His Vow of Revenge

1. Soleil

ONE

SOLEIL

“Hmmm…”

I took a step back and studied the painting. Something was wrong with it. I couldn't put my finger on what, exactly. It wasn't quite…right.

I kicked off my heels, climbed onto the bench, and pressed the leveler against the frame with one hand while the other steadied the corner.

"Left," Margaux called from across the gallery.

I nudged the frame.

"More left."

I nudged again.

"That's right. I said left."

I frowned. "That was left."

"Soleil, I'm looking at it. That was right. My right. Your left. The other left."

I adjusted. The bubble in the leveler drifted and settled. I hopped down, feet bare on the cool concrete, and stepped back.

Rafael Souza had captured on canvas his grandmother’s hands deep in dough on a wooden table. A clay pot held three limes and a knife with a handle worn smooth from decades of grip. The light fell from the left, warm and golden, catching flour dust suspended in the air above her knuckles.

I found this painting eight months ago at a community art fair in Bushwick.

A folding table, a plastic chair, a painter from Guarulhos with cadmium yellow under his fingernails, and a stack of canvases leaning against a chain-link fence.

I stopped walking and stood there for some time while the foot traffic moved around me.

Nobody else stopped.

I offered him the walls that afternoon. Tonight was his first solo exhibition.

"The caterer sent Gruyère."

I turned. Margaux stood behind me with her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, one hand holding a cracker aloft like a piece of damning evidence.

Her dark bob was pin-straight, sharp at the jaw, not a strand out of place despite the fact that she'd been rearranging the hors d'oeuvres display for the past twenty minutes. A smear of something — brie, probably — marked the cuff of her black blouse.

"I specifically said aged cheddar and fig compote," she continued, biting into the cracker. "This is Gruyère."

"Is it good Gruyère?"

"That's not the point."

"If it's good Gruyère, nobody will care."

"I'll care deeply, vocally, and at length." She chewed, swallowed, and pointed the remaining half at me. "Also, the Riesling is wrong. They sent Pinot Grigio."

"Can you fix it?"

"I already fixed it. I'm telling you so you appreciate me."

I grinned. "I appreciate you enormously."

"Good. Now put your shoes on before someone important shows up and thinks we're running a meditation retreat."

I shook my head, but ignored her and walked to the back room to check on things. My gaze drifted toward the supply shelf, where I’d hidden something out of sheer cowardice.

My painting.

I bit the inside of my cheek as I stared at it sitting against the wall, face turned away. I'd carried it here a week ago, turned it around twice, held it up against the empty wall by the restroom, and imagined it hanging beside Rafael's work.

Both times, I'd turned it back.

On the windowsill, a small clay pot of rosemary sat in a square of late afternoon light. I brushed the leaves as I passed, pressing two between my fingers until the oil released. The scent followed me back into the gallery.

The front door opened. Rafael walked in with his portfolio bag over one shoulder. He was tall and lean, with deep brown skin and black hair that curled past his ears. His button-down was wrinkled. His eyes swept the gallery and went wide, then darted to the floor.

He smiled when he saw me, but his lips quivered at the edges. It eventually dissolved into a grimace.

Oh no.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he said.

I crossed the room and lifted the bag off his shoulder. "You're not going to be sick."

"My hands are shaking. Look." He held them out. They were.

"Rafael." I took both his hands in mine. His fingers were freezing. "Do you remember what you told me the first time I called you about this show?"

He swallowed. "I said I wasn't ready."

"And what did I say?"

"You said the work was ready, and I needed to catch up to it."

"The work is ready." I squeezed once. "You're ready. These people are going to walk in here tonight and see the beauty of your art. That's all this is."

He pulled in a long breath. His shoulders dropped. "Okay."

"Okay." I let go. "Now go look at your paintings on a real wall. Try to enjoy it. You earned every inch of that space."

He walked to the main gallery. My phone buzzed. I pulled it from the pocket of my dress.

"Hi, Daddy."

"How is your talent holding up?" I could hear the clink of ice against the glass.

He was in his study — the leather chair by the window, the one I used to climb into when I was small enough to curl up in the seat beside him.

The one that still smelled like my mother's perfume if you pressed your face into the right cushion.

Not that I'd done that recently. Not that I hadn't.

"Nervous. But he'll be fine once people start arriving."

"Good, good. You tell Rafael I'm proud of him. First solo show at twenty-five — that takes guts. Oh, I had Catherine sort out that situation with the building inspector. She said it was a permitting overlap. Nothing to worry about. All handled."

My hand stilled on the frame of the nearest painting. I mentioned the permitting issue once at Sunday dinner.

I smiled even though he couldn’t see me. "Thank you, Daddy. You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. You shouldn't be dealing with bureaucracy when you have a show to run. That's what Catherine's for." He paused. The ice clinked again. "Your mother would've been proud of you tonight, Sol."

My fingers tightened on the phone. "I know. Thank you."

We hung up. I slid the phone back into my pocket and stood there for a second, rubbing my thumb against my fingertips where the rosemary oil was fading.

Margaux appeared beside me, scrolling through her phone. "Oh, lease renewal came through. Same terms."

My eyes widened. "Really?"

"Same square footage, same rate, extended through next spring." She shrugged without looking up. "Lucky break."

"I guess so."

Doors opened at 7:00 p.m. By 7:30 p.m., the room was breathing.

Rafael's streetscapes drew people first — the bold ones.

The bright geometry of favela rooftops and laundry lines strung between buildings, colors so saturated they vibrated against the white walls.

But the ones who stayed, the ones who went quiet and leaned in close enough to see the brushstrokes, found the kitchen paintings.

The interiors. The spaces where the light softened.

I moved through the room, touching elbows and remembering names.

A collector from Chelsea met a curator from the Bronx because I introduced them.

I watched the handshake turn into a real conversation.

An art teacher from Queens stood in front of the grandmother painting for so long her eyes got wet, so I pulled a tissue from my pocket and pressed it into her hand without saying a word.

I was telling a young couple about Rafael's streetscape of the Pinheiros River — how he'd painted it from memory because the actual riverbank had been demolished before he could photograph it — when a voice cut through the room like a bell made of glass.

"Soleil!"

Camille swept toward me in a cream silk dress, her chestnut hair blown out so perfectly it moved as a single unit.

Behind her, the rest filed in — Bianca in black from head to toe, her dark skin glowing against the fabric, a statement necklace resting on her collarbone like a piece of armor.

Dominique, petite and blonde, was already scanning the room.

Sloane was taller than all of them, red-haired, fingers wrapped around a clutch she kept adjusting.

And Petra at the rear, olive-skinned, quiet, and sophisticated.

Air-kisses. One after another. Camille's lips landed near my left ear.

"The space looks incredible," Camille said. "You've done such a good job with it."

"So charming," Bianca added. Her eyes swept past me toward the bar. "Very intimate."

"Is the artist here?" Sloane asked. "He's so brave to show this early in his career."

Even when the support had a texture I couldn't quite name, I still skilled and thanked them for coming . That was what I did when people showed up for me. I walked them over to Rafael and introduced him. He shook their hands with an earnest grip.

Camille tilted her head and asked where he studied.

"Self-taught," Rafael said. No apology in his voice.

Camille's smile tightened. A millimeter. Maybe less.

My teeth found the inside of my cheek and pressed. "Rafael's work is being collected in four countries," I said. "His technique is entirely his own. That's what makes it extraordinary."

"Of course." Camille's smile reset, smooth as glass sliding back into a frame. "Extraordinary."

They drifted into the crowd. Within minutes, Bianca had cornered a man I didn't recognize and was explaining, with great authority and volume, why "raw art has such an interesting energy."

I caught Margaux's eye across the room. She was standing by the wine table, a glass in one hand. Her face was arranged in the expression she reserved for moments of extreme restraint. She mouthed two words at me that were so profane I had to look away before my composure cracked entirely.

I was still biting the inside of my cheek when the door opened again, and Rhys walked in carrying a bouquet of sunflowers.

My brother was a handsome man who made rooms rearrange themselves.

Tall, golden-brown skin, a jaw sharp enough to cut, and the easy, practiced smile of a man who'd been the center of attention since birth.

His suit fit perfectly. His hair was freshly cut, his shoes were polished, and the sunflowers — my favorite.

He never forgot the soft things even when everything else about him was hard edges and high walls.

"Congratulations, Sol." He pulled me into a one-armed hug, the flowers crushed between us, petals catching in my hair. He smelled like sandalwood cologne and wine.

"Thank you for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." He kissed my temple.