Chapter 13
Edie
“Nina, get back here,” Elizabeth hisses as Nina darts through the throng of people and towards the far end of the gallery. “This is an art gallery, not a playground.”
“Leave her be, she’s having fun,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee as we both watch Nina clamber up onto a stone bench, her pad and pencil gripped in her hand, determined to capture her own version of the portrait hung on the wall in front of her.
“She’s trying my patience today. Honestly, that girl is—”
“Just like her mother,” I interject with a wink as we stop and take a seat at the bench opposite Nina.
“I was never this wilful,” Elizabeth argues.
I scoff. “You’re joking, right? Don’t you remember the time you snuck out of our bedroom window at midnight when you were fifteen and met Joseph Appleby at the park? Mum nearly had a heart attack.”
“That was an error in judgment. Joseph turned out to be a prick, much like every man I met since that ridiculous first crush.”
“Hmm, what about the time you—”
“Speaking of ridiculous crushes, what are you going to do about that man?”
“By that man, I’m assuming you mean Dorian?”
She throws me a look, her eyes narrowing. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to see him again, not after what happened at dinner?”
“I might,” I reply, taking a sip of my coffee.
The truth is I’ve already decided I want to see Dorian again, not because I’m weak, or repeating past mistakes, but because I believe Dorian is exactly what I need right now.
I’m following Henrietta’s example, and for the first time in my life, taking what I want.
It’s about time I clawed back my power, and I’m going to do that by exploring my desires with a very handsome gangster. No strings attached.
“Seriously? There’s clearly something going on between him and Sybil. Why else would she be all over him like flies on shit?” she asks, giving me her full attention now.
“He said they’re not together. I believe him.”
“You might believe him. Hell, even Dorian might believe they’re just good friends, but Sybil sure as shit doesn’t think the same way.”
“Then that’s her problem.”
“Come on, Edie, haven’t you learned your lesson? Robert was—”
“Robert has nothing to do with this,” I snap, disliking where this conversation is going.
“Robert,” she continues, “Cheated on you countless times. He promised he’d stop after every affair, and you believed him.
He broke your heart so many times it’s a miracle you still have one beating inside your chest. Why on earth would you put yourself through that hell again?
Dorian might be good-looking and charming, too, but surely you can see he’s a copy and paste of Robert. Same man, different font?”
She searches my gaze, and despite knowing she’s concerned for me, that she’s trying to protect me from heartbreak, I’m not in the mood for her all-men-are-arseholes lecture.
I can’t let my past experiences cloud my judgment as she does.
She, too, was broken by a man. I get that, but I really don’t think all men are bastards, despite what I’d said to Dorian the first night we met.
I was angry then, jaded by my year-long divorce battle.
I like to think there are still decent men out there.
“Have you ever stopped to consider I’m a grown woman more than capable of making my own decisions? Yes, Robert hurt me. Yes, I took him back time and again. But I learned my lesson, Elizabeth. I know what I’m doing.”
“And what are you doing exactly?” she asks.
“Well, for a start, I’m not chasing Dorian. I’m not begging for his attention. If he wants to have a relationship with me, albeit a strictly sexual one, it will be on my terms, and my terms only.”
Elizabeth snorts. “You’re in lust. Your lady parts are ruling your head. Just because he made you…” Her voice lowers, “Come, doesn’t mean he’s not an arsehole.”
“I’m aware.”
“Edie–”
“Listen, Elizabeth,” I say, cutting her off. “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I’m not looking for love. This is me just having some fun for once in my life.”
“Fun?” She pulls a face. “And was it fun that he reacted like a first-class prick after he fingered you and saw your blood?”
“He apologised for his behaviour. He explained why he behaved the way he did.”
“And?”
“And it’s none of your business. I accepted his apology.”
“That’s it? You’re just going to forgive him and shack up with him?”
“I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
“Exploring my desires. He offered to help.”
“Help,” she screeches and about a half a dozen sets of eyes turn towards us. “Sorry, everything’s fine.” She waits until they all return to perusing the artwork before speaking again. “And what makes you think he’s not helping countless other women?”
“Because I told him I don’t share, and according to Dorian, neither does he. We both know where we stand.”
Elizabeth opens her mouth to protest, but is interrupted when Nina comes hurtling towards us both.
“This is the best day ever,” she squeals, so happy she’s bouncing from one foot to the other. “Thank you for bringing us here, Aunt Edie.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, grinning at her enthusiasm.
She grabs my hand and tugs. “Let’s go look in the other room.”
We trail after Nina. This time, the walls are covered in paintings of landscapes awash with pastel colours that, whilst beautiful, seem to hold an edge of melancholy and sadness within the brush strokes.
“Wow, these are so pretty,” Nina cries, pulling me toward a painting of an open window framed in white gauze. I lose myself in it, almost tasting the salt of the sea as my gaze drifts out to the restless blue-grey ocean beyond the window.
“Well, shit,” Elizabeth exclaims, snapping me out of my moment of contemplation as Nina bounds off to look at another painting.
“What?”
“This is a Basilia Hallward painting,” she says, pointing to the signature scrawled onto the corner of the canvas.
“Should I know that name?” I ask, looking between her and the painting, and back again.
“Dorian owns some of her paintings, too. He had them on display in his lobby.”
“I hadn’t really noticed,” I admit. Well, I had noticed the paintings, but I didn’t really pay them much attention once Dorian had entered the room looking disarmingly handsome.
Elizabeth leans in, reading from the small white placard situated next to the painting.
Basilia Hallward (1702-1728) Untitled, 1727.
This work is one of several pieces donated to Scottsdale Gallery by the Grayhaven Estate.
It is rumoured that Basilia’s short life was one filled with emotional instability until her tragic death in 1728.
Little else is known about Basilia, but her work is certainly as inspiring as many of her peers during that period.
“Do you think it was Dorian who donated these paintings?” Elizabeth asks.
“He could just be a collector,” I reply with a shrug. “Why?”
“It’s odd.”
“It’s not unusual to collect art, Elizabeth.”
She frowns. “Don’t you remember what he said?”
“Something about them not being a Monet, which clearly they aren’t.”
“No, Edie. He said Basilia was an old acquaintance of his.”
I flick my gaze back to the placard. “You must’ve misheard. She died in 1728, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, that would be impossible…” Her voice trails off as she pulls out her phone, typing something. “Well, shit,” she says a moment later, shoving her phone at me.
“What?”
“This is a website about the Grayhaven Estate. Look at this.”
Taking the phone from her, I scan the last line of the paragraph she’s pointing to. “The Grayhaven Estate is owned by Dorian Crow, a local businessman and the last living member of the Gray family.”
“And?” I question, handing her the phone back. “So what, he’s rich. I already figured that out.”
“No, that’s not what I was pointing to,” she says, enlarging an image on the screen, and then handing the phone back to me. “Look at the picture.”
I heave out a sigh, my gaze falling to a painting of a couple standing beneath a rose-covered pergola, my attention immediately drawn to the man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Dorian.
My heart stills in my chest because beneath the painting is a small caption that reads: “Basilia Hallward and her husband Dorian Gray, m:1720.”
It takes me a moment to recover, but when I do, I shake my head and laugh. “The genes must be strong in his family. Dorian looks like his relative, that’s all.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit weird?” Elizabeth asks.
I lift a brow, handing her back her phone. “Next, you’ll be telling me he’s immortal or something.”
She meets my gaze, then suddenly bursts out laughing. “I could use a drink. Shall we go get some lunch and talk some more about how you’re not getting involved with an estate owning criminal, who has questionable taste in women?”
“Oy, I’m a catch, I’ll have you know,” I retort, shoving her on the arm.
“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about Sybil.”
“And here I was thinking you’re a woman’s woman.”
“I am, but she definitely isn’t.”
Later that evening, I flick through the brochure I picked up from Scottsdale Gallery in search of the section dedicated to Basilia Hallward’s paintings.
Other than the same brief description typed into the placards beside all of her paintings in the gallery, there’s no further information about the mysterious artist. My gaze drifts over her paintings, every single one of them a view through the same window.
They all display a similar melancholy, as though that view was her only escape from the life she was trapped in.
I shudder, closing the brochure and shoving it across the desk.
Then, chewing on my lip, glance at my laptop.
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble, dragging it across the table and opening up a search engine.
I’ve never been one to run background checks on a prospective partner, choosing instead to take someone at face value.
Then again, I did have the misfortune to marry Robert, and a quick search into his dubious past would’ve prevented all the heartache.
Which is why I’m choosing to do this now. Better late than never, I guess.
Pulling up the same website Elizabeth had earlier, I spend the next few minutes reading through the pages, of which there are only two.
The main page details the history of Grayhaven Estate and shows several photographs of the building.
According to this website, it was built in the early seventeenth century on a remote island situated off the coast of East Anglia.
Apparently, visitors have been prevented from taking the hour-long boat trip to the island not just because of the unpredictable North Sea, but also because the current owner has refused to turn it into a tourist site.
Honestly, I don’t blame Dorian. If Grayhaven were mine, I would want to keep it safe, too.
My gaze flicks back to the painting of Basilia Hallward and Dorian Gray.
The pair are undeniably beautiful, and the resemblance to the Dorian I know is remarkable.
Basilia herself has long blonde hair that seems to glow like a halo around her head.
She’s petite, both in height and stature, and seems swamped by her husband, barely reaching his shoulder.
They look happy, and I can’t help but wonder why Basilia’s artwork is filled with so much sorrow.
After reading the next page, which only really details the baroque architecture, I quickly do a search on Basilia.
The first website I come across is the gallery we visited today, but it doesn’t have any new information.
The next is a Wikipedia page that really doesn’t tell me anything I haven’t already found out.
Other than that, Basilia is as mysterious as her paintings.
“Well, that’s just bizarre,” I say.
Next, I search the name Dorian Gray, but yet again, come up empty, my search taking me back to the Grayhaven Estate website.
Finally, I do a quick search on my Dorian, and aside from his hotel and his club appearing, there’s little information about him either.
He has no social media accounts, there are no articles about him, nothing to suggest he’s ever been arrested for criminal activity, which, I suppose, is a good thing.
Maybe he’s not a gangster after all.
Or he’s so good at being a gangster that whatever nefarious shit he gets up to can only be found on the dark web.
Even if I were somehow able to get access to the dark web, I’m not about to go down that rabbit hole.
Instead, I power down my laptop and grab my glass of wine, wondering if Elizabeth was right, that I’m a fool to pursue anything with Dorian and only opening myself up to more heartache.
I push those thoughts aside. Heartache is only a concern if I allow myself to fall for Dorian, and that’s never going to happen.