She quickly turned on her heel from his stare down. He could smell her half-truth trailing behind her into the dining room.
“Oh yes, a definite watercolor in here,” she called out, changing the subject.
Apart from a few well-known artist friends from his mother’s circle and the Anne Darcy Scholarship founded after her death, he’d stopped appreciating art for its skilled execution. Due to unforeseen circumstances, art wasn’t his thing anymore, but art collecting as a means to decorate a home while acting as a diverse portfolio-building financial investment was damn sexy to him. As a traditional type of guy, he had no intention of owning shares in the art market or even purchasing blue-chip works by emerging contemporary artists. His sights were set on acquiring late nineteenth to mid-twentieth century originals, andthathis artist mother would find noteworthy.
“What’s the name of the art gallery?” he asked walking into the kitchen where she now positioned herself and measuring tape across the door to the rooftop oasis.
“La Tempera Gallery,” she said. “Have you heard of it?”
“No, but I like the name. My mother’s paint technique was egg tempera.”
“I’m not familiar with the medium, but I’ll look it up,” she said, half listening, writing the door measurements in her notebook.
She put on a good show, but she cared little about art for art’s creative sake, just for how it made a space look and feel. He could respect that.
“Wyeth was known for his tempera. He used an Old-World egg recipe in the famousChristina’s World,” he said, smoothing his hand along the polished white granite island. “It was all about the light for him—and my mother. The medium once used egg yolk as a binding agent, and it holds less pigment, which gives it a shiny, ethereal look. Now they use other stuff for the same effect.”
“I forgot you went through a hokey artist phase,” she said, still jotting notes.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like one of my mother’s larger pieces to hang in the dining room.”
She looked up with a jolt. “Damn, I’m so sorry! I should have considered her work from the start. Your mom was an amazing artist.”
“She was. I think just two select pieces are sufficient. One in my private bedroom and the other in the dining room. Apart from the one in my apartment, they’re still collecting dust in Mom’s Dakota studio since her passing.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Thatwas my father’s order,” he said with a clipped tone. “Anything to keep from feelinganythingforanyonefollowing her death. It was as if she never existed once he locked that door.” He opened the sub-zero refrigerator—a waste of space and necessity since neither cooked. “It’s all a moot point now.”
Disengaging from the conversation, she went back to writing notes with a “Hmm ... right,” then dropped the pen and picked up her phone. He was thankful she didn’t call him out on having morphed into his father: triple-locking the door to his heart after his ex dumped him and his mother died of cancer a year and a half later.
Often accused of being a person of little self-awareness, he was not blind to his idiosyncrasies and unfeeling outward persona. His total focus on the financial business sector seemed to others a foregone conclusion of his nature, being a Darcy and all, but it was a self-protection mechanism. He recognized this and deliberately presented himself as controlled and aloof. No one could hurt him there, but down deep—locked in the abyss—another man longed to exist. He would never be that man again—even if his disappointed mother looked down at him. She had been a warm, sociable creative—a true empath who operated from the right side of the brain, painting the world with her joyful light and love, forgiving and forgetting the worst andencouraging him at every turn to do the same. That had been the Fitzwilliam family in her, certainly not the Darcy influence.
“Hellooo?” Beanz called out to him, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“I just did a search for the gallery, and they’re having a reception for a well-known artist Friday night. Would you like to go with me?”
“No, thanks. Go with your sister. She probably needs a break from wedding plans.”
“We’ll see. She bought one painting and already considers herself an art connoisseur. The friggin’ know-it-all wouldn’t know a Dali from a Renoir and will probably get drunk and ruin the whole gallery reception experience.”
“Then go alone. I trust your discernment in finding the right artwork and person to assist us. In the interim, I’ll find the time to stop by the Dakota to look at the pieces in my mother’s collection.”
“You know, you didn’t indicate what your plans are for your condo.”
He smiled tightly because he deliberately hadn’t said, but since she asked, it was time to confess. “I’m keeping it.”
“Are we leasing it out?”
It didn’t escape his notice—we.
“No. I’m keeping it as an investment and—just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“That we don’t work out or if I feel like killing you.”Or I just need to escape or overnight or just be me without you.Damn, he was already predicting a miserable future.Honestly, he didn’t know what lay ahead in this marriage pact, but he would leave nothing to chance. If it ended, she’d probably get the townhouse, and he’d have to start looking for another place to hang his hat. He liked that place down in the West Village.Ghosts and shadows aside, it held some worthwhile memories, not to mention the view was to die for. Keeping it was a smart investment.
