His fingers close around mine, and he doesn't let go.
26
JAMES
I’ll admit, some part of me still thought of Maura as an artistic amateur. A talented one, but still, it was her hobby, not her job.
Now, standing in the back of the Whitmer and taking it all in, I can see what a moron I was.
Maura’s art is serious and powerful. It gives me the same sense of awe I feel looking over a cliff at the ocean, or at photographs of space. The feeling that the world is vast, and I am small—the earth is permanent, and will live on beyond me and my small worries. It should make me afraid, confronting how powerless I am, but it doesn’t.
It’s freeing.
All the paintings are beautiful, but the centerpiece is my favorite. It’s an abstract work, made of colors and shapes, but I recognize the storm it represents. The one that swept over Maura and me as we stood on the balcony, drenching us and dragging us down to the floor of our apartment, overtaken by lust and loss and want.
She made it something unimaginably beautiful.
Once the crowd starts gathering for the auction, it’s easy to find Maura. She’s lingering at the back, trying to avoid attention, even though her height and auburn hair make her unmistakable. Her gray dress is loose and elegant, and I feel a pang of regret, wondering if she bought it hoping there would be a pregnancy bump to hide.
I move to stand just behind her. “Apologies for being late, wife.”
She spins on her heel, her eyes wide as she gazes up at me. “You came.”
My mouth tugs downward. Did she ever doubt I would? “I wouldn’t have missed it.”
She blinks up at me, and I thread my fingers through hers.
“I thought…” she trails off.
“I know, I’m late. I’m sorry. I was coming from a meeting across town, and a semi-truck trapped us on the highway. I had to call in a favor, leave my car on the side of the highway, and take an actual taxi cab to get here.”
“They still have those?”
“Apparently.”
“I hope you tipped well.”
“Always do.” I gesture to the crowd around us. “Excellent turn-out.”
Her lips tug upward. “It’s so crazy.”
“I’d like to start off the auction with the exceptional piece on the left,” the gallerist says from the podium. “A personal favorite of mine,The Thunderstorm.I’ll start the bidding at $5,000.”
Maura’s jaw is clenched tightly, her shoulders high and tense. For a moment, there’s silence.
“$5,000,” a woman in the front calls out.
“$5,200,” a male voice says.
“$5,400!”
The bids stack up quickly. I watch Maura’s face. Her jaw unclenches, but the color drains from her face. It’s like she was terrified her works wouldn’t sell, but now, she’s scared at how high the numbers go.
Once we cross $25,000, the bids start to slow down. When the first woman says “26,500,” the room is silent.
“Sold, to Ruth Thomas for $26,500,” the gallerist says.
The room fills with polite applause. Next to me, Maura mutters, “Holy shit.”
