright shiny things. Someday, she would take him to Times Square, to Broadway, and buy them hot dogs from her favoritestreet vendor.
“Are you sure?” her mom asked, twisting her hands nervously in her lap.
“I’m sure,” Sam promised.
“When will Tristan arrive?” she asked, as though his presence might somehow make her absence more tolerable.
“Tomorrow.” Sam smiled.
“Are you excited?”
“Excited is an understatement.”
Her mom’s eyes twinkled. “Please take pictures for me,” her mom requested.
“I will.”
Her dad sat forward next, his thumb covering the whole screen as he grabbed the phone from the tripod. “We won’t keep you, Sammie. I know you’re busy, we just wanted to wish you luck on your big day tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Sam whispered, trying to force the emotion from her voice so her parents wouldn’t worry.
“We love you,” her mom said softly.
“I love you, too!”
“Bye,” they both said in unison.
“Bye.”
And then the call ended, leaving Sam staring at her home screen, where a photo of Tristan she’d taken over a year ago on Valentine’s Day stared back at her. He was wearing a gray fluffy robe, and an Indian clay mask was dry and cracked on his face. Somehow the dark color of the clay made his eyes even bluer. Deep lines had formed around his mouth from his grin, and the more she told him to stop, the larger his smile had grown. It was the most cherished photo she’d ever taken. Both because of the memory of the impromptu spa day she’d created in their living room, but also because of how happy he’d been. His smile was genuineand pure, and he’d givenit all to her. To this day her heart raced every time he graced her with it.
“I swear, Sam,” Margaret said from the kitchen, startling her, “you’re kind of disgusting.”
Sam glanced up, wincing at being caught. “What do you mean?”
“You blush whenever someone even mentions his name.”
Sam set her phone face down on the coffee table and rose to her feet. “Do I really?”
“Love ya, girl, but I’m getting lost this weekend. I don’t want to witness anything that happens while he’s here.”
“Oh shush.” Sam blushed as she joined Margaret in the kitchen.
There was a large pink box on the counter, and Margaret pushed it open aggressively with one finger. “Peter is the devil,” she said under her breath. “If I don’t fit into my dress tomorrow…” but her words trailed off as she picked up what appeared to be a glazed croissant with a ribbon of raspberry peeking out between the buttery layers. Margaret’s stomach audibly gurgled, and Sam’s did something similar, but for the exact opposite reason. Her hand fell to her abdomen, and she walked over to the sink trying to soothe it. She hadn’t been able to tolerate much of anything for days. Nerves consumed every thought, making food one of the last things she wanted to think about. “Have you heard anything of Mr. Covington’s plans for tomorrow?” Sam asked, taking a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water.
Margaret leaned back in her seat, her eyes fluttering closed as her teeth sank into the delicate pastry. “What I know is we need to be ready by seven,” she said with a mouthful. “Our presentations are scheduled to start around eight.”
Samantha gulped what was left in her glass. “I chose art so I’d never have to participate in public speaking?—”
“Sam?” It was Peter. He was poking his head around the stairwell. “You busy?”
Her eyes met his, and something about his urgency made her back stiffen. “Not really.” She set down her glass. “What’s up?”
“There’s a man downstairs asking for you. Seems pretty impatient.” Peter’s stare was intense, and an uneasy feeling settled in Samantha’s stomach.
“What does he want?” Margaret asked between bites of her croissant.
Peter shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What does he look like?”
“Gray hair. Beard,” Peter answered.
Margaret’s eyes met Sam’s, and she lifted a brow. “Any admirers we should know about?”
Sam smoothed her clothes with her palms and checked her reflection in the window. “I’m sure it’s a customer,” she reasoned, taking in her disheveled appearance in the glass.
“That’s awfully bold of him, don’t you think?” Margaret interjected. “The Gallery opens tomorrow. Can’t he wait?”
“Maybe he wants to get ahead of the crowd,” Peter suggested. “I mean, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
After some debate with her roommates, Samantha finally went downstairs. She’d thought about sending Peter back to tell him she had already gone to bed, but the truth was, she was curious. Visions of her last gallery opening back in LA had been consuming her nightmares all week. The one that had media coverage, pulled an enormous crowd, yet where she hadn’t sold a single piece.
On the gallery floor, she made her way past Margaret’s painting of turkey tail mushrooms, and the backlit kaleidoscope of Peter’s stained-glass window, finally stopping when she found him in front of one of her sculptures. He stood exactly where Peter said he’d be. Directly in front of a piece titled, “The climb from defeat.”
It had been the last sculpture she’d completed in LA, and one she’d never wanted to let go of. Mr. Covington had insisted she include it in her collection. He called it brilliant, said it made him sad, yet hopeful at the same time.
She’d rarely developed a sentimental attachment to her work, but this piece was different. Bare chested, head down, an athlete held a football helmet in one hand, barely gripping it with his fingertips. His right shoulder bore deep scars, his face filled with melancholy. However, a determined set to his jaw revealed his invincibility.
As she walked closer, she mentally assessed the situation.
The man’s back was to her, but when he turned just a fraction, she let out a breath. “Mr. Montgomery?”
His stance was hesitant. He took both hands out from his front pockets and turned to face her.
He’d aged significantly since she’d last seen him. His face was covered in a beard that was primarily gray.
He crossed the gap between them, allowing her to see the deep wrinkles peeking out from the corner of his glasses. “Sammie girl, it’s so good to see you!”
His words filled her with nostalgia as he pulled her into a hug. She hugged him back, emotion making her throat tight as she accepted the embrace. But just as quickly as it came, the feeling was over. She pushed him away, taking two gigantic steps backward as memories of Renee’s wedding rushed to her thoughts. “What do you want?” She rubbed over her arms, erasing the touch she’d so willingly taken.
His hands relaxed at his side, and his jaw went slack as he seemed to ignore the question. “It seems like yesterday you were playing in our backyard—now look at you!” he exclaimed, waving his arm around the gallery floor. “A big fancy artist in New York City. I bet your parents are?—”
“What are you doing here?” She cut him off. “What do you want?”
“I was in town …” he said cautiously. “I heard about the gallery opening and I had to come see for myself. I knew you were talented, Sam, but I had no idea.”
She only stared at him. Taking in every detail of his face, his stance, the way he wouldn’t make eye contact for more than a second.
He was lying.
Her breaths grew heavy and she thought of the phone calls Renee had received from him a few weeks ago. Is that why he was here in New York? Is that why he’d come to find her?
Dozens of questions whirled around in her head, but she turned away. “I can’t.” Because standing here now felt like a betrayal to the two people she loved most. “I’m sorry. I have too much to do.” She pivoted toward the staircase.
“Sam, wait!” He followed her.
She forced another step. “Wait!” He yelled, but this time his voice was so guttural that she halted.
“What do you want, Mr. Montgomery?”
“Just listen,” he whispered. “Please. I’ve tried everyone else, please.”
She spun around to look at him. “Is this about the phone calls?” Her voice was shaking. “Are you here because of Renee? Don’t lie to me this time!”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away. “I wasn’t in town,” he confessed. “I flew here to see you.”
Every inch of her body begged to run, to go upstairs and call Tristan, but she was glued to the spot with immense curiosity. “What do you want from me?”
He took a step closer, closing the gap between them. “Can I take you to dinner? Somewhere private?”
“Anything you have to say to me you can say right here.”
His jaw clenched and he glanced toward the window. “Fair enough.”
She held onto the handrails, her legs so weak that she feared she’d collapse. “You have two minutes,” she warned.
His feet shifted slightly, but he met her eyes again. “My son is dying,” he said with a blank stare. “I think you may be the only person who can help me save his life.”