Chapter 20
TWENTY
Once again, plaguing thoughts disrupted sleep.
William could still hear the midnight whispers of years ago echo in the deafening, lonely silence.
Their promises and dreams, the erotic timbre of her voice professing undying devotion and love were torture to his broken yet hopeful soul, but he had developed a system: put his imaginings to work.
At two in the morning, he sat on a barstool in front of his mother’s easel and the view of the city that never slept.
Furiously wielding a palette knife, he transferred his mind’s eye to canvas.
His ability had come back to him with stunning ease, echoing the promise made to his mother on her deathbed.
“If I find something worthy to paint, I’ll paint it. ”
For the last five nights, his Lizzy-filled mind had inspired him.
The prospect of having spent one enchanting night in her arms had done that.
Real or imagined, the vivid image of her walking through water toward him in the moonlight may have been tattooed upon his heart and mind, but now, his muse slowly became immortalized on canvas.
Keith Urban and many of their favorite songs on the reinstated Lizzy’s Playlist played as background to the dreamscape.
The soft yielding curves of her body, the moon-kissed shine to her wind-swept locks flowed from his brushes and knives.
Each raised edge of impasto color and light brought that frozen moment in time to life.
It was all there, every passionate heartbeat burst onto canvas in iridescent whites, blues, and gold.
Her come-hither smile tormented him; the erotic sheerness of her wet nightie and her pebbled nipples took extra care to paint.
The way she breathed his name when he made love to her echoed in torturous sublimity, like song lyrics repeatedly playing in his head.
His hand’s slow travel over her soft skin and the taste of her every delight caused a fruitless cold shower break.
Standing back, he took in the painting, heart aching—yet beating, yearning, rejoicing. “You can’t go back in time, Will.” He took a sip of water, then said. “But you can go forward. Follow your heart, even if she breaks it again.”
Simply put, finding her again before marrying another felt like fate. Their romance had been a soul connection from the start.
Thoughts of Beanz’s phone call this afternoon intruded into his mind. Doubts and fear bubbled up. Should he, or shouldn’t he? Why would Caroline insist he go?
“Honey bunny, will you do me a huge favor?”
“Probably.”
“I know it’s short notice, but I am stuck on this reno down in Park Slope and the client is a total taskmaster with an unrealistic deadline.”
“Did you not inform her that you’re getting married in a few weeks?” he asked.
“Duh, of course I did, but she doesn’t care. Jumping through her hoops of fire will get me a recommendation.”
“Fine. What’s the favor?”
“The art broker called yesterday, and ... and ...”
“It’s okay to say her name.”
“Elizabeth will be attending the July 2nd public auction at Sotheby’s Paris for a Seurat for us. I can’t go.”
“And how does this involve me?”
“You have to go to Paris in my place.”
Ugh. Paris. “No, I don’t. Representation means the broker can either attend a live auction alone or do it in absentia, either online or over the phone, on our behalf. It’s standard practice. Neither of us needs to be involved.”
“I know, but I want to be sure it’s what we want and there may be other offerings up for bid.”
“Caroline, I handed this project to you. I have a hundred pitches stacked on my desk for review and―at your demand―a luncheon meeting with Sonic Defense. You know how I despise disorder and chaos thrown into my workweek. Might I remind you of our month-long honeymoon where the internet is spotty? No. I have too much to accomplish.”
“Then delegate, darling. You’re the President and CEO.”
“My father rarely delegated, and I only do so when I deem it absolutely necessary. Acquiring artwork in Paris is not necessary business.”
“It is to me.”
“Then, email me the catalog and I’ll carve out five minutes to see if anything else is worth my time and money,” he offered.
“A catalog to purchase a twenty-million-dollar painting? Where has your sensibility gone? Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, and I am completely sensitive to the fact that you have a sordid history with Elizabeth, but I want that Seurat! It’s a fabulous investment.”
Ah, she played the trigger word. “Investment.”
“If you must have it, then go and get it or bid remotely. I’m busy.
” He shook his head unable to reconcile her jealousy and insecurity over Lizzy and the sudden need for him to engage with her over an acquisition, even if only for investment purposes.
“So let me get this straight—you deliberately kept information about Lizzy and the gallery from me, but now you are deliberately forcing me to interact with her, all for a painting?”
“The Seine at Courbevoie 1885 is not just any painting. Jeez, only last week you succinctly pointed out that she’s in love with George, and you and I have a binding contract for an arrangement of mutual respect and guaranteed felicity.
I’m only stating that my felicity lies not just in you on my arm but also in protecting my interests both aesthetically and financially. ”
“Very wise and duly noted. I’ll think about it.”
“She needs my answer Monday morning so she can register.”
“Fine. At the risk of this sounding more like a divorce agreement, if I agree to this, I’m having Charlie draw up an amendment to the Marriage Pact. If either of us break the contract at any point, you get the Seurat and I get the townhouse.”
“Agreed. While I like the townhouse, it’s not me without you and the Darcy moniker or your money to refurbish it, but I’m confident splitting up will never come to pass.”
He glanced at the clock. In four hours, he needed to make a life-changing decision: Lizzy, Paris, and the Seurat or Caroline, Manhattan, the Seurat and the dreamscape of Lizzy on his mother’s easel.
In the end, he’d have Lizzy one way or another, but fantasizing about her was not enough.
Imagining what could have been versus experiencing forever with her beside him was an untenable decision.
June 28, Wednesday
Seated at the bistro table across the street from her apartment, Elizabeth looked up at George. “Thanks for meeting me so early in the morning. I took the liberty of ordering your coffee, but it may be cold by now.”
“I had a late night, so this better be good,” he said, taking a seat.
She smiled, setting the bait of good news before dropping the bad, but in her heart, she knew he would reveal his true self and motive. “I have some exciting news I think you’ll be happy with. Apart from Guy, you’re the first person I wanted to share it with in person.”
He sipped, then smiled. “Cool. You’re signing over half of La Tempera to me after the wedding?”
“No, silly! You will never guess who telephoned me on Monday—Wyn Gleason, the uber-famous egg tempera landscape artist!”
“Yeah?”
“I wanted to tell you sooner, but you’ve been so busy with your new project.
I met with him and his assistant on Friday, and I’m super excited.
He selected my gallery, out of all the other galleries to exhibit his newest collection in September!
” She oozed with glee, yet he didn’t share in her pride or cheer the monetary reward, which would pave the way to her financial freedom.
In the art world, this was a huge honor and a mega opportunity.
“Congratulations. How did that happen?” he said.
“I’m assuming Louisa Bingley, I mean Hurst. She must have gotten word to him somehow. She’s totally in love with La Tempera and the Pillson her husband purchased for her. Golly, for this alone, I’m thankful we went to the wedding.”
“Only for Gleason?” he asked.
She sipped her latte, reading the envy all over him. She was sure it wasn’t just jealousy over the reappearance of an ex-boyfriend, but something more, maybe George’s insecurity or an inferiority complex surrounding William.
“Yes. I’m thankful only for the introduction.” Furrowing her brow she added. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about my news. As my fiancé, I thought you’d be overjoyed. It’s a big deal, George, a huge opportunity for the gallery and my reputation.”
“Yeah. Sure, I’m happy for you. You’ve worked hard. I’ll give you that.”
Still, he exuded indifference, which made the next statement all the easier. His gaze was fixed on something over her shoulder, and she turned to see what had garnered his attention: a pretty blonde wearing yoga pants.
Maybe Charlotte was right. Cheater? At any rate, any other fiancé would be overjoyed and proud of her.
William sure would be. “You’re right. I have worked hard.
In fact, La Tempera is a dream come true.
My very own achievement was made possible by Guy and my dogged determination to succeed.
I also think ... it’s a good sign of things to come for my future in Manhattan’s art circle. ”
George nodded, eyes still glued over her shoulder as he sipped.
“If you can stop staring at the woman behind me and give me your attention for a sec, I want to make something very clear to you.”
He did as bid.
“It’s time to part ways. I’m not in love with you, and honestly, I don’t think you’re in love with me. You and I have different aspirations for our lives and the future of my gallery. I can’t marry you.”
He snapped to attention. “What?”
“You heard me. I called all the wedding vendors on Friday and canceled the wedding.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can and did. It had to be this way.” She reached her hand out across the table, but he didn’t take it.