Chapter Twenty-Seven
Magnolia
"Sit still, Maggie. You're going to fidget yourself right out of the car," Charlie said, giving me the side-eye.
"I'm not fidgeting," I lied.
"I should have made you drink the third glass of wine," she said, merging into traffic.
She'd shown up at my hotel room a few hours before, carrying enough luggage to move in. Twenty minutes later, she had me sitting at the desk, a glass of wine in my hand, as she painstakingly curled my long, thick hair.
Charlotte usually wore her own hair in some variation of a chignon, but when she felt like it, she could be a hair genius.
A little product and her curling iron transformed my hair into a wild mass of loose curls that tumbled over my shoulders and down my back.
She'd pulled strands from the front, twisting them and pinning them up, framing my face and lending elegance to the curls. It was almost too much, but the dress she'd chosen for me was plain, almost stark in design, and the extravagant hair balanced it out.
I had a dress at home, but Charlie had taken one look and declared it 'boring'. She'd gone shopping for me, saying I was too conservative. Coming from a woman who lived in business suits, it was an ironic accusation.
At first, I'd refused to wear the dress she'd picked out. For one thing, it was short. I didn't do short. If I had to worry about bending over in it, I didn't wear it.
There would be no bending in this dress. If I dropped anything, it was gone forever while I had this thing on.
Also, it was black. I liked color. Still, I had to admit, the black wrap dress made my body look ten times better than it really was.
My legs weren't bad after months of running, and though the skirt was short, it covered the roundest part of my thighs. The fabric pulled together at my waist, making it look tiny. I wasn't showing much cleavage. The dress was tasteful, but something about the cut emphasized my breasts.
I was curvy to begin with. In this dress, I was a bombshell.
I'd tried to do my own makeup, but Charlie had brushed me aside, shoving another glass of wine in my hand and telling me to drink up. I had.
Despite her help with my dress and everything else, I didn't want to go to Vance's show. The idea of being anywhere near him made me ill.
He'd stopped calling. Not even a text. That was that. It hurt even more to know he'd given up on me so easily.
I knew I'd done the right thing in kicking him out. He didn't love me, and I wasn't going to waste another second of my life on a man who didn't want me more than his next breath.
I wanted it all. Love. Family. I was going to hold out for someone I could love with everything I had, someone who loved me the same way.
That all sounded good in theory. Reality was a deep ache in my heart, a gaping hole that used to be filled with Vance.
And Rosie. How could I have fallen so hard for a person who wasn't old enough to sit up? I'd always wanted children, but I'd had no clue how one tiny, helpless human could claim me so completely.
Part of me was on constant alert for the sound of her crying, worried she needed something. I knew she was with her father, and Vance adored his little girl. The way he'd stepped up for her was one more thing to love about him.
My breath hitched in my chest as I smothered a sob. Charlie's head whipped around.
"Don't you dare cry and mess up my makeup job.
You look gorgeous and we're almost there.
Just hold it together a little longer, and this will all be over.
We'll go in, have a drink, chat for a few minutes, and then sneak out the back.
If you feel yourself getting weepy, bite the inside of your lip.
Hard. Or pinch the skin between your thumb and pointer finger. They both work."
"What?" Her advice was so matter-of-fact, I knew it came from personal experience.
"Bite the inside of your lip or pinch the skin between your thumb and pointer finger. Hard enough to hurt. The pain will distract you long enough to keep yourself from crying. It doesn't do the trick for long, but it helps."
I didn't need to ask Charlie when she'd needed to keep herself from crying in public. I'd seen the pictures of her at her parents’ funeral.
Every tear had been photographed and sold for entertainment. The Winters family had learned the hard way to keep their emotions to themselves.
I dug my nails into that tender strip of skin between my fingers and found that she was right. The flash of pain didn't do anything about the hole in my heart, but it shocked my nervous system enough to chase away the tears.
A few minutes later, we were pulling up in front of Sloane's gallery. A valet took Charlotte's keys, and she rounded the car to me, threading her arm through mine and tossing her sleek, auburn hair over her shoulder.
"Smile," she hissed at me. "Don't give the vultures anything."
I did, stretching my lips into a replica of a smile, pretending to look around the packed gallery as we entered.
After all the planning, I'll admit to a surge of triumph at the crowd. Half of the pieces already had red SOLD stickers pinned beside the descriptions. The last piece Vance had finished took center stage in the first room, towering above the elegantly dressed guests.
Twice my height, somehow both sinuous and muscular, the shades of grey metal gleamed beneath the strategic lighting.
I expected to see a SOLD sticker on that piece as well. It hadn't been a commission, but we already had a buyer in mind, and the last I'd heard, it had been a done deal.
Now, instead of a price, the information plaque stated that Vance had donated the sculpture to the Winters Foundation’s silent auction. Abigail must have been thrilled. It was worth a ton.
I imagined Sloane's fury when she'd heard the news. For the first time that night, my smile was genuine.
Heart pounding in my chest, I scanned the room for Vance. He was nowhere to be seen. Vance was never the shy artist lurking in the corner at his own shows. He was usually himself—charming, cocky, amusing—and at the center of the crowd.
I was grateful that he was out of sight. It would be so much easier to get through this if I could avoid him completely.
Charlie towed me to the bar and shoved a drink in my hand. I took a sip and winced. "What is this?"
"A Moscow mule," she said.
"It's too strong," I complained.
"I know. That's the point. Drink up. There are people heading this way."
There were. Investors we were working with on a few projects. We did the cheek kiss, social hug thing and they jumped right in to business. I let out a breath of relief.
Business I could handle. I knew every detail of our projects. I could talk numbers in my sleep. Or while most of my attention was on the shifting mass of people in the room, hyper-alert for any sign of Vance.
So far, so good. The investors thanked me for the update I barely remembered giving and wandered off. I turned to scan the crowd from another angle when Charlie's fingers closed around my arm.
"She-bitch at three o'clock," she said in a low voice. Sure enough, Sloane was bearing down on us, her perfectly made up face screwed into a familiar look of annoyance.
"Where have you been?" she hissed. "You were supposed to be here to help me set up."
I shrugged, utterly without an answer. I should have been there to help. I hadn't even bothered to call. It was rude, thoughtless, and I couldn't bring myself to give a crap.
My heart had been smashed to pieces, and for once in my life, I was looking out for me.
It wasn't like Sloane didn't have gallery staff. She hip-checked Charlie out of the way, snatched the drink from my hand, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders, her fingers biting into my skin through the thin fabric of my dress.
Steering me at a quick pace through the crowded gallery, she said, "There's a major problem with the setup in the garden. Major. Why haven't you been answering your phone?"
I didn't know what she was talking about. I'd had my phone turned on all day and she hadn't called me once.
The hallway at the back of the gallery should have been lit, the door to the garden wide open to encourage the guests to wander outside and see the pieces that should've been placed in the gallery's outdoor space.
Instead, the hall was dark and the door was shut.
We'd been planning the show for months. How could a major part of it have gone wrong in the last twenty-four hours?
Sloane wrenched open the door, planted her palm in the middle of my back, and shoved, propelling me outside.
The door slammed shut behind me, the deadbolt clicking into place. I spun around and pulled on the handle. It turned, but the door remained closed. She'd locked me out.
What the hell?
Sloane could be a raging bitch. Most of the time, she was a raging bitch, but she usually made sense. The show was big business for her.
Why wasn't the garden set up? Why would she yell at me for being late and then throw me out?
I could only hope Charlie would realize I was missing and come find me.
Resigned to waiting until someone rescued me—there was no way I was climbing the smooth concrete walls of the garden in four-inch heels and a cocktail dress—I turned to face the garden, intending to sit on one of the wrought iron benches.
Belatedly, I noticed that the garden was lit from above with fairy lights that had been artfully strung around the walls, through the tree in the back corner, and over the gazebo in the center.
When had Sloane installed a gazebo?
The whole effect was whimsical and romantic, the sparkling lights delicate and sweet. It didn't go with the modern aesthetic of Sloane's gallery, or the spare, almost aggressive metal sculptures we'd planned to display in the space.
I wandered deeper into the garden, curious and confused.
Fashioned of thin poles with a domed top, the gazebo had metal leaves and vines woven around the supports, perfectly fitting the fairy lights twined around the metal.
I'd seen one in a similar style at an antique show and had been talking about getting one for my back yard, but I had never gotten around to it.
A single Edison Bulb hung from the center of the domed top of the gazebo, illuminating the small café table in the center. On it sat an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a small metal sculpture of a house.
About as wide as a paperback book, no more than six inches tall, the little house was roughly made, but it reminded me of my own. I picked it up to study it more closely and found it unexpectedly heavy.
I knew from experience that metal sculpture could be like that. Sometimes, it was light as air though it looked dense, but often, it was the other way around. Something rattled as I turned the house in my hands.
I looked through the open front door and saw a small black box. What was this? I replaced the little house on the table and stepped away. This had been set up for someone. I was interrupting. I shouldn't be here.
"Do you like it?"
I looked up to see Vance standing in front of the gazebo, his hair loose around his face, wearing a navy suit with a deep blue button-down shirt.
I'd chosen his clothes myself a few days before. The tie I'd picked out, with narrow stripes the exact shade of his eyes, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he wore the collar unbuttoned, the golden skin of his throat warm against the crisp shirt and dark suit.
I stared at him, my chest tight, the corners of my eyes prickling, my heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on.