Chapter 27
Zaira couldn’t believe Bellamy was really having an art show in the gallery. She was amazed at his bravery and prayed it would go well for him, better than the revelation of her identity had gone.
As she started toward the door of the building, she halted. She’d invited her parents, as Bellamy had requested. But the whole way from Oakland into the city, she’d resorted to her usual docile manner, pretending everything was as it should be.
The truth was, she still needed to admit to her parents that she hadn’t stopped writing and publishing the way they wanted.
At one point during the ride, she’d known she needed to have that conversation even if it pushed her farther away from them.
Yet, she’d silenced the inner voice, telling herself she didn’t want to have a disagreement with her parents on Bellamy’s special night.
Of course, she’d informed them all about Bellamy’s painting. She’d had to in order to invite them to the gallery with her. While they’d been surprised, they hadn’t been put off by the news. They probably thought it was a hobby and nothing he was too serious about.
But she knew better. It was much more than a hobby for Bellamy. He was an exceptionally good artist, and he would someday be famous. Or at least her fanciful heart hoped so.
Regardless, she was frustrated at how readily her parents had accepted Bellamy’s painting but how easily they’d squelched her writing.
Behind her, Mam gave her a nudge. “Go on with you now, Zaira. This is the perfect opportunity tonight to show yourself as the poised and proper lady that you are.”
Zaira’s spine only stiffened. Tonight wasn’t about trying to repair her image or her family’s reputation. It was about Bellamy and the strength he’d displayed to reveal his paintings, no matter the consequences, no matter what anyone thought, no matter what the future held.
She had to do the same.
Drawing in a deep breath, she pivoted and faced her parents. Both were wearing stylish evening attire and had seemed eager to do something in the city after having so few social activities that summer so far.
Da had been in the middle of whispering in Mam’s ear. The flush on her face and soft smile meant he’d been complimenting her or sharing words of endearment.
Zaira opened her mouth to tell them the truth but then stopped. Could she really? Not when they both looked so happy.
She spun and took two more steps.
If Bellamy could be forthright and brave, then she would have to be as well.
Once again she halted. This time she spun and spoke at the same time. “I’m still writing my weekly column for the Daily Republican.”
With fading smiles, her parents stared at her, their expressions startled.
She forced herself to continue. “I’m sorry you don’t like my writing. But it’s important to me. And I hope someday you’ll accept me for who I am and not who you think I should be.”
Without waiting for them to respond, she turned around and raced toward the doors, needing to get away before they reacted. She wasn’t sure she could bear any more of their disappointment and disapproval, especially not tonight.
As she pushed open the doors and flew inside, her gaze seemed to have an internal compass that could always find Bellamy no matter where he was in a crowd. She immediately located him standing in the lobby just outside a busy room filled with people milling around paintings.
His eyes were riveted to her, so dark and intense and magnetic.
She stopped abruptly and let herself take him in from his wavy dark hair down the hard length of his body.
He’d shed his sling for the night and was holding his injured shoulder stiffly.
Even so, in his suit, he was a devastating heart-stealer.
For better or worse, he’d stolen her heart, and she knew she’d never get it back. He had it forever.
As a tall gentleman came up to Bellamy and spoke to him, Bellamy didn’t see or hear the man. He had eyes only for her, as if she was the only one who currently existed in the world.
As he smiled at her, a sweet pulse of pleasure raced through her, and she smiled in return. Oh aye, she loved this man. She loved him more than anyone or anything. And she wanted to be with him more than anyone or anything.
Since his visit yesterday, she’d thought of him even more, attempting to make sense of his gifts. Had he been sending the message that he cared about her? If so, he was wearing down her resistance. Was that what he’d been trying to do? Could she let him?
Bellamy walked away from the man at his side and began to cross to her. With each footstep closer, her heart pounded harder. What would he do when he reached her? Would he draw her into an embrace?
She had half a mind to fling herself against him, but she could hear her mam and dad entering the building, and she had to show some restraint. It was actually for the best if she kept Bellamy at arm’s length and didn’t allow herself to get carried away with him.
When he was but a foot away, he stopped, his charming smile melting her heart again. “You came.”
“Aye, I wanted to be part of this special night.” She glanced behind him toward the display room, mostly because his dark eyes were simply too handsome and if she looked into them for much longer, his intensity would turn her body into liquid.
She would have no choice but to flop to the floor in a melted puddle.
The older gentleman had followed Bellamy. “Mr. Shanahan?” He stepped forward to greet Da. “I’m Mr. Davenport, and I’m the one in charge of the exhibition tonight.”
Da shook the man’s hand.
“I’m pleased you are here,” Mr. Davenport continued, “although I regret to inform you that all of Bellamy’s paintings sold within the first hour of the showing.”
“Is that so?” Da peered at the room now with more interest.
“Bellamy!” Zaira reached for his hand. “I’m thrilled for you.”
As soon as their hands connected, the heat was instantaneous. She felt the connection all the way to a place deep inside. From the way Bellamy’s eyes widened, she guessed he’d felt it too.
Mr. Davenport had stepped back and was waving them toward the display. “If you do see any landscapes you particularly like, Bellamy has offered to paint on commission.”
Bellamy finally seemed to notice the gentleman, and he tore his attention from Zaira to speak to the man. “Mr. Davenport, if the Shanahans are interested in any of my paintings, I will gladly give them anything they’re wanting. They’ll not be paying me a single cent.”
“I see.” Mr. Davenport’s brows rose.
“It’s time.” Bellamy gave the man a knowing look.
He seemed at a loss for a moment, then he nodded. “Oh yes. I’ll do it right away.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Davenport scurried away, on a mission of some sort.
Bellamy made small talk with her parents for a few minutes before smiling again at Zaira, then slipping his fingers through hers.
The pressure was intoxicating. She wanted to pause and examine every nuance of every finger that was intertwined with hers.
She wanted to imprint the memory of all the sensations it evoked so she could write about it later.
But as he led them toward the gallery, she knew now wasn’t the time.
This was his special night, and she couldn’t focus on herself.
Several other guests attempted to garner his attention as he passed by, but he didn’t stop to talk to anyone. His attention was fixed solely upon her, his eyes brimming with something that made her breathing stutter.
Was it affection? Attraction? Or something else?
Her imagination all too often got the best of her, and she didn’t want to get carried away. She needed to stay realistic.
As they reached the display room, he paused, glanced in, nodded—presumably at Mr. Davenport—then he stepped back out. “Close your eyes.”
She did his bidding, letting her lashes fall. She loved surprises, and she would gladly play along with him if he had a surprise for her.
He guided her forward again.
She kept her eyes closed and let him lead. “What is it?”
“There’s something I need to show you.”
She could feel the attention of the guests, the conversations tapering to silence, the curiosity of the others now mirroring her own. What was Bellamy doing?
He halted and positioned her, then took a step away but didn’t let go of her hand.
She supposed she ought to disentangle their fingers, but she loved the feel of his palm against hers, the firmness of his hold, the confidence in his stance. With him, she felt as if she could do anything.
“Ready?” he whispered.
“Aye.” More than ready for whatever he was doing.
He waited several heartbeats as if fortifying himself for her reaction. Then he spoke. “Open your eyes.”
She lifted her lashes and found herself positioned in front of three easels, each containing a landscape painting but with a woman in the background. A young woman with long red hair. Her.
The first painting was familiar. It was at Dover’s Pond, and she was sitting on the bank in the tall grass with a stack of papers in front of her and was looking up at someone and smiling playfully.
The second painting was along the Mississippi River, and in this one, she was riding upon a horse, glancing over her shoulder at someone, again with a teasing glint in her eyes. Had that been the day when they’d gone to the immigrant camp to hunt for the children?
The third painting was of the shrubs that graced the property of her family’s home, flowers in bloom, insects in the air, the summer sunshine hazy with coal dust. She was walking away, giving someone a sideways look, another smile, this one filled with mischief.
He’d portrayed her so beautifully, so gently, and so thoughtfully, showing unique aspects of her personality and different views of her body and face.
And he’d painted her with such accuracy that she could have been looking at herself in a mirror. Every curl of her hair, the dimple in her chin, the curve of her shoulder, the way she parted her hair.