Chapter 20
Margot
He was coming my way, but now he pauses in the middle of the room.
I excuse myself from a community member asking if I do pet portraits and carve a path through the crowd. The noise of the gallery, the clink of crystal, the hum of critique, fades the closer I get to him.
“Come say hello.” My voice holds steady, betraying nothing of the pulse hammering against my ribs.
His knuckles are white where they clutch a small bouquet wrapped in crinkled brown paper. Vibrant, messy things, wildflowers pulled from a street vendor’s bucket.
“I didn’t want to intrude,” he says.
My gaze drops. “Are those for me?”
“If you want them.” He extends the offering. “I didn’t want to make a scene with roses. These seemed more you.”
I take them. The stems are damp against my palm, the cool moisture seeping into my skin. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”
“Your work,” he says, nodding at the large canvas behind me. He studies the brushstrokes, the colors I bled onto the fabric. “It’s incredible, Margot. It looks like you.”
“It is me.”
“I know.” He brings his eyes back to my face. “I’m sorry I missed seeing this version of you for so long.”
“You’re seeing it now.”
The noise of the gallery fades into a dull hum. For a heartbeat, it feels like we are the only two people in the room.
Then, a shadow falls over us.
“Hello, Ross.”
The voice is cool, familiar, and it slices through the awkward bubble we’ve created. I freeze, the stems of the flowers crunching slightly in my grip.
Tabitha stands there.
She isn’t with Arthur. She is alone, clutching a flute of champagne she hasn’t touched; the condensation on the glass suggests she’s been holding it for a long time.
She looks impeccable in black silk, but the armor is cracking.
Her posture is rigid, yet her eyes are tired, rimmed with an exhaustion that makeup can’t hide.
Ross straightens. He doesn’t step in front of me this time. He doesn’t look angry, nor guilty. He looks at her with a calm, settled guardedness.
“Tabitha,” he says.
She nods to him, a stiff, professional acknowledgment, then turns her gaze to me. It’s an appraisal, but the sneer I expect isn’t there. She studies the painting behind me, letting her eyes trace the chaotic lines, then down at the wildflowers in my hand, and finally, she meets my eyes.
“Mrs. Calder,” she says.
“Tabitha.” I keep my voice neutral, though I tighten my grip on the flowers until my knuckles ache.
“Do you have a moment?” she asks. Her voice lacks its usual sharp edge. “Privately?”
I look at Ross. He gives a barely perceptible nod, stepping back to give us space, though he stays within arm’s reach.
Tabitha steps closer. She doesn’t look at Ross; she keeps her eyes locked on mine.
“I wanted to say something before I go.” She takes a breath, her hand smoothing the silk of her dress, a nervous tic I’ve never seen before. “I owe you an apology.”
The words hang in the air, suspended. I didn’t expect them. I expected a justification, a defense of her talent, or a subtle dig disguised as advice.
“I treated your marriage as a technicality,” she says.
Her voice is low, meant only for me, stripped of the corporate polish.
“I convinced myself that because I understood the work, I understood him. I blurred lines that shouldn’t have been blurred.
I disrespected you, and I disrespected your home. ”
She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but she doesn’t look for pity. She states it as a fact, a calculation she got wrong.
“I thought I was the exception,” she admits, a flicker of bitterness crossing her face. “I wasn’t. I was a distraction from what was really wrong.”
She glances at Ross, then quickly back to me.
“I’m not excusing him,” she adds quickly. “He has his own work to do. But for my part in the damage… I am sorry.”
Standing there, admitting defeat, she’s a woman who gambled on a narrative that wasn’t true and lost everything on the bet.
“Thank you,” I say. It’s all I can manage.
She nods, a quick, sharp motion to regain her composure.
“Your work is excellent, by the way,” she adds, glancing at the canvas one last time. “Arthur would hate it. Which means it’s good.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, dry, ironic. She turns to Ross.
“Good luck, Calder.”
“Goodbye, Tabitha,” Ross says. The finality in his tone is absolute.
She turns and weaves back into the crowd, her black dress disappearing toward the exit. The space she occupied feels suddenly lighter, the air rushing back in to fill the void.
I let out a long, shuddering breath. My shoulders drop, the tension draining out of me.
Ross steps back into my space. He studies my face, searching for damage, checking for cracks. “You okay?”
I look at the spot where she stood, then up at him. The wildflowers are still heavy in my hand, a reminder of the mess. “Yes.”
He smiles, a small, genuine expression that reaches his eyes and softens the hard lines of his face. “Good. Now, tell me about this painting.”
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm. Muscle shifts beneath the denim, warm and solid.
“Okay,” I say, leaning into him. “Let’s talk.”
And talk we do. All night.