Chapter 6
SIX
Entering the Upper West Side apartment where he grew up, Darcy called out above a Chopin adagio, “Hey! Are you home, Gigi?” He waited, examining the bizarre black and white photograph of—something―hanging by the door, then took a double-take. Is that pubic hair?
“Gigi?” The music turned off.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” she said running into the foyer, wearing her usual second skin of dancewear.
“I’m fine, why?”
“Because you haven’t come here since Dad died, like, literally.” Gigi kissed his cheek.
Where had time gone? Ah, somewhere between her NYU Tisch graduation, her maturing, and his Swiss account growing from eight hundred million to a billion.
“It’s about time you returned home. I have to show you something,” she said. He followed her skinny form down the hallway. “Please don’t be mad at me,” she continued.
“Never.”
“I think you will be, but I had no choice. I’m outgrowing the apartment, and I had to make some big decisions since you don’t want anything to do with the place. Anyway, it’s done, and I’m super stoked about my decision.”
“How have you outgrown a thirteen-room apartment?”
She huffed. “Because, everything is, literally, still here! I need my own spaces.”
“Well, I gave you carte blanche when I signed over my inheritance to you. The place is all yours to do what you want with, provided the Board of Directors approves.”
Her pretty, smiling face turned to him over a shoulder. “I know, but still.” But the smile receded, and she stopped at the door to their mother’s art studio. “You look like shit, Will.”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s this sham wedding you’re planning.
I know you won’t take my advice, but I’m warning ya .
.. you’ll be sorry ... and then broke. Beanz is gonna take your desperate ass to the cleaners.
And don’t think for a minute I bought into all that lovey-dovey shit the two of you dished out at the engagement party. ”
“It’s time to face reality. Beanz will be your sister-in-law whether you approve or not. And yes, we do love each other.”
“Mom wouldn’t approve.”
“Yeah, well. Mom’s choice for me made her choice years ago.”
“Ugh! I’m not talking about that cowgirl beotch! Anyone is better for you than her or Beanz. Jeez, I’ll never understand you Millennials. You all suck at figuring love out.”
“You finally understand me.” He smiled because she cared, and he did appreciate it—even if he never told her. “What is it you want me to see?”
Entering the room behind her, his smile dropped and his heart crashed to his stomach.
Two walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and two ballet barres were attached to the other stark-white walls.
Gigi had turned the sunny art studio, which held every one of his dear memories, into a dance studio.
Gone were his mother’s easel by the window and the stacks of blank canvas against the far wall.
All the finished pieces that once hung from brass racks flanking the window and the empty colorful frames had been replaced by dance posters, sound equipment, and various training tools.
Even the wood flooring’s large yellow paint stain and toddler footprints (which he was responsible for) had been sanded away and refinished.
Chopin had replaced the seventies folk music that his mother listened to when painting.
“What? Where is? Gigi ... this ...” He sighed.
“See, you’re mad. I knew you would be, but I really had no choice, Will.
Renting studio time was getting super expensive and, face it, the art room was collecting dust. I mean, how long was I expected to grieve?
She’d want me to move on! I’m sure of it.
This opportunity to audition for American Chamber only comes once! ”
“I’m not mad. What did you do with everything?”
“It’s neatly cataloged. Yes, cataloged. Cousin Anne and I logged each finished and unfinished piece and carefully packed all the art supplies in rubber bins.
Except for the frames and empty canvases, which I donated, all the artwork is stacked in Dad’s office until I can figure out proper storage or we have that triggering conversation about what to do with both Mom’s and your stuff. ”
He wasn’t ready for that conversation but did recognize that he had to do something with her collection.
Mustering every bit of brotherly, supportive love he could, he said.
“You’re right, Mom would be glad you took the initiative instead of waiting for me.
If you’re going to succeed, then you need the tools.
Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I’m good.” She turned to him and gave him a rewarding hug, something he hadn’t had since funeral condolences at his father’s graveside almost two years ago.
He supposed if he had tried harder, been more present in her life, the hugs would be plentiful but demonstrating his feelings for anyone was hard.
He vowed to be a better brother going forward.
It wasn’t her fault that just about everyone and everything he cherished had left him holding his heart in his hands.
She was still here and that should count for everything.
“You’re the best!”
“So, they say.” He chuckled wryly because only his clients and his banker say that, and, as of yesterday, his cheap realtor. “Hey, have you had lunch yet? Because it’s gross to feel your ribs and spine when I hug you. You need to eat.”
“I guess I have time to shower and change for a date with my big brother. How does a poke bowl sound?” She beamed.
“Boring and not filling. How about a burger?”
“I suppose I could indulge just this once. No ballet mistress is harping on me.”
“Great. While you clean up, I need to take a look at Mom’s paintings to hang in the new townhouse.”
“Oh God! I’m such a self-centered brat! Congratulations!”
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to sell your condo?”
“Nope.”
“See, you have doubts.”
“I don’t have doubts. I just like the view,” he said, walking toward the connecting door to his father’s former lair.
“Well, you’d better enjoy your new townhouse while you can. Your so-called fiancé is probably rubbing her hands together, waiting ... plotting ... planning for a lucrative divorce. You better not give her Mom’s paintings!”
“Stop it. She’s not like that.”
She snorted at his back. “You clueless Millennial.”
He shook his head. “Said the single Zoomer who thinks she knows everything.”
Faced with the office threshold, he took a deep breath.
He hated this room. In fact, entering still gave him anxiety even though the indomitable titan George Darcy wasn’t within.
His relationship with his father had been complicated.
It was no secret the man regretted being saddled with a love child at the start of his career, but conversely, he also held an odd sort of prideful expectation for his offspring.
Whatever his father’s personality problem was, he had long reconciled that he would never meet the expectation.
Why try? Now it didn’t matter in the least. Despite the anxiety and pressure to please, Fitzwilliam Darcy, the heir, had survived, becoming his own man with his own values and honor, while remaining his mother’s son deep, deep down.
Walking into the office, he was hit by dead, stagnant air.
He could smell the dust and hear his father’s deep, raspy voice destroyed by a pack-a-day cigarette addiction.
“Fitzwilliam, your mother tells me ...” That was the way of things his entire life.
Mother was the consigliere go-between, watering down and diplomatically delivering second-hand information for her husband’s edification.
She had a way of soothing the savage beast in the man to protect her children.
Still, in some way, the grief over his father’s passing had not lessened in time. He felt sorrow for the loss of the father-son relationship that could have been different, maybe normal.
Stacked against Grandfather Darcy’s desk, three deep piles of various-sized artwork stared at him.
He smiled, remembering one of the front pieces, a tempera Long Island seascape.
Carefully, he drew one after the other toward him, until stopping dead on a black-framed, unfinished sketch in the middle of the stack.
The unsigned graphite pencil portrait of him was not drawn by his mother. He never knew she had this.
His mind went where it shouldn’t, where he vowed it would never go: his and Lizzy’s first meeting.