Chapter 23 #2
She was ready, even if she’d seen them all before.
It would be another thing entirely to view them when they were properly hung and displayed in their full glory.
A number of people milled about the first room of the exhibit, but not enough to make it feel too crowded.
Rafael had been careful with that, she knew, emphasizing to Christian just how few people they could fit in here without the place feeling too tight.
A waiter offered them champagne from a tray and they all accepted.
Grace was perhaps a little too eager to get her hands on the glass, to have at least one serving of liquid courage before an inevitable encounter with Rafael, even if it wouldn’t help all that much.
After she’d had a few gulps, Grace slowly scanned the room.
It was beautiful, honestly, not that she was surprised.
Rafael had gotten the job done. The paintings stole the show, but it didn’t feel too busy.
They were well-organized, and there was enough space to move through the room and admire them.
The setting still retained all the beauty and character of the original cave, but Rafael had managed to seamlessly blend the artwork into the scene, to make it a part of the cave as if it belonged.
She hadn’t even gotten the largest room with the new wall, yet, but she already knew he'd managed to pull this whole thing off, and Christian must be elated.
“You helped with all of this, right Grace?” Obinna asked by her side as they stopped at a painting, one of Picasso’s earlier self-portraits from the Blue period.
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I was lucky enough to get the behind-the-scenes view of all of this coming together.” She swallowed another mouthful of champagne.
There were smaller plaques on the wall about the artists and the different rooms as well, and Grace skimmed over them and remembered when she and Raf sat together over his notes, trying to determine what to say.
They referred to Picasso as a complicated figure and made sure to mention criticisms of his treatment of women and cultural appropriation.
They categorized the treatment of his lovers and explained how influenced he’d been by African art.
They quoted descriptions of his life and work from those who knew him best. They also gave overviews of Braque and Matisse and all the other artists in the gallery.
Even though she and Rafael had discussed all of this to some extent, she couldn’t believe how he’d listened to her and used this information.
It was clear he’d even done more research on some of the things she mentioned, and he'd managed to bring it all together seamlessly—story and art, legend and artist.
Her eyes skimmed over the plaque about Francoise Gilot’s work.
Not only did it discuss some of her paintings, but it also mentioned how the contract with her art dealer was terminated after she broke off her ten-year relationship with Picasso.
For years, dealers would say they were interested in her paintings but couldn’t dare risk buying them and pissing off Pablo.
Grace was glad Rafael had included the detail.
“I’ve never been to a party quite like this before,” Obinna said.
“Neither have I,” Alma chimed in. “And I’ve been to a lot of parties.”
Grace gave her a small smile as they moved to the next painting.
She wished she could be celebrating this with Rafael.
Instead, she felt nervous and out of place, scared that he’d come around the corner at any moment and her heart would leap into her throat, but also scared that she might not get to see him at all.
It didn’t matter much either way, she supposed, since he would barely speak to her. No matter what happened, it would hurt.
The large gallery with the new wall held some of the most abstract pieces, but the first thing Grace noticed was how bright and colorful everything looked where it was hung.
They made it that way purposefully, so even if you weren’t focusing on a specific painting, you’d still be drawn in by the shape and color.
Everything bold, everything eye-catching.
And the wall with some of the later work seemed to work perfectly in the middle of the room.
That’s where she saw him, near his favorite painting of Dora Maar, drink in hand, chatting in Spanish with a small group of well-dressed people.
He looked so good in his dark gray suit, his hair swept to the side, a fancy watch gleaming on his wrist. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
And she couldn’t believe she’d slept with this man.
He’d kissed her everywhere. He’d cradled her face in his hands with such tenderness, and she’d walked away from it all for what?
To save her most important friendship? To save herself?
Grace sucked in a breath and traded her empty champagne glass for a fresh one.
She could smell the hor d’ouerves, and her stomach growled.
The delicious scents wafting through the air, the champagne bubbles tickling her nose, the exhibit, the amazing man standing across the room.
It would have been the perfect evening in other circumstances.
Maybe it was the perfect evening for everyone else.
“Sumamente hermosa,” a voice said, approaching her from the side.
She turned to find Christian smiling next to hear.
“Si. Yes, it turned out very well,” Grace stuttered.
“I wasn’t talking about the paintings, senorita, but they do look quite spectacular. I want you to meet my wife,” he said, gesturing toward the woman beside him. “She’s been looking forward to talking with you.”
“Oh.” Grace studied the sophisticated woman who wore a black cocktail dress and a bright red jacket. Her hair fell past her shoulders in luxurious curls that shined with silver strands. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Miri,” she said with a thick accent. “I’ve heard that I have you to thank for sorting through this whole collection.”
“No, I didn’t—” Grace deflected.
“Take some credit, Grace,” Christian boomed. “Rafael won’t stop telling me how great a help you were to him, even if he wouldn’t allow me to drag you back here for a final inspection.”
Grace glanced across the room, where Raf was still charming some of the guests. Christian had wanted her to return, and Raf had never even asked? She would have done it, of course, not that he needed her. But she would have taken any excuse…
“We were just saying it’s unlike anything we’ve ever experienced,” Miri said. “And I’m so glad you were able to convince my husband to bring in some local artists. It’s a terrific idea.”
“Oh,” Grace said, blushing “I’m so excited to see their work.” Then she gestured toward Alma and Obinna before making introductions, wishing she could blend into the wall behind them and disappear.
“I hope you’ll all enjoy yourselves,” Christian said. “I’m so delighted to share this with you.”
“Yes,” Miri said. “I still have to congratulate Rafael. What a job well done!” She squeezed Grace’s shoulder as she followed her husband to greet another group of guests.
Grace felt the swell of pride in her chest. Not for her own work, but for his.
He’d been so cocky about his expertise before they’d started working together, but in the days they’d spent going over the artwork, she’d seen just how meticulous and brilliant he was.
And that didn’t even cover everything else he’d accomplished in order to make Christian’s fanciful dream a reality.
“So that’s Christian, huh?” Alma asked. “Seems nicer than some of the other pretentious snobs Rafael has worked for. I’m sorry to tell you, Gracie, but some of his American bosses were real dicks.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Grace laughed, taking another step toward the next painting, another step toward Rafael.
She knew what she was doing, even if she was using all of her willpower not to look in his direction.
Instead, she allowed herself to be absorbed by Dora Maar all over again, by the color and shapes that Picasso had used to capture his mistress.
She lost herself in the curves and angles, and the glare of Dora’s knowing eyes.
For a moment, she forgot that there was anyone else in the room.
It reminded her of going to the Chicago Institute with Gram as a child, of watching her grandmother become absolutely enthralled in a work of art until it was like she’d been swept away to somewhere else entirely.
And as Grace got older, she knew what her grandma had been feeling.
She’d discovered exactly what it was to get lost in the perfect brushstrokes, and she’d managed to make a career out of it.
Gram would have loved this, Grace thought, her breath catching. She would have wanted to stay for hours on end, asking Grace questions about every single painting on the wall.
“Thanks for coming.”
Grace had been so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that Raf had made his way across the room, and she didn’t know if he was talking to her or Alma. She glanced over at him and felt her cheeks warm.
“Hola, Rafa,” Alma said, and then she started talking excitedly in Spanish.
Grace could only make out a few words like “incredible” and “marvelous,” so she stood unmoving while Rafael responded and embraced Alma and Obinna.
Then he turned to her and leaned closer, kissing the air beside her cheek. Grace’s breath caught for a moment.
This was ridiculous. She was an adult woman. Her heart shouldn’t be pounding like she’d just sprinted up three flights of stairs and her legs shouldn’t be shaking with nerves because of a stupid air kiss.
“I’ll admit I’ve been eager to hear what you think, Grace. How did we do?”
“We? Everyone keeps giving me way too much credit.”
He shook his head, ever so slightly. “That’s not true.” Then, quietly, he added, “I couldn’t even picture it without you.”
Grace felt the heat rushing between her legs.
God, his lips. His whole…everything. He was too gorgeous for his own good.
For her own good certainly. She could barely stand it.
If only she didn’t know how much he’d changed since the first time they’d met.
If only she could keep pretending he was just some stuck-up douche with no sense of humor.
But it wasn’t true. He was so dedicated and caring, and he did have a sense of humor. She was so desperate to make him laugh.
“It’s amazing, Raf,” she said. “And as much as you try to say I helped you, you’re really the one who made this happen. You put all the pieces together, and it’s absolutely beautiful.”
And I want to kiss you until my lips implode.
Rafael kept his eyes on her, and she couldn’t manage to look away. She could hear her breath quickening as he licked his lips. The foot of air between them seemed to rise in temperature, and then Alma cleared her throat, stepping closer.
Grace backed away a step and pretended to look at the nearest painting, trying to look at the entire exhibit with a more critical eye, as if she didn’t have feelings for the man who’d organized it, as if she’d hadn’t been part of it herself.
Maybe the exhibit wasn’t perfect. Maybe there were still problems that concerned her—the way it would be received, if the guests would really pay attention to the whole story, to the words Raf had put on plaques in Spanish and in English.
And maybe it was still too exclusive and snobbish, too much of a commodity, like great art so often was.
Still, she was proud of how it had turned out, of all the work Raf had done. She was in awe of him.
“So what’s the best part, Rafael?” Alma asked. “Is there a space you’re particularly fond of?”
“There is,” he said, gesturing toward another room. Grace swallowed, becoming more aware of where Rafael was leading them with every step. Her body tensed as they approached the little alcove where they had kissed, where one of the largest paintings of the collection loomed over them.
“Ah,” Obinna commented. “That’s—uh—interesting.”
It was a painting of another of Picasso’s mistresses, and it was somehow incredibly sensual and peaceful at the same time.
The woman looked completely comfortable as she sat in repose with one of her breasts exposed, of course.
But Rafael wasn’t looking at the painting.
He was staring at a blank space on the wall, a spot that held nothing except for a searing memory.
Then he turned to Grace and locked eyes with her again.
“This is your favorite piece?” Alma asked.
“Not necessarily,” Raf replied. “I just love this alcove. It’s a great little hideaway where you can sneak off and admire the work. You feel like you’re all alone with it for a moment.”
Alma looked around, examining the alcove. “That’s true. I suppose I—”
Grace looked up, trying to ascertain why Alma had stopped speaking. She peered out of the alcove and soon discovered they weren’t alone after all. One of the most intense and intimidating men Grace had ever known was heading straight for them with long powerful strides.
“Hola, Papá,” Alma said.