21. Blair
— ? —
Blair
My paintings were on the walls.
I stood in the middle of the gallery, surrounded by a decade of work I’d almost given up on, and tried to breathe through the terror.
The opening was in two hours. Society would arrive with champagne and judgment, ready to gawk at the separated wife’s little hobby, ready to find reasons to dismiss everything I’d built.
I’d been preparing for this moment for weeks.
For years, really, if you counted all the time I’d spent dreaming about it while changing diapers and attending charity luncheons and being Mrs. William Beaumont instead of Blair Colby, artist. All those nights when Henry was finally asleep and I’d sneak up to the attic to paint by lamplight, telling myself it was just a hobby, just a way to unwind, nothing serious.
All those mornings when I’d wake up with paint under my fingernails and have to scrub them clean before breakfast so no one would ask questions.
Now it was here, and I wanted to vomit.
The seascapes lined the east wall, twelve paintings that traced the Newport coastline through different seasons and moods.
The abstracts occupied the west, all bold colors and emotional splatter, the kind of work I’d never shown anyone because it felt too personal, too raw.
And the portraits of Henry hung near the entrance, my son at one and three and five and seven, growing up across a series of canvases that made my throat tight every time I looked at them.
This was my life. My secret life, anyway. The one I’d hidden behind ten years of perfect wife performances.
“You’re going to be magnificent,” Trip said, appearing at my elbow with a glass of sparkling water. “Stop catastrophizing.”
“I’m not catastrophizing.”
“Your left eye is twitching. It only does that when you’re catastrophizing.”
“My left eye is twitching because I haven’t slept in three days and I’m growing a human being inside my body.”
“That’s fair.” He handed me the water. “Drink this. You look pale.”
“You always know how to make a girl feel special.”
“It’s a gift.”
I took a sip and surveyed the room again.
The paintings looked good, I had to admit.
The lighting was right, the spacing was perfect, the shelves Will had built displayed the smaller pieces at exactly the right height.
He’d done good work that night, better than the professional installers I’d been planning to hire.
The mounting was level, the brackets secure, everything positioned exactly where it needed to be.
Whatever else was broken between us, the man still knew how to build things.
“He’s coming tonight,” I said.
“Will? I know. He texted me to ask what kind of flowers you’d want.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Hydrangeas, obviously. Blue ones. The big dramatic bunches from that place on Bellevue.”
“You’re coordinating with my estranged husband on romantic gestures?”
“Somebody has to. The man is hopeless on his own. He was going to bring roses. Roses, Blair. The default flower of men who have run out of ideas.”
I smiled despite myself. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on your side. Being on your side means recognizing when someone’s trying to be better.” Trip straightened a frame that didn’t need straightening. “He’s different, B. I’ve been watching him. The therapy, the earnest apologies, the midnight shelf-building. He’s actually doing the work.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know what to do with that yet.” I turned to face him. “Three months ago, he asked me if our baby was his. He laughed when I told him the truth about you. He made me feel like everything I’d done for ten years wasn’t enough to earn his trust.”
“I know.”
“And now he’s building shelves and writing letters and showing up at doctor’s appointments with parenting books he’s memorized.
And I want to believe it’s real, I want to believe people can change, but what if it’s not?
What if he’s just doing what he thinks I want to see, and underneath he’s still the same person who could look at me and believe the worst? ”
Trip was quiet for a moment. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Always.”
“I think he was always capable of being this person. I think the fear just got in the way. And I think the question isn’t whether he’s changed, but whether you can forgive him for taking so long to get here.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
The caterers arrived, then the florist, then the string quartet I’d hired against my better judgment because Trip had insisted on live music.
The gallery filled with people preparing to make me look successful, whether I deserved it or not.
Servers arranged canapés on silver trays.
The violinist tuned her instrument in the corner.
Someone adjusted the lighting, and suddenly the seascapes looked even better, the colors deeper, the brushwork more assured.
“This is really happening,” I said to no one in particular.
“This is really happening,” Trip confirmed. “Now stop looking terrified and start looking like the brilliant artist you are.”
By seven o’clock, the first guests were arriving.
I smiled. I shook hands. I talked about my work with a confidence I didn’t feel, describing my artistic process to people who probably didn’t care but were polite enough to ask.
Society came to gawk, just as I’d expected, dressed in their finest, carrying the barely concealed curiosity of people who’d read every blind item and formed their own conclusions.
“Blair, darling, the seascapes are divine.”
“Blair, how brave of you to put yourself out there like this.”
“Blair, I simply must know which gallery represented you before.”
None, I didn’t say. No gallery wanted me. I’ve been painting in secret for a decade while everyone assumed I was just a wife.
I smiled and deflected and tried not to count how many people were actually looking at the art versus how many were looking at me, calculating the scandal, measuring the gossip potential.
I could hear the whispers underneath the surface politeness.
The separated wife. The one whose best friend turned out to be gay.
The one whose marriage had imploded at her own anniversary party.
Let them whisper, I told myself. Let them judge. Your work is on these walls, and it’s good, and nothing they say can take that away from you.
Then Giles Ashworth cornered me by the refreshments.
Giles was exactly the kind of Newport fixture I’d spent fifteen years learning to handle.
Old money, older attitudes, the sort of man who believed women’s ambitions should extend no further than their choice of charity luncheons.
He’d spent decades collecting titles and tennis trophies and the deference of people who feared him, wearing the particular smugness of a man who’d never had to work very hard for anything.
He’d been snide to me at club events for years, always with plausible deniability, always just friendly enough that calling him out would make me look paranoid.
“Charming little show,” he said, selecting a canapé with deliberate care. His tone dripped with condescension. “Such a brave choice, pursuing art at your age. And in your condition. One has to admire the determination.”
Little. Brave choice. Determination. Every word a dismissal wrapped in false politeness. At your age, as though thirty-four was ancient. In your condition, as though pregnancy was an illness rather than a state of being.
I felt the familiar urge to smile and nod and let it go. To be polite, to be gracious, to be the version of Blair Beaumont who never made waves. I’d spent a decade perfecting that woman. She was exhausting.
“Thank you, Giles.” I kept my voice sweet, but something must have shifted in my tone, because his smile flickered. “I’ve always admired your taste. Didn’t you buy that yacht that sank in the harbor last year? Such a brave choice, owning something seaworthy in your condition.”
His face went red. The woman next to him, someone’s wife whose name I couldn’t remember, choked on her champagne.
“Now see here,” Giles sputtered. “That boat was perfectly sound. The accident was entirely due to-”
“Operator error?” I suggested. “Yes, I heard. Such a shame about the insurance claim. I understand they’re still investigating whether the policy covers deliberate neglect.”
His face went from red to purple. I’d never actually spoken to Giles like this before. I’d always been too careful, too conscious of my position as Will’s wife, too worried about the social consequences of pushing back.
But I wasn’t just Will’s wife anymore. I was Blair Colby, artist, standing in my own gallery, surrounded by my own work. And I was done letting men like Giles Ashworth make me feel small.
Before he could respond, a voice cut in from behind me.
“She means the boat, Giles.” Will appeared at my shoulder, looking perfectly composed in his dark suit, his eyes hard. “Though I’d argue your condition is more accurately described as terminally mediocre.”
Giles sputtered. “Now see here, Beaumont.”
“Since we’re discussing brave choices,” Will continued, ignoring him entirely, “let’s talk about who’s been feeding items to Posy Wetherell.”
The murmur started. People shifting, leaning in, pretending not to listen while hanging on every word. The string quartet played on, oblivious, but the conversations around us had died.
“Charles Vanderford has spent months planting rumors about my wife.” Will’s voice carried, clear and deliberate, pitched to reach the back of the room. “Feeding lies to a gossip column. Trying to destroy her reputation to punish her for protecting his son.”
More murmurs. More turning heads. I saw Blythe and Delphine exchange glances, their expressions sharp with sudden understanding.
“That’s quite an accusation,” someone said from the crowd. I couldn’t see who. “Charles Vanderford is one of the most respected men in Newport.”
“Respected doesn’t mean good,” Will said. “And I’m not making an accusation. I’m stating a fact.”