Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
H arper
Four weeks later and our kitchen/diner is full of all my closest friends and family. The alphas have removed all the photos from the walls and, with me directing from the sofa, hung up all my artwork instead. Molly and Bea are circulating with drinks and nibbles Molly baked especially.
And now I’m just waiting for Sylvie to arrive. The compliments and comments from everyone are nice and all, but the only opinion I care about is Sylvie’s.
I’ve stuffed myself full of at least one hundred canapes and sweet bites, the babies going crazy with all that sugar, when Wyatt gently nudges me on the shoulder.
“Harper, sweetheart,” he whispers, motioning towards the door, “Sylvie’s here.”
I gulp, take a deep steadying breath and go to greet her, kissing her on the cheek.
“Your home is adorable, Harper,” she tells me, “and I can’t wait to see your art.”
I take her hands in mine. “You’ll give me your honest opinion?”
Sylvie laughs. “Yes, for the one hundredth time, I promise.”
“Let me find you a drink then and you just go browse.”
I hurry away and busy myself opening a new bottle of champagne and trying my best not to watch Sylvie’s every move.
“How’s it going?” Molly asks me as she rests a tray of empty glasses on the counter, then rubs her hand over her own baby bump. She’s only a month behind me and yet I am twice as big on account of the twins.
“Sylvie’s here.”
“The elegant lady with the black glasses?” she asks, staring right in Sylvie’s direction.
“Yes,” I say, tugging her back around to face me.
“And?”
“I don’t know yet. She only just arrived.”
Molly flops down on a stool. “Urgh the suspense is killing me!”
“It’s killing you !”
I peer Sylvie’s way. She’s standing in front of my big canvas, arms crossed and staring. It’s impossible to tell from her expression and her body language whether she thinks my painting belongs in her art gallery or in the garbage.
This was an incredibly stupid idea and I don’t know how I let my pack talk me into it. I have everything I need in my life to make me happy – three loving, caring supportive alphas, two babies on the way and a job I love. I should have stuck to my guns and kept all these paintings hidden.
“Earth to Harper? Come in Harper?” Molly says, waving her hand in front of my face. I blink and focus in on her face. “Are you okay?”
“I haven’t been this nervous since I told my mom about …” I wave in the direction of my alphas who are standing in a corner talking to Molly’s pack.
“Harper, seriously, your art is incredible, you have nothing to be worried about.”
I nod, chewing on my cheek and looking longingly at the bottle of champagne in my hand. What I wouldn’t give for a glass right now? Or just the smallest smidgen of brie cheese? Three more months to go before I can have either though.
I pour the bubbly into a clean glass and straighten my shoulders.
“I’m going in,” I tell her, with a nod.
Molly pats my shoulder and I make my way through our friends and family and stop beside Sylvie. She’s still standing in front of the canvas.
“Here. Glass of champagne.”
She takes it from me, her eyes not leaving the canvas.
“You want to know what I think,” she says, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
“Well, yes.”
“Okay, but first, tell me, do you like it?”
I cringe. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be truly 100% pleased or satisfied with anything I paint, draw or make. I’ll always be able to spot something that could have been better.”
“Artists are always their own worst critics.”
“Perhaps. But I do like it – for all its many, many faults, I like it. I think it expresses how I was feeling at the time.”
“And how was that?”
“Oh a kaleidoscope of emotions. Excited about the future. Petrified about the future. Sad about the past. Thankful for the present. Mostly just inspired.”
“Hmmm, yes, I see all of that in this.”
“You do?” I say, unable to help smiling.
“Yes, and, Harper, no faults.”
“Now you’re just being nice.”
Sylvie shakes her head. “No, I’m not. I happen to hate those sketches of your three gentlemen over there and sculpture is not your forte, Harper. But this painting and those on the far wall over there, I really love them.”
“Thank you, Sylvie.”
“And I think we should show them in the art gallery – if you’ll let me.” Do I want everyone to see my most vulnerable art – all my emotions there on the canvas to see? Perhaps Sylvie senses my hesitation because she says, “Art is meant to be seen.”
“That’s what Daxton, Owen and Wyatt think too.”
“You disagree?”
“No,” I say, a little sulkily. I totally agree. It’s why I hate it when some of the greatest pieces of art in the world end up hidden away in private collections.
Owen sidles up alongside Sylvie.
“What do you think of our girl’s work?”
“I like it.”
“I knew you would,” he says, winking at me.
“In fact, we’re going to show it in the art gallery.”
“Good decision,” he says, bumping his glass against hers. Then, turning to face the room, he clinks his ring against his glass to attract the attention of the room.
Everyone falls quiet.
“Thanks for coming here tonight everyone to celebrate the incredible talent that is Harper Hall.” Molly whoops from the corner and Daxton cheers. “And if you’ve enjoyed her work, you’ll be very pleased to hear that it will soon be available for sale at the Port Gallery in Rockview from …”
He turns back towards Sylvie.
“Yet to be confirmed but we will let you know the details,” she says.
There is more cheering and clapping and then I’m swamped by friends and family congratulating me: Uncle Tim and Aunt Sally spending ten minutes telling me they intend to buy one of my pieces for their newly furnished home.
“Not this one, though,” Daxton says, pointing towards the large canvas Sylvie was admiring mere moments ago.
“Is it not for sale?” my aunt asks, examining the piece.
“Not any more. I’ve bought it.”
I crinkle my brow. “You have?”
“Yes, it’s too good to let go. We’re going to keep it – once it’s done a little stint in the gallery of course. We want everyone to see how good you are.”
I wrap my arms around him and lean my head on his chest. “Thanks,” I whisper as we move away to find the others. “I’m not sure how I’d feel knowing it was hanging in Aunt Sally’s dining room.”
“Maybe she’d like the three sketches of your alphas instead?” he teases me.
“No, they’re not for sale.”
“Because you can’t bear to part with them too?”
“Nope, because Sylvie doesn’t like them,” I say, kissing his cheek.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Probably the subject matter,” I tease back.