“Thomas Delancy is here,” Isabella whispers in my ear, handing me a glass of champagne. “Six o’clock. Mustache and round tortoiseshell glasses. He was at the dinner party back in March. He’s one of the top art critics on the scene and thinks thatPersephone in Loveis a masterpiece! Come!”
I force myself to smile as Isabella takes my arm and guides me to the center of a crowd of strangers gathered around my latest painting.
Persephone in Love, I must admit, is my best work. And—my shoulders tense with anxiety when I see it—next to it is the painting that started it all:The Muse.
I stare at the two paintings side by side.The Museis small by comparison, eighteen by twenty-four inches, an eighth ofthe size ofPersephone in Love. It’s hot in here. My skin crawls beneath the fabric of my dress, and I swear I hear people whispering and staring. It’s too loud. The glassware, the music, their voices. I’ve avoidedThe Museat the gallery, deflecting conversation away from it, but now my awful secret is staring me in the face, on display for the world.
My palms go slick with sweat, and I swallow as shame rises from my gut. I am an impostor. A thief.
“I am just blown away byThe Muse,” a man in a tailored suit is saying. It takes me a moment to remember that he is a prospective buyer to whom Isabella has introduced me. “The water, her body positioning, the energy of it. It’s stunning. Your style has matured tremendously over the past year, but I still think it’s your best work.” My eyes focus on the wiry gray hair of his eyebrows, the flex and crease between them as he speaks, the plaque in his teeth. “Now tell me how you invented such a unique style.”
Invented?My cheeks flush, and my throat tightens.Am I having a panic attack? I shouldn’t have had that glass of champagne.“Excuse me,” I manage to squeeze out. “I just—need a minute.”
I sprint for the balcony, fold over the railing, and gulp in breaths of cold air. It is dark out here, and the cool night air grounds me. After several minutes the panic begins to subside. It is too much, the pressure of being the only artist on display, of answering their questions and smiling, smiling so much. And the lying. I didn’t invent this style.Ivandid. Ivan is the real artist. The real genius here.
Maybe I could use another glass of champagne. Or perhaps something stronger.
“Water?” A man’s voice, pleasant and warm, interrupts my panic. I turn to find a good-looking guy around my age holding out a glass of ice water. I nod gratefully. The chilledliquid makes its way down my throat and seems to cool my entire body from the inside.
“I’m Brooks,” he says as I take in his tailored suit and crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the top. His golden hair is neatly swept to one side, he has long lashes over bright hazel eyes, and his teeth are impeccably white and straight. He reminds me of the Andover and Deerfield boys I met at RISD, all grown up. There is something about his confidence and the way he speaks that I find both compelling and intimidating. Both familiar and strange.
I shake his outstretched hand. His touch is surprisingly strong. “Hannah,” I tell him. It feels good to be out here on the balcony with this stranger, to be away from the constant praise and congratulations of Isabella’s clients and friends, particularly overThe Muse. Knowing that my success began with Ivan’s original makes it feel unearned.
“Ah, the woman of the night,” he says with a smile. “You’re so popular that it’s nearly impossible for a guy to meet you—not to say that it isn’t for good reason.” Brooks could be a subject of one of my paintings, with his intense stare, his perfectly proportioned jaw and nose. But despite his good looks, he has an edge to him that makes me wary.
“Well, thank you,” I reply, my cheeks flushing. I don’t want him to think that I am some narcissistic artist. “But the truth is, a year ago, I was no one.”
He nods as if he understands deeply. “I’m a pianist, and I went from playing in dive bars to Carnegie Hall within the course of six months. I dropped out of Juilliard and was living with my parents, playing at a jazz bar in the East Village, when the artistic director of the New York Philharmonic happened to walk in.”
“That’s incredible,” I say, matching his smile. He has leaned in a bit closer, looking at me as if trying to read me. I can’t tell whether his energy is threatening or warm.
We talk this way for the next hour, and my guard lowers. He asks about my family, my background, and I tell him my mother died two years ago and how, after the accident, Isabella came back into my life and suggested featuring a piece of mine in her collection. The absurd luck that brought me here.
“I have to tell you,” he says, “it’s rare to meet a woman who is as talented and successful as you are. Your face is all over the arts section of theTimes.” He reaches out and my breath catches at the grip of his fingers on my arm. I have the instinct to step back.
For a moment neither of us says a word, and we just stand there, looking at one another. Then a mask falls over his features. I’m unnerved by the sudden change.
“That painting,The Muse—” He gestures between a group of men in the crowd to the far wall, where we can make out a sliver of the painting. It hangs on the wall, glowing under the lights, as Isabella presents it to a group of guests. I should feel proud, I suppose, but I only feel panicky and exposed, shame tight in my throat. “It’s really something,” he says, his eyes falling back on mine. “I love the way her hands are placed on her stomach and thigh.” His voice lowers, and he leans in closer, smiling as if sharing a secret with me. “Almost as if she were pleasuring herself.”
That wasn’t my intention, but now that he’s said it, I can see how it might be interpreted that way. Still, the remark makes me uneasy.
I swallow. Look away.
“I’d love to know if there is any way you’d be interested in selling it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It belongs to Isabella. I don’t think—”
“Oh really?” He tilts his head to one side, admiring the painting in the distance. “Well, let me ask you something that’s been on my mind, then.” He is even closer now, whispering in my ear. “Why did you decide to have her eyes closed, rather than open like they were in the original?”
I go still. The warmth from my face drains into the pit of my stomach. In Ivan’s version, the woman’s eyes were open, staring at the viewer. I found it unsettling, and so, in my version, when I painted on top of it, I made her eyes closed. There is no way for him to know about the underpainting.
I laugh nervously, glancing over my shoulder, trying to recover. “No, um. I’m not sure what you’re—” I stammer, taking a step back and rolling my ankle in my heels. “Her eyes were always closed.” I swallow the lie.
In my periphery, Isabella is trying to get my attention. “It was lovely to meet you, Brooks, but I—I need to go.” Pulling up the skirt of my dress, I run back inside, but instead of going to Isabella, I rush toward the exit.
My driver is parked right out front. “I don’t feel well,” I tell him. “Could you take me home?”
I’m closing my eyes and resting my head on the leather when I hear my name. It’s Isabella. “Where are you off to? It’s not even midnight,” she says. “There are people who still haven’t had a chance to congratulate you.” But when she sees my face, she stops, concerned, holding on to the open door with her free hand. “What’s wrong?”
