76. Riley
SEVENTY-SIX
Feeling physically betterthan I have in days, I gather my phone and handbag and make my way downstairs.
My plan is to sneak out of the house and not tell Gabriel where I”m going. It”s entirely possible that I might attend the party for an hour or two and return home without him even knowing I was gone. His meeting could last hours, if his past business sessions are any indication.
I”ll admit that this could be a stupid plan. It has the possibility of backfiring. It could also lead to a huge fight between me and Gabriel. But considering he didn”t tell me about his conversation with Catherine, along with his frosty rejection of my affection, I have zero fucks to give right now.
I practically have cabin fever after being in the hospital for days, and the last thing I want is more sleep. Right now I need to be around people to take my mind off everything that”s happened in the past week.
I”m not a prisoner here.
As I walk down the grand staircase, I try to make as little noise as possible. Even though I”m pissed at Gabriel, I don”t want a confrontation. But when I”m halfway down the stairs, I hear footsteps. Familiar footsteps.
It”s not Gabriel, but Andre. And he”s opening the front door.
”Welcome, welcome,” he”s saying to a group of men, who file into the foyer.
I slow my steps. What should I do? Everyone on the first floor can see me on the stairs. Crap. Okay, I can do this. I”ll walk down, say hello, and slip out the front door. Pasting on a giant smile, I step down.
Of course, right when I get to the bottom step, Gabriel comes into view. His eyes are on the group of men, who are all older, wearing dark suits, with grim faces. All of them look like extras in an episode of The Sopranos.
I freeze, wondering if I should lie and say I”m going into the kitchen for a snack. That probably won”t fly, given what I”m wearing and the fact that I”m holding my purse on one arm and my keys in my hand.
Gabriel”s gaze lands on me, his dark eyes boring into my soul. I keep smiling like a fool, because I know I must own what I”m about to do.
With a deep breath, I swish into the foyer and approach Gabriel, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. ”Hi baby. I”ll be back in a few hours. I need to grab a few things at the store and visit Catherine.” I use my most syrupy voice.
It occurs to me that her sunglasses are still outside, but I can”t double back for them now. That would only give Gabriel the opportunity to keep me here.
I make a big show of wiping my lip gloss off his cheek, then sashay toward the front door, which is still open, all while making sure to smile at the group of men. They all look at me with amused expressions.
”Can”t stop a woman from going shopping,” one of the men says.
”You got that right, mister,” I respond saucily, tossing my blonde hair over my shoulder for emphasis.
The last thing I see is Gabriel”s glowering face, and when I close the door behind me, I make a break for my car, which is thankfully in the driveway and not the garage. I start the engine and pull out a little too fast.
For a minute I think Gabriel”s going to close the gate that separates the driveway from the street. He wouldn”t, would he? I”m relieved when I soar through without any problems.
It only takes me about fifteen minutes to get to Catherine”s gallery. There aren”t any parking spaces in the lot, but I snag a spot on the street.
Inside, the place is packed, filled with people drinking wine and oohing and ahhing over Catherine”s large, gothic-tinged paintings. There”s one I haven”t seen, and I stop to study the work.
It”s a portrait of a young man in black and white. Obviously it”s Gabriel when he was in his late teens, and the only thing that differs from reality is that in the painting, he has intense eyes the color of honey. But the painting is breathtaking, and I”m captivated by it.
Also intensely jealous.
A waiter with a tray of champagne stops in front of me. ”Dom Perignon?”
I shouldn”t, but... ”One can”t hurt,” I reason aloud, grabbing the flute.
”One drink never hurts,” says a man next to me. ”It”s always the fourth or fifth one that”s the problem.”
I turn towards the voice. The man is a little older than I am, but not by much. Late twenties, I suspect. He has dark brown hair and matching brown stubble on his jaw. His eyes are a deep blue, and his smile is more of a smirk.
”That”s the truth,” I reply, then take a sip of my drink.
My eyes return to the painting of Gabriel. When did Catherine paint this? Had Gabriel sat for her as a model, or did she do this from memory? Somehow the latter would be creepier.
”The composition on this one is interesting, isn”t it?” the man next to me says. He steps a little closer to me, probably because the place is so crowded. He”s not as tall as Gabriel, so our shoulders almost touch.
”It is. But I confess I don”t know much about art.”
”Half of the guy”s face is in shadow, which means he”s holding a secret. At least, I think that”s what it means.”
I study the painting. The guy might be onto something. Catherine certainly knows more of Gabriel”s secrets than anyone, I suspect. A fact that makes me uncomfortable.
”Hmm. The eyes seem a bit...” my voice trails off. My first instinct is to say something negative about the painting, but I can”t muster the words. It”s a gorgeous work, and even if the eyes aren”t true to life, they”re vibrant. I want to hate Catherine for painting this, but I can”t, because she”s captured him so well.
”Haunting?” the man adds. ”Sensual?”
”Yes. Both of those.”
”I find it interesting that the artist seems to have used the same person for all of her paintings.” The guy looks around the room. ”Quite a gig, if you can get it.”
I take a small sip of my champagne, trying to nurse it for the night. My gaze goes around the room, looking for Catherine, but I can”t find her in the throngs of people. I take in the half-dozen large canvases on the walls, all of the same dark-haired man. One appears to be a nude, but I”m not certain because my vision is blocked by a group of extremely tall people.
”I”m so rude. I didn”t introduce myself. My name”s Beckett Sinclair.” The man holds out his hand.
I shake it. ”Riley Murphy.”
”Are you a friend of the artist”s?”
I nod, feeling a rising sense of discomfort at the thought of my boyfriend being on every wall in this place. Will people in the city know it”s Gabriel? ”Sort of. I”m a reporter for the local paper and have interviewed her for an article. You?”
The man smiles politely. I”ve never been so glad to make small talk in my life, in hopes of taking my mind off this awkward situation. Maybe I shouldn”t have come tonight. There”s still time to leave. I take a bigger gulp of my drink, ignoring the little voice in my head that says I”m killing my liver with alcohol and prescription medicine.
”I work nearby and saw a flyer for the event. I love art, so I thought I”d stop by.”
”Oh. Nice. What do you do?”
The smirk is back. He”s a handsome guy, and pre-Gabriel I probably would”ve been interested. ”I own the bookstore a block over.”
Finally, I smile genuinely. ”The one with all the old first editions and signed hardbacks?”
”Sunshine City Books. That”s mine.”
”That store is amazing. I love it. When I moved here, I”d come here on weekends. I spent a lot of time searching for first editions of Tana French.”
Beckett laughs, his eyes scanning the room like he”s looking for someone. ”You enjoy mysteries and domestic thrillers?”
”I confess, I do. I probably should read more narrative non-fiction, given my job, but I like a well-written story. I”m drawn to darker tales, I guess.” Both in my reading tastes and in life.
”Interesting. It sounds like you could write a book of your own one day.” His gaze lingers on me and I fiddle with my gold necklace, trying to ignore how intense his stare is. ”What do you think of Catherine”s work? It really is remarkable work.”
He gestures towards the painting we were discussing earlier, the one of a young Gabriel.
”It”s certainly thought-provoking,” I reply cautiously, still feeling unsettled by the fact that my boyfriend”s face looms large in front of us.
”I”m sure whoever she used as her model feels the same way,” Beckett says with a knowing smile that sets my teeth on edge. ”It takes a certain type of person to inspire such beautiful art.”
He looks away for a moment and then back at me again, his blue eyes boring into me as if he knows something that I don”t. Maybe he recognizes me as Gabriel”s girlfriend? Perhaps he knows Gabriel is the subject of the painting? People all over the city know him, and my muscles tense.
I force a laugh and take another sip of champagne, trying to break free from his gaze, but it feels like it has a mind of its own and won”t let go of me so easily. Eek. I didn”t anticipate this tonight.
Nevertheless, I attempt to make light conversation in an effort to calm my nerves. But Beckett continues talking about Catherine and her model.
”The artist-muse relationship can be thorny,” he murmurs.
Unease starts to creep in until it becomes too much. I spot Catherine across the room, laughing uproariously with two women. I try to catch her eye, but there are too many people between us.
”I”ve always wondered how one finds a muse,” Beckett says.
”Maybe an online ad?” I quip, and he chuckles, a rich, almost ominous sound — a bit too long for my comfort.
”Maybe.” He takes another sip of his drink, and I remember that this is a gallery opening and we should be talking about art. So I quickly ask him if he has seen any other paintings here tonight that he likes.
Beckett”s face lights up as he tells me passionately about the paintings that have captured his interest. The conversation moves away from Catherine to books, music, places we both love to visit, and eventually, how we both ended up in Tampa.
He says he came here from New York City after getting his degree in library science from Columbia. We chat for a bit over our time in New York and discover that we both enjoyed the coffee and croissants at one Greenwich Village café.
”Who knows, we could”ve been drinking coffee there at the same time,” he says.
I sense that he”s about to take the plunge into asking me out. The idea makes me nervous, and not just because Gabriel would probably break his kneecaps if he knew. Beckett has an unusually focused demeanor that”s kind of freaking me out. I smile and take a step back while mumbling an excuse about needing some fresh air. Just then, I spot Catherine across the room, laughing with two women.
”I see my friend, the artist. I”m going to say hello then leave. Nice chatting with you,” I say to Beckett.
”I hope to do it again soon,” he says.
I thread my way through the crowd toward Catherine, the memory of the strange glint in Beckett”s eyes that seem too eager, too intense, burned into my brain. Goosebumps race up my arms as I finish my champagne and set it on a passing waiter”s tray.
I”m getting the hell out of here as soon as I say hi to Catherine. The last thing I need is more weirdness and drama in my life.