Chapter 25
“How did you know?” I gasped.
“You have his art in your living room,” he explained.
For our second Sunday morning date, Rowan took me to a private showing at a gallery in Queens, featuring art by Wassily Kandinsky. I became a fan of his work after I learned about him during a seminar at my college in London.
The gallery was small, but I was delighted to be able to spend time in front of each painting without a crowd jostling me in a museum.
“Are you into art?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not really, but I like museums when I go to them. I’m a rancher, darlin’, my tastes are a tad rustic.”
“I got interested in art because I thought that would make me appear more well-bred. Right after we left the home, I was obsessed with bettering myself. I found that I actually appreciated and enjoyed it. When we moved into our condo, I bought prints and frames on Amazon. I even got Monet and Piet Hien coloring books for Flora.”
”I know who Monet is, have no clue who that other guy is. Didn”t know who Miro was, either. Had to look him up,” Rowan confessed.
He tucked my hand into his arm as we walked through the small but elegant rooms of the gallery.
”How did you find this place?”
He grinned. ”I had someone find it for me. I wanted to take you someplace you”d normally not go.”
”Last time, I got a full English, and this time, food for my soul. You”re spoiling me, Rowan.”
He nuzzled the side of my head. ”Let me. I want to. It makes me happy to please you. And it”s been a long fucking time since I was happy.”
I could feel his loneliness. The man I”d met six years ago had been aggressive when it came to his family. But when we were out on his land, there was a serenity about him that had drawn me to him. He loved the ranch, and him saying he wanted to sell it to be here in New York scared the living daylights out of me. I wasn”t ready for him to make such a declaration. Just the fact that he was committing to taking me out on a date every Sunday—I”d chosen the least interesting time I could when I first suggested it—was difficult to swallow, and I was certain that he”d tire of trying so hard. Then he”d stop coming to New York.
And then, what, Isha?
Then my life would make sense again.
But his assault on my psyche was relentless. When we came to the end of the gallery, he opened the back door to a small, covered patio. It looked like a fairytale, with creeping vines, a cozy table, and two chairs.
”I know it”s early for high tea,” he murmured, ”but Mick said you love it so…viola!”
The table was laden with an array of delights that made my heart skip. Delicate porcelain teacups sat alongside a gleaming teapot, the steam whispering promises of a rich, aromatic blend. Plates of finger sandwiches were meticulously arranged, their fillings ranging from cucumber with cream cheese to smoked salmon with dill, each a tiny masterpiece of flavor. Scones, still warm, beckoned invitingly, accompanied by clotted cream and strawberry jam, their traditional simplicity a perfect counterpoint to the sophistication of the setting.
Next to the scones were an assortment of pastries and cakes, creating a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. Petite éclairs filled with light, creamy custard, tartlets bursting with fresh berries, and dainty macarons in pastel hues. The attention to detail was breathtaking, from the delicate lace tablecloth to the soft glow of the candles that flickered gently in the morning breeze, casting dancing shadows among the vines.
”I feel like we”re at the Mad Hatter”s party,” I teased.
Rowan watched me with a mix of hunger and pride. ”Wanna see how deep this rabbit hole goes, Isha?”
I knew what he was asking so I simply said, ”This is incredible. Thank you,” and because I couldn”t help myself, raised on tiptoe and kissed him on his lips.
He froze for an instant, and then put his arms around me and dipped his head. He didn”t push the kiss. Didn”t deepen it.
”You smell like jasmine,” he whispered.
”It”s my shampoo.”
”It”s you, Isha.” He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. ”So, I did good with this spread?”
”You did amazing.”
Sitting down, he poured tea, its fragrance blending with the fresh scent of the surrounding garden. The world outside seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of us in our enchanted nook. As we sipped from our cups and sampled the array of treats, it was as if the setting, so carefully chosen and prepared, had opened the door to a deeper connection, one that had been waiting just on the edge of my awareness.
We talked about the ranch and my practice. We talked about Flora. We even talked about current affairs. It was like being back on the ranch, when it was just the two of us; no Deb, no Ace, no Caitlyn.
”I was so frightened when I first got on the horse,” I confessed. ”It was so high up.”
”You did beautifully once you got used to it.”
”Yes.”
”Did you ever go riding again?” he asked.
I shook my head. ”Too many memories.”
He put his hand on mine. ”I”m sorry.”
”Stop,” I urged. ”Stop apologizing. That”s the last ‘sorry’ I want to hear.”
”Does that mean I”m forgiven?” he asked with a boyish charm that was so much like the Rowan I remembered that it warmed me all the way to my soul.
”I”m working on it.”
”Okay.”
”I may never get there,” I warned him, not because I wanted to hurt him, but I didn”t want to mislead him. My life had very few people in it by choice. Trust was a difficult concept for me. People had let me down my whole life—even Rowan.
”I”ll get you there,” he vowed, tangling his fingers with mine. ”I won”t give up.”
”You”ll tire of my drama.”
”Isha, don”t you get it, I can never tire of you, of trying for us. I loved you even when I didn”t have you with me. But you”re here now, I can touch you, see you. I couldn”t walk away even if I wanted to. I don”t have a choice in this.”
”There”s always a choice,” I swallowed.
”Not in this. Not for me.”
I took a deep breath and released it tremulously. It was so tempting to believe him, but something inside me just wouldn”t let me.
”There”s no rush,” he continued. ”No pressure. Just make a little time for me. Three hours every Sunday.”
”And that”s enough?”
”Not at all. But that”s what you can allow me right now, and I understand that. Let me earn your trust. You offered it to me last time with no effort on my part, and I fucked it up. I”ll never do that again. This one chance you”ve agreed to is…everything. I”m going to make it count. You won”t have to give me another.”
He was saying all the right things. He was doing all the right things. But we”d been on exactly two dates. This was a new relationship.
”How did you get high tea served here?” I asked, changing the topic.
He chuckled. ”My hotel”s staff is very adept.”
”And your pots of money help.”
”Money always helps.”
”You know I don”t care about your money.” I didn”t mention it, but we were both thinking about the times he”d called me a gold-digger.
”I know. In fact, I have a feeling you”d prefer it if I didn”t have so much of it.”
Which was true. Money spoiled people, made them feel entitled, led them to live a life where they cared less about others. Not all people with money, but I believed many were like that.
”I”m not complaining about this.” I spread my hands. ”The gallery, this meal, you. It”s perfect.”
The morning stretched on, each moment a thread in the tapestry we were weaving together. As we lingered over the last crumbs and the final drops of tea, I realized that to Rowan and even me, this was more than just a date. It was a promise, a glimpse of what could be, wrapped in the simple beauty of sharing tea and time.
When we finally rose to leave, the patio felt like a memory from a dream, ethereal and perfect. As we stepped back into the gallery, I carried with me the warmth of the tea, the sweetness of the cakes, and the fervent hope that I wasn”t making a big mistake.