Chapter 3 #2
“Does it feel right because of the Fifth Avenue townhouse, the Maserati, the ring, or your new breasts?”
“Ha. Ha. None of the above.” She looked down at the sparkling rock on her finger.
“I’m not as gold-digging as you think. It feels right because I trust you and you’ve always been honest with me about everything.
Not only do you understand me, but you had faith enough in me to invest in my business.
Support from my family has always been in short supply.
” She shrugged, then toyed with her suit collar apparently uncomfortable voicing her appreciation.
“I expected you to fall for my money, but please don’t go falling for me because of any misguided hero-worship,” he stated. “I’d like to just remain your sugar daddy without the whole ‘love’ thing.”
“I’m not falling for you. I’ve scrutinized page twenty-nine several times. Besides, you’re a grouch. It’s best if we keep separate bedrooms, offices, and relaxation spaces. You are so not a morning, afternoon, or night person.”
“True.” He swallowed hard, allowing the hidden man inside to thank her the only way he could by reaching between them and taking her hand in his. “This is really it. After we get through your sister’s wedding, it’ll be our turn.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed that this time her trip to the altar is better than the last. May they never be in short supply of love or booze to keep from killing each other before they reach six months.”
“Just a reminder—I’m not in love with you and will resist killing you at all cost,” he teased.
“That’s good because I don’t love you like that either,” she replied. “And I make no promise about not killing you.”
“Duly noted.” They smiled at each other, and it made him happy to see how excited his friend was at the prospect of spending their future companionship caring for each other and providing for each other’s personal needs.
Clearing his throat, he dropped her hand and walked the empty space, admiring the vaulted tray ceiling and classical fresco within.
Brightly kissed by the sun, the apartment smelled and looked fresh and clean.
He loved that the townhouse had been painstakingly restored to its historical grandeur. His chest swelled with pride.
She waved her arm in the direction of the empty wall facing the windows.
Raising her voice, she echoed in the cavernous family room.
“What do you think? I imagine a sixty-by-forty-inch original Fauvist painting right here. Maybe a modern piece or a Matisse nude. The sunlight will make the dramatic color against the white walls and carpet all the more—”
“Not a fan. I prefer something Impressionist or American Realism, maybe a watercolor.”
“And, I prefer modern abstract.” She gave him the puppy-dog pout.
“Um. No.”
“The art of the deal, huh? Okay, then, how about an original Georgia O’Keefe if we can locate one?”
He grimaced.
“You’re playing hardball, I see. What do you think of a Sargent or a Homer?” she offered.
“Possibly. I’d prefer a Wyeth.”
“I could live with that even if he’s a bit morbid.”
“He’s realistic.”
“What about Pointillism over the fireplace?”
“I’m impressed, you’ve brought your art appreciation A-game,” he complimented.
“Don’t be too blown away. I only know the technique because one of my clients installed a Pissarro print above the mantle, and I think the length of this living space would do the medium justice.”
“Maybe.”
“We finally, sort of, agree on something. There’s a high-end fine arts gallery in Tribeca I’ve been dying to visit. I’ll see if they can recommend an art broker or have one in-house.”
“Handle it. You’re in charge, fiancée,” he joked.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if we made this decision together. Maybe you can come to the gallery with me?”
“I don’t have the time. I trust you. You’ll do great.”
“You know, Darcy, sometimes I do love you.”
“Darcy?”
“Since it’s going to be my last name. I thought it sounded much more ‘us’ instead of William. I’d call you Fitzwilliam, but I know how you feel about that.”
“Darcy’s fine,” he groused, but truth be told he rather liked it coming from Beanz.
“Anyway, I love you because you never really deny me anything—except for sex, of course,” she said.
“I guess, lucky for you, it’ll only be a few more months of abstinence.”
“An end to your abstinence, certainly not mine. You’re the sweet, sometimes sour, cream on the cake, darling. I’ve waited a very long time for part deux.”
That set him back, his ire immediately surfacing at the inference. “Wait. What? You waited for me? That’s not how the contract was intended to work, and I’ll have you know I dated quite a bit.”
“But did you have sex?”
“That’s not any of your business.”
She grinned. “Aw c’mon, you can tell me. Have you gotten laid since that incredible night we spent together?”
“You’re changing the subject, and you weren’t supposed to wait for me for the six years.”
“That’s not what I meant, silly. Of course, I did not put my life on hold with the expectation of you and me tying the knot. Don’t flatter yourself—marrying you was a last-ditch option. And frankly, there’s no other single, straight, high-value man in New York City.”
She quickly turned on her heel from his stare down. He could smell her half-truth trailing behind her into the dining room.
“Oh yes, a definite watercolor in here,” she called out, changing the subject.
Apart from a few well-known artist friends from his mother’s circle and the Anne Darcy Scholarship founded after her death, he’d stopped appreciating art for its skilled execution.
Due to unforeseen circumstances, art wasn’t his thing anymore, but art collecting as a means to decorate a home while acting as a diverse portfolio-building financial investment was damn sexy to him.
As a traditional type of guy, he had no intention of owning shares in the art market or even purchasing blue-chip works by emerging contemporary artists.
His sights were set on acquiring late nineteenth to mid-twentieth century originals, and that his artist mother would find noteworthy.
“What’s the name of the art gallery?” he asked walking into the kitchen where she now positioned herself and measuring tape across the door to the rooftop oasis.
“La Tempera Gallery,” she said. “Have you heard of it?”
“No, but I like the name. My mother’s paint technique was egg tempera.”
“I’m not familiar with the medium, but I’ll look it up,” she said, half listening, writing the door measurements in her notebook.
She put on a good show, but she cared little about art for art’s creative sake, just for how it made a space look and feel. He could respect that.
“Wyeth was known for his tempera. He used an Old-World egg recipe in the famous Christina’s World,” he said, smoothing his hand along the polished white granite island.
“It was all about the light for him—and my mother. The medium once used egg yolk as a binding agent, and it holds less pigment, which gives it a shiny, ethereal look. Now they use other stuff for the same effect.”
“I forgot you went through a hokey artist phase,” she said, still jotting notes.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like one of my mother’s larger pieces to hang in the dining room.”
She looked up with a jolt. “Damn, I’m so sorry! I should have considered her work from the start. Your mom was an amazing artist.”
“She was. I think just two select pieces are sufficient. One in my private bedroom and the other in the dining room. Apart from the one in my apartment, they’re still collecting dust in Mom’s Dakota studio since her passing.”
“That’s a shame.”
“That was my father’s order,” he said with a clipped tone.
“Anything to keep from feeling anything for anyone following her death. It was as if she never existed once he locked that door.” He opened the sub-zero refrigerator—a waste of space and necessity since neither cooked. “It’s all a moot point now.”
Disengaging from the conversation, she went back to writing notes with a “Hmm ... right,” then dropped the pen and picked up her phone.
He was thankful she didn’t call him out on having morphed into his father: triple-locking the door to his heart after his ex dumped him and his mother died of cancer a year and a half later.
Often accused of being a person of little self-awareness, he was not blind to his idiosyncrasies and unfeeling outward persona.
His total focus on the financial business sector seemed to others a foregone conclusion of his nature, being a Darcy and all, but it was a self-protection mechanism.
He recognized this and deliberately presented himself as controlled and aloof.
No one could hurt him there, but down deep—locked in the abyss—another man longed to exist. He would never be that man again—even if his disappointed mother looked down at him.
She had been a warm, sociable creative—a true empath who operated from the right side of the brain, painting the world with her joyful light and love, forgiving and forgetting the worst and encouraging him at every turn to do the same.
That had been the Fitzwilliam family in her, certainly not the Darcy influence.
“Hellooo?” Beanz called out to him, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“I just did a search for the gallery, and they’re having a reception for a well-known artist Friday night. Would you like to go with me?”
“No, thanks. Go with your sister. She probably needs a break from wedding plans.”
“We’ll see. She bought one painting and already considers herself an art connoisseur. The friggin’ know-it-all wouldn’t know a Dali from a Renoir and will probably get drunk and ruin the whole gallery reception experience.”
“Then go alone. I trust your discernment in finding the right artwork and person to assist us. In the interim, I’ll find the time to stop by the Dakota to look at the pieces in my mother’s collection.”
“You know, you didn’t indicate what your plans are for your condo.”
He smiled tightly because he deliberately hadn’t said, but since she asked, it was time to confess. “I’m keeping it.”
“Are we leasing it out?”
It didn’t escape his notice—we.
“No. I’m keeping it as an investment and—just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“That we don’t work out or if I feel like killing you.
” Or I just need to escape or overnight or just be me without you.
Damn, he was already predicting a miserable future.
Honestly, he didn’t know what lay ahead in this marriage pact, but he would leave nothing to chance.
If it ended, she’d probably get the townhouse, and he’d have to start looking for another place to hang his hat.
He liked that place down in the West Village.
Ghosts and shadows aside, it held some worthwhile memories, not to mention the view was to die for. Keeping it was a smart investment.
“Ha. Ha,” she said.
“Don’t give me that look. There’s no one else, nor will there be. It would cost me too much money to fool around on you,” he said.
“You’re wrong, I’m not suspicious in the least. In fact, I’d be shocked if you ever cheated.
You’re no longer wired like the ordinary male and—unfortunately for me—you stopped thinking with your equipment a long time ago.
Since you’ve been sober, any passion you had for anything other than Pemberley’s next corporate kill died. ”
What the hell did she know? She was entirely wrong about him—always had been.
He never thought with his dick, only his heart, and there were only two people who truly knew how his mind and soul worked, one of whom had intimate knowledge of how his heart and his dick worked in tandem.
Everyone else’s pitiful attempt to sketch his character epically failed due to their expectations and pre-conceived notions based on faulty information, the Darcy name, and the mask he wore.
“Can we please move on from this subject? Your ravenous need for sex has already violated the terms of the agreement more times than I can count.”
She put the phone down and propped a hand on her hip.
“As I said, none of them were parasites, so stop being so judgy. We’re not married yet and any sexual activity I’ve engaged in has been thoroughly enjoyed out of the tri-state area.”
He laughed. “I’m not judging you, but it’s uncomfortable and supremely annoying that our disagreements always devolve to the topic of sex. As you said, it’s not like you’ve been abstinent so why act like it or pressure me for intimacy I’m reluctant to give before marriage?”
Looking him straight on she said with a curve to her lips, “Because I’m a woman with new boobs and a healthy sex drive and you, my friend, are the epitome of hotness, even if you’re uptight.
You are not all show and no go, and I would have a serious defect if I didn’t desire a piece of that again. How is this wrong think?”
“Because I’ve known you since you were eight, that’s why.
Maybe we could talk about other passions—books, physical training, stock fluctuations, your massive handbag collection.
Hell, I’ll even discuss your wedding dress .
.. anything other than your irritating innuendo and bullying to grab my ‘equipment.’ Think on it.
Our friendship has always been more than that one mistake we made six years ago.
You need to forget about it and quit forcing me to remember it, let alone discuss it. It’s a clear violation—”
“I know ... of the contract, pages forty-two and one-hundred-nineteen.” She audibly sighed.
“There’s no talking to you.” He sighed, then ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I planned on taking you to lunch to celebrate the townhouse. Are you up for Bangkok Garden?”
Obviously peeved at being chastised, she said, “I’ll pass. I want to get the ball rolling here.”
“Then, I should get back to the kill. Call me after the bridal salon to tell me how much you’ll bleed me for.
” Leaving the kitchen, he stopped at the far end of the living room, admiring the fireplace.
He liked her suggestion. A Seurat original could be quite fitting over the mantle.
The small expressive strokes and thousands of dots of color and light would make his soul very happy.