32
JARED
She’s not coming.
I don’t know why I thought she might.
A pathetic, desperate part of me wanted to believe she might be feeling as miserable and empty as I’ve been this past month without her.
That’s some of the reason why I sent the portrait to her house tonight. I thought she might see it as the peace offering I intended it to be. I had hoped the note I enclosed would be the declaration of love she refused to accept when I feebly blurted out those inadequate words that awful night at Muse.
But she’s not coming.
The courier should have arrived at her house more than a couple of hours ago. Ample time for her to decide if she can forgive me.
Evidently, she can’t.
Somehow, I need to find a way to be okay with that decision, despite that it feels like a crushing weight seated on my chest.
“Jared,” a female voice calls to me through the clusters of patrons gathered around my unveiled new works. Dominion’s manager, Margot Chan-Levine, glides toward me with a dour-looking gentleman in a stuffy suit and bow-tie. “I have someone I’d love for you to meet.”
I spend the next ten minutes answering questions from the French art critic and pretending to be interested in his attempts to impress me with his credentials.
I’ve long grown accustomed to the fuss my art usually stirs up at its debuts, but even I have to admit this level of excitement is astonishing. Not even the drizzling rain that started in the past hour has slowed the traffic of invited VIPs and patrons packing the gallery. If I was uncertain how the change in my artistic style and subject matter might impact my return after a two-year absence, this exhibit erases any doubts.
And I couldn’t be more bored.
For the past three hours since my newest paintings were unveiled at the reception, I’ve been glad-handed by reporters and patrons, and toasted with a seeming endless flow of champagne—none of which I’ve imbibed.
All around me, I hear effusive praise for the trio of paintings dominating the focal wall of the gallery . . . and whispered speculation about who is the mystery muse depicted in my new work.
Unlike the portrait I gave to Melanie, none of these show her lovely face. That’s a privilege I don’t intend to share with anyone.
In the first painting on display, she’s standing alone on a beach illuminated in soft sunlight as she looks out at the tranquil water. In the next, she’s seated on the edge of a bed, as serene and protective as an angel while she watches over a sleeping little girl.
The third is a painting I almost didn’t allow the gallery to have tonight. In it, Melanie is bared from the waist up, her face tilted away from the viewer with her long red hair flowing down the elegant length of her back in a fiery cascade.
Each of them means something different to me, three different facets of an infinitely intriguing, extraordinary woman. A woman I was fortunate to have in my life for a brief moment, and too unworthy to keep.
“Quite the turnout, my friend.” Dominic Baine steps up to me with Avery on his arm. He’s wearing a dark suit, holding a glass of champagne. Avery glows in a black cocktail dress that sets off her green eyes and golden blond hair.
“I think half the New York art world is here,” she adds, lifting up to kiss my cheek. “Congratulations, Jared. Your paintings are absolutely gorgeous. Everyone’s raving over this new direction your art has taken.”
“Thanks.” I smile at my friends, genuinely warmed by their praise. “I was glad you agreed to host me here at Dominion tonight.”
“Are you kidding?” Nick grins. “I’d have been insulted if you’d gone anywhere else.”
Avery nods. “Margot says she’s already received half a dozen eight-figure offers on the collection. You sure you’re not interested in selling any of them?”
“I’m sure.” I glance over the throng of admirers gathered around the three images of Melanie. “I could no more part with them than I could my right arm.”
As we talk, Gabe and Evelyn step in to join us. Melanie’s best friend apparently overheard my comment. “Have you called her yet, Jared?”
“No.” They all know how I’ve felt since my epic fuck-up with her. They know my planned relocation to the Hamptons and the sell-off of all my clubs and entertainment venues in the city is all in an effort to put some much-needed distance between myself and the anguish of losing Melanie. “She doesn’t want to see me, and I have to respect that.”
Eve gives me a sympathetic look. “Mel’s stubborn sometimes. She guards her heart because as tough as she’s had to be all her life, that’s the one place she’s vulnerable. She let you in, Jared. That’s not easy for her. You really hurt her.”
“I know. Damn it, I know that.” The words grate out of me, my self-loathing hardly lessened since that night at Muse. “I fucked up with her, big time.”
