Chapter Thirty-Six
From the Land of Youth
Siena, May 16, 2012, Dallas, TX
I stood in the middleof the gallery, mouth agape. Claude’s haircut alone had me do a double take—what had been longish blond strands, was now Ryan’s exact crew cut. But that was the least of it.
I glanced at my hands, released a long breath, and risked another look at the gallery walls. Each of Claude’s paintings featured Neave. Neave! Detailed, candid depictions, contrived not with the keen eye of an artist, but with the jealous affection and raw longing of a lover. Neave riding Fionna along the beach, golden hair and white mane windblown, the rise of her breasts above the tight laces front and center of the composition. Neave painting at her easel, teeth sunk into a full lower lip in deep concentration, cleavage spilling out as she’s leaning forward with her brush. Neave sleeping nude, long legs tangled between the sheets, half-lifted hip floating above the bed, one supple breast on full display.
So many pieces, and most with a “sold” sticker. There was Neave laughing with her head tipped back, a hand pressed to her chest. Neave reading with a small frown, the tip of her tongue licking the corner of her mouth. Neave daydreaming, eyes fixed on an invisible spot, one hand almost reaching between her thighs.
I stared at the brochure in my hands: “From the Land of Youth: Niamh of the Golden Hair.”
“It is almost sold out, and this is only the first day.” Claude studied me with an unreadable expression. “What do you think?”
Mind galloping, I studied him back. “How...I mean, who is she?”
He reached for a strand to twirl, dropped his hand. “A vision.”
Eyes widening, I rummaged through my brain. Was he Kian? No. I’d met the present-day Kian, one Liam Casey. There was no mistaking Ryan’s younger brother for anyone else—googly eyes and a fondness for the bottle. I searched Claude’s elegant face. Did Neave have another secret admirer? Fillan, Tomas, Davin? The dean? The judge? I couldn’t place him to save my life.
I shook myself, fighting for composure. “What...uh...what vision, Claude?”
He trained his gaze on me. “I dreamed her up. Like you dreamed up your warrior.”
“Wow...” I fingered the brochure, cool and sleek in my hand. He must have been someone she’d never noticed. Maybe a servant or one of the grooms?
We stared at each other in the silence that fell.
Should I say something? No. What did it matter now? It was good to see him—his laughing eyes, easy smile, and good opinion of me. He didn’t think I was trash. He thought I was worth inviting to his show.
“I like the haircut,” I said. “What made you do it?”
A man and a woman approached, gushing, and Claude introduced them—local collectors. Then, a group of fans wanted pictures and autographs, a blogger asked for a quote, and another collector had to hear what Claude was working on next.
I stepped away and grabbed a glass of wine, trying to feel happy for my friend. He was in his element—grinning, joking, networking, and looking great with his new haircut. Would he view me differently if he knew what I’d done? My eyes started to burn, and I whirled to the exhibition wall. Claude had captured Neave’s likeness to a fault, complete with one eyebrow sitting a little higher than the other. Who in the world was he? Maybe someone from Castle McConway, or even from Tyrconnell? Someone who loved and desired me—and still did. A man who replied to my texts and called me on the phone.
I swallowed. I might never hear Ryan’s voice again. Never feel the warmth of his skin against my fingers. A stab of bereavement pierced through my silent rambling like a knife and settled in the depth of my stomach.
How impossibly bright Neave’s eyes seemed—tiny dabs of white paint at the iris and the lower lid anchoring her gaze to a crushing reality beyond the canvas. A blink, and her melancholy would spill over.
I stared at my shoes. The desolation inside me was like an endless night, eclipsing and distorting all that crossed my path.
“What is wrong, chérie?” Claude touched my shoulder, his voice soft and soothing. “You look so sad.”
I dashed the wetness from my cheeks, pushed down my anguish.
“Siena—” He took my hand, gave it a little squeeze—gentle, steady, present. “What is it?”
The realization struck me like a thunderclap: the timing of Claude’s visit couldn’t have been a coincidence. He’d come for me in my hour of need. Here, in this place of unrelenting misery and despair, he was the only person who knew and cherished the old me—the woman with a clear conscience.
“Ryan left me...” The words escaped in a disorienting wave of a déjà vu. “Oh God, I’m sorry—” I stared, struggling to stop the trembling in my chin. “I shouldn’t have...”
He peered at me for a long moment. “Let us step outside.”
The street was mostly empty: a few cars whooshing by, a stray cat bolting into a doorway.
I attempted a chuckle but only managed a faint wail. “I’m so sorry, Claude. I didn’t mean to fall apart on you.” I dug my fingers into my purse strap. “I’m leaving, don’t worry.”
“No—” He placed a hand on my arm, his cologne wafting over us in the soft breeze—something new and masculine. “The show is not going anywhere. Do you need to talk?”
I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
He released my arm. “I will see you at my hotel the day after tomorrow—for drinks, yes? Or would you rather meet sooner?”
“I’ll see you then, and good luck with your show.” I affected a smile. “It looks, uh...great!”
“Neave.” He nodded.
“Right,” I said. “I mean...what do you mean?”
His eyes bored into mine. “Neave looks great. I had only constituted the fact.”
He leaned in, and I thought it was for his European peck on the cheek, but he brushed his lips against mine. The lightest of kisses.
“Remember, chérie,” he said, straightening. “I am your most loyal friend.”
***
I turned on the shower, hugging myself against the lukewarm stream and the expanding hollowness inside my chest. I knew why Claude wanted to have drinks at his hotel, but it felt good to be desired after being dumped. Selfish or desperate? What did it matter? Besides—the water turned scalding, and I wrenched away from its punishing bite—a hotel bar wasn’t the same as a hotel room even if the two were minutes away.
Damp and shivering, I stood inside my closet for a bit, then grabbed a pair of tight jeans, a flowy top, and heels. And why not? Who wouldn’t want to look good for drinks with her ex? I swallowed the lump in my throat. My loneliness was like a shadow, trailing my every step.
The babysitter showed up ten minutes late, so Claude was waiting at the bar when I arrived. It was a trendy place in Deep Ellum, atmospherically lit and pounding with live music. I ordered wine, and he drank a vodka martini. Then, he shouted in my ear that his show had sold out, and I shouted my congratulations. We ordered another round, then yelled into each other’s ears some more.
He leaned in as I sipped my wine, lips grazing my cheek. “I am sorry it is so loud here—” His hand found mine in my lap. “Do you want to go up to my room? It is much nicer there.”
I gave him a long stare over my wineglass. Smiling, he met my gaze and brushed my knuckles with his thumb. I fought a brief urge to retreat but stilled myself. Ryan had left me, and for all I knew, he was already doing what I wasn’t even contemplating. The wine rose to my throat.
“All right.” I pushed it down and withdrew my hand. My pretty outfit had been an obvious mistake. But this was Claude, and a hotel room didn’t have to be a place for one-night stands with misled exes. It could be a quiet spot to pour out one’s soul to a willing friend.
We were alone in the elevator, standing beside each other as the silence between us grew taut and thick. Claude’s room card didn’t work the first time, and he cursed in French and jammed it into the slot again.
“Wow.” I gaped at the sight of his oversized, stylish suite. “It is really nice here.”
“Isn’t it? I could live here, no? There—” he pointed to two purple armchairs and a kidney-shaped glass side table. “Have a seat, chérie.”
I dropped my purse on the table and sat, fatigue spreading into my every corner, dull and heavy.
Claude headed to the mini bar and pressed a neon-blue button. The room flooded with music—something soft and ambient.
He turned, eyebrows raised. “Wine? Or something stronger?”
“Just water,” I said.
He brought over two bottles, then moved the other armchair to face me, and sat. “Just the two of us, like the old times.” He attempted a grin, but it clashed with his tense expression and rigid shoulders.
Eyes itching, I pushed away the memory of my first date with Ryan and the image of his burning gaze. Just you and me.
Claude placed a hand on my knee. “Do you want to talk?” He put a heavy emphasis on “want,” his voice dropping a notch.
I fingered my water bottle, stopping myself from eyeing the door. There had to be a reason for his appearance beyond the trite.
“Okay, we do not need to talk.” Slowly, he slid his fingers up my thigh. “But I hate seeing you so sad, Siena.”
Our eyes locked, his blue stare firm and steady. Expectant.
No other reason then. And it made all the sense—yes, that’s what I was. Even the sweet, kind Claude knew it.
He stood and extended his hand to help me up. My body turned to lead as he pulled me close, his pulse a frantic race against my mounting emptiness, his skin a burning flame against my icy numbness. His cologne was something herbal and smoky, not a great match for his genteel personality.
“Je pourrais te rendre heureuse,” he breathed against my lips, sinking his fingers into my hair.
I winced with the flashback of our short-lived relationship.
When he murmured that into my neck years ago, I giggled, warm all over at the sound of those breathy French words. “Did you say a bad word?”
He’d stared, gaze still and unblinking. “I only said I could make you happy.”
Oh, come on, play along. I’d hid my disappointment as he attempted to put his words into action. But the moment had passed, as all such moments did, without fail. Claude never did make me happy.
His familiar hands traveled lightly down my shoulders, bringing me back to the here and now. Soft and gentle—an artist’s hands.
“Claude—”
He drew back at the sound of his name that was more a sob than a word. His expression was an incongruous mixture of longing and alarm as he gripped my shoulders. “What did he do to you?”
Something in his eyes made the floodgate burst. My tears erupted in an unceasing, noisy stream. I sank back into the chair, buried my face in my hands.
“Bordel de merde. What is it, chérie?”
I raised my head to find Claude in front of me on one knee.
“He broke my heart,” I squeezed out. “After I broke his.”
He held me as I wept—no racing pulse, no heating skin—a warm, safe hug of a friend. What did that cost him? Was there no one left in this world with an unbroken heart?
Claude forced a smile. “Do you want me to find him and kick his ass?”
“Right.” I smiled through tears.
“Funny, I know.” He handed me a tissue, the strained lines around his eyes at odds with his bright stare. “Especially since he cannot be beat.”
***
In the evening, coldand lonely in my oversized bed, I asked the universe for a break from my visions. The last one had left me unsettled. While Neave’s proximity was an obvious torment for Maura, she’d endured it for Neave’s sake. Her most loyal friend, indeed.
A flicker of a recall surged through me, yet I couldn’t quite place it. Also, ridiculously, I still felt bad even if Neave had thanked her the only way she could—with a dry kiss. Then, Neave lay motionless, not daring to move when Maura whispered, “You stole my heart, my beloved, yet yours belongs not to me.”
My phone chimed with a notification, and I grabbed it like a lifeline. But it was only Claude.
Did you get home okay?
Yes, don’t worry, I texted back.
Are you all right?
I’ll be fine. Thanks for being there for me. It means a lot.
Of course.
I placed the phone on the nightstand as it lit up with a new text.
My shirt smells like your perfume.
I thumbed the edge of my phone—I could pretend not to have seen this.
Would you laugh if I said I love you?
Chest heavy as lead, I eyed my pillow. Would screaming into it help?
I wouldn’t laugh.
That’s some relief. I love you, Siena—
I struggled to make out the last word through the blur in my eyes—Sorry.
Gave— Hsve—My shaking hands made it impossible to type. I stilled myself. Have a safe flight back.
The three dots hovered on my screen for a short eternity.
You stole my heart, my beloved, yet yours belongs not to me.
If the purpose of Claude’s visit was to briefly shock me out of my wretchedness, it had been accomplished. My mind spun and reeled, putting all the puzzle pieces together, taking them apart. My thoughts stumbled on every conceivable response, discarded each one, then settled on the truth.
My dearest friend, I typed, clinging to the dissipating tingles in my stomach even as they were being replaced by the unceasing hollowness. I’m not what you’ve made me out to be. Not then, and especially not now. I’m sorry about that. I pulled in my breath and jabbed at the phone before I could back out. Do you know why Ryan left me? I’d done the same thing to him as the woman in your show did to the man she loved more than life. Except this time, I did it unprovoked. I have no right to your heart. Or anyone else’s.
Understandably, Claude didn’t reply. I put my phone away and lay down to stare into the callous darkness when my screen lit up with a new message.
Apart from those three weeks with you, I’ve never been in a steady relationship. So I don’t know all that transpires between couples behind closed doors. But I do know this. If your thick-headed cop doesn’t wake up soon, he’ll regret letting you go for the rest of his miserable life.