Chapter 9
NINE
Elizabeth sat across the deuce table from George, noting his distraction.
His gaze barely held hers. Normally, he enjoyed the place and the food, which he picked at.
It wasn’t the music or the ambiance of her favorite uptown restaurant garnering his attention.
Perhaps the disappointment of his avant-garde photo collection not securing a showing at the Aperture Foundation had him all worked up.
He’d banked on that exhibition showcase for so long and thought it would be the one to finally expose his talent.
“Babe, do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He shrugged, then guzzled his cocktail.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. There’s always La Tempera for a showing,” she tried to pacify, even if his style of photography went against her gallery’s emphasis on fine original art.
“And how will that look? Jeez, Lizzy, the last thing I want is for my girlfriend to prop me up. Besides, Guy’s place is hardly known. What a loser he turned out to be.”
Ouch. “Well, it’s my place, my gallery now, and he’s been a valuable mentor.
La Tempera isn’t struggling, you know. Look at all the high-end clients that came out for Pillson.
We sold just about everything. I just need .
.. a few more art collectors like the one who came in on recommendation last week,” she defensively said.
He shrugged again. “Whatever. My work deserves a preeminent gallery worthy of my vision and gift. Your broker representation does nothing for my exposure. It’s probably hurting me.”
Rankled, she snapped. “I don’t see how that’s possible!
Contrary to your opinion, the gallery deserves traditional artists who value real L’art pour l’art, not for sensationalism and financial gain, especially from manipulated AI images that possibly violate others’ copyright. ” Like yours! Take that!
Putting his glass down, he narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Ah, yes, Lizzy, once again, makes her disdain for AI known. The failed watercolorist who hasn’t picked up a paintbrush in ... how long?”
That arrow hit the bullseye, and he knew it. George always knew where to shoot, having memorized her every weakness over their eight months together.
Although insensitive and not dignifying a remark, she couldn’t resist. “You’re right, but at least I’m open to inspiration.
When we first met, you had artistic passion, photographing people and places that evoked emotion.
And, yes, I hate AI. Your new abstract direction using artificial intelligence is a tougher commercial sell.
No pun intended but your body of work needs . ..”
He snorted a laugh. “Hey, AI is here to stay, and I’m making a killing on it.”
She didn’t continue. At times like this she wanted to give the ring back, but the pool of single, sane, straight men and the desire to share her life with someone were a challenge to reconcile.
But with only months left, she’d never dream of leaving someone at the altar.
She wasn’t wired to be cruel or self-motivated.
Unfortunately for her sake, George knew all that.
He picked up his phone and scrolled.
“Please put the phone down,” she said.
He did as asked then sneered. Rarely had she commanded him to do something.
“George, I don’t want to argue with you. If you’d like, I can call my friend at Petrone. He curates a townhouse gallery in Chelsea,” she softly offered. “There is also Chelsea’s Art Nouveau, the new vanity gallery.”
He scoffed. “I refuse to pay anyone to show my work! Besides, Chelsea sucks.”
“I disagree. Mann’s gallery is in Chelsea, and he is internationally known to support up-and-coming photographers.
I don’t know about ... your style, as it borders .
.. pornography. Still, I can call to introduce myself as a fellow gallery owner with an impressive art education and find out if he’s interested. ”
“After the wedding, I’ll be the one making the calls and introducing our gallery and its totally revamped vision, including the name. New image, new beginning with me as creative director.”
“I haven’t made my decision about that yet,” she said. “But there is always the option of buy-in of La Tempera—name unchanged.”
George looked at his phone again, then downed the rest of his drink. “It’s late. I gotta go.”
Of course he would cut and run. He’d been gunning for free half-ownership of La Tempera for a month now.
“It’s not late. Stay, finish your dinner. You love this music,” she half-heartedly said. It seemed all they did was fight these days.
“I got work to do,” he said.
“Oh. I understand. I guess I’ll stay and have another glass of wine and enjoy the music.” And pick up the check, as usual.
Rising, he looked down at her forced smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” she replied flatly.
Wine and solitude—not to mention good music—always made her introspective and philosophical, and as one more glass led to two, her mind jumped on more trains of thought than humanly possible.
Ultimately, all but a few took her to nowhere significant other than regret and frustration.
If there was one word in her lexicon that she hated, it was “co-dependent,” and that train was a wreck.
As though the Pinot Noir had softened a veil, she considered that George just may be a covert narcissist, a nuanced version of her textbook mother.
How had she missed the patterns hidden behind the telltale charisma that had wooed her into bed?
Or maybe George was just an asshole, and it had taken her eight months to figure it out.
The Brazilian jazz trio in the corner kept her thoughts company and as they often traveled, perhaps on a weekly basis to a stop on Memory Lane where she visited with William Darcy, the happiest, most fulfilling time of her life.
She thanked God that she had such happy memories to take her far away from some of her realities.
“They hurt my feet,” he complained about his new cowboy boots.
She rolled her eyes, then laughed. “Don’t be a stick in the mud, William. The more you wear them, the quicker they’ll break in.”
“Hell no, I am not wearing them out of this apartment!”
“Look, babe, you can’t show up at Wild Bill’s without kickers and a hat. Just pretend it’s Halloween.”
“If anyone sees me ...”
“Oh, stop it, you’re such a whining city slicker. Cute, but a whiner. If it makes you feel better, I guarantee you no one you know will be there.” She kissed his cheek.
“Still, country isn’t my scene.”
“That’s not entirely true. I’m country.”
He chuckled. “True, but your music sucks.”
“How do you know, unless you try it? I’ll tell you what. If you wear the boots and promise to dance with me tonight—”
“Oh no! Not in these boots!”
She playfully twisted her lips. “If you do, then I’ll ...” she whispered something entirely naughty and unexpected in his ear. Surprised by her promise, he looked dubiously at her, to which she playfully grinned. “Tonight. Yeehaw,” she whispered, then waggled her eyebrows.
For two months, he’d patiently waited for her go-ahead to consummate their relationship, and truth be told, she was finally ready to leave virginity in the rearview mirror.
William wrapped her up in his embrace, then bent, whispering into her ear. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes, William Darcy. I’ve waited a very long time for you. You make me so hot, it’s torture to wait any longer. Once you put that cowboy hat on, I’ll be a goner for sure.”
He laughed, always music to her ears. The more they were together, the more he loosened up. She knew it would take time to reveal the hidden man inside him, but she was patient.
“Will you stay the weekend with me?” he asked with a hopeful smile.
Biting her lip, she slowly nodded.
He reached for the dresser and the hat she bought him, then he placed it on her head.
“You know there’s a hard and fast rule about cowboy hats,” she said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“If you wear the hat, you have to ride the cowboy.”
“I like that rule.”
“I thought you might.”
His deep kiss sent her to the moon and back. Just a conversation about the prospect of sex aroused him; she could feel it pressed against her.
Yes, she was more than ready to go to bed with him. He was the one; she knew it the first time she laid eyes on him in anatomy drawing class.
The usual crowd and honky tonk music filled Wild Bill’s (WB) dive bar, and she felt right at home in the small place.
Several of her acquaintances playing pool in the corner waved and called her over but she was in the mood for a chocolate martini and a dance.
She looked William over, admiring his tall, athletic physique draped in black jeans and a button-down shirt.
His black cowboy hat accentuated his dreamy blue eyes.
Although he looked like a deer in headlights, female heads turned at his entrance.
She giggled knowing that tonight, she’d be the one to go home with him.
She searched his expression for signs of discomfort because WB was not his style at all, but he didn’t appear ready to cut and run, just apprehensive and a little shocked that she’d frequent such a juke joint.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“Crowded, loud, and it smells like stale beer.” He lifted his foot. “And the floor is sticky with God-knows-what.”
“My kind of place!” she laughed, unwilling to give him an inch. “Trust me. We are gonna have so much fun, you’ll pee your pants!”
He looked horrified, and she just laughed again.
Holding his hand tightly in her grasp, they pushed through the crowd. The adrenaline-inducing “Boot Scootin Boogie” song pulsed through her veins, and she practically danced to the bar with her man dragging behind.
She smiled at the memory, then sipped her wine. What an amazing night.
From resting against the edge of his barstool between his spread legs with his arms wrapped around her, to laughing as they pictured people naked, the entire night unfolded better than she expected.
He, with his bourbon and she, with her martini, the uptight Fitzwilliam Darcy unraveled to the music he’d swore to hate forever.
She’d never had such fun on a date before.
Some of his mannerisms surprised her but further endeared him to her.
When he was nervous, he ran his hand through his hair, and when line-dancing, he looked over his shoulder at her after tricky moves as he sought her approval.
He’d smile, maybe wink, then go back to concentrating on getting the steps right.
He was also a natural, demonstrating a little western swagger when he danced.
She learned a lot about him, primarily his deep-seated insecurity when venturing outside the tightly controlled Darcy world.
It amazed her that Anne’s offspring wouldn’t be a replica of her joie de vivre spirit.
Then again, she wasn’t anything like her mother.
When it came to sharing her past with William, she avoided disclosure of her screwed up family.
Back in Wyoming, a boyfriend dumped her in fear of her becoming her mother one day.
That shit was scary-real for men, and she didn’t want to risk losing William no matter how stable her agency, which she’d saved by the skin of her teeth.
Eventually, she would tell him how she was her mother’s scapegoat for everything, especially once her sister Jane moved to Queens.
She’d been living her own life away from dysfunction for far too long to start sharing it again with any of them, no matter how much she loved them.
But for her elder sister she’d make the exception.
The jukebox changed to a Keith Urban ballad and William took her into his arms, holding her close.
She floated, swaying to “Parallel Line,” as if the lyrics were written just for them—tonight—and what lie ahead when they left the bar and tomorrow and maybe forever.
She loved him and couldn’t wait to show him just how much.
“Lizzy,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m glad we came.”
“Told you so. You’re a natural cowboy.” She grinned.
“I’m having such a great time. Thank you.”
Turning her head, she caught his lips in hers. “Me, too.” Overwhelmed by her bursting heart and euphoria, she breathed, “Do you feel it, William?”
“I feel ... so many amazing things, all of which are because of you.”
“Ditto.”
He pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his chest. Similar to when she painted, here snuggled in his embrace with his strong arms surrounding her, she felt herself. Safe. Loved. Content. Happy. Respected. Appreciated. She wanted to cry from joy.
“That na?ve girl is long gone,” she whispered, allowing herself to address the endless abyss in her heart. “Fool.” I hope you at least found happiness, William.
She turned her thoughts to George, and her instinct internally screamed.
She’d survived the worst childhood imaginable, salvaging what little dignity she had left before the die was cast. She’d forged a new path: her path.
For all that life, horrible decisions, and persuasive interlopers threw at her, she had been the one to pull herself up by the bootstraps and go forward, desperately trying to hold onto her positivity.
If life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her to listen to her instincts.
She downed her wine, considering whether she would rather remain single rather than marry a self-absorbed poser for unrealistic reasons.
She once swore she would only marry for true, enduring love filled with loyalty, respect, and open communication.
Emptying the wine bottle into her goblet, she sat back in her chair, mind repeating George’s accusation of her being a failed watercolorist. She was only a failure because painting from a dark place was not her style or a place she wanted to share with the world.
She also lacked the ability to leverage her internal light to do any piece justice.
When Anne died and William ghosted her three times (not that she was surprised,) she had lost all inspiration.