Returning to the studio, I snap photos of my work. I’m about to head back downstairs, but somehow I end up standing in front of the freshly painted easel. A portrait. I never paint portraits, and not because I don’t enjoy them or have no skills in that area, but rather because of the way the brush exposes secrets a person might not want exposed, and I value privacy. I value my secrets staying my secrets, and I assume others feel the same. But I want to know Nick Rogers’s secrets, and I know he has secrets. Which is why I haven’t gone to the internet for answers, where I will discover only sterile data. Instead, I found myself painting him, and the hard, handsome lines of his face are defined, but it’s his navy blue eyes that I’ve fretted over. Eyes that, along with what I’ve sensed and spoken of with him, tell a story I don’t quite understand, but I will. I have the weekend off from the winery as my gift to myself, and I plan to finish the painting. I plan to know that man more and figure him out before I see him again. Doing so feels important, for reasons I can’t quite say right now. Maybe he’s my enemy or maybe he just enjoys the dynamics of playing that game. Perhaps I’m just trying to feed myself a facade of control by trying to figure out the unknown that I simply won’t and don’t have with that man. I wonder if he knows he doesn’t have it, either.
Whatever the case, it won’t matter tonight. As Josh said. The event has been sold out for months. No one, not even Tiger and his arrogance, can snag a ticket. And since I’m not going back to the winery until Sunday night, I suspect he’ll have gone back to wherever he practices by then. In fact, maybe I’m wrong about seeing him again. If he gets back to work and gets busy, he might even forget whatever challenge I represent. My painting might actually be the last I see of the man. This should be a relief. It’s not.
…
By the time I email the photos to Josh, I have only an hour to shower and dress. By the time I fret over underwear and thigh highs as if Tiger might show up and rip them off of me, then move on to change from the blue dress to the black dress twice, I’m running late. Finally, though, I return to the blue dress, then rush through fussing with my makeup and curling my hair, which I usually leave straight. Even choosing shoes becomes an ordeal, but I settle on strappy black heels, along with a small black purse with a little sparkle that is also Chanel, purchased by someone I’d rather not think about.
I’m in the car, starting the engine, ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Josh, and it’s a thirty-minute drive. He calls me at fifteen: “Where are you?”
“The traffic was bad.”
“There is no traffic. Faith—”
“I sent you photos of the work I have done.” All except one particular portrait.
“Did you now?” he asks. “I’ll take a look now and you’re forgiven.”
“You don’t have time now. I know that.”
“I’ll make time. Meet me at the gallery instead of the hotel. Go to the back door. Expect security.” He hangs up.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He’s looking at them now. I suck another breath in. What if he hates them? What if dabbling at my craft has made me forget what my craft is all about? “What was I thinking?” I pull up to a stoplight, and I know exactly how to make myself feel good about this decision again. I grab my phone, tab to my voicemail, and hit the button to play all messages. One after another, harsh messages play from the bank or a vendor that is past due. Each a brutal reminder of why I chose to send those photos to my agent. I have to get everyone caught up, and one by one, I’ve been working to do just that.
It’s right at seven when I turn into the Chateau Cellar Winery that is home to the gallery. It’s literally a stone castle, covered in ivy with a dungeon-style front door. Just the sight of it has my nerves jolting into action, fluttering in my chest and belly, and not just because I’m late. I’ve never been featured in a show this high profile. And while I tell myself this night is one last hurrah, as I turn into the parking lot, I see every space is filled, and all I can think is that this is my dream. This is still my dream. I pull on around to the back of the building and find the lot equally full, those nerves expanding, but I dare to allow myself some excitement as well. How amazing would it be if my dream saved my father’s?
I park, and I’ve just killed the engine when there is a knock on my window. I roll it down to find Josh in view, his dark hair trimmed neatly as always, his handsome face clean-shaven. “They’re waiting on you to make announcements.”
“Oh no. Oh God. I shouldn’t have taken the photos tonight.” I click the locks, and he immediately opens the door, offering me his hand. I snag my purse and flatten my palm in his, struck by how good-looking he is in his tuxedo and how unaffected I am by his touch, even before I’m standing and under the full impact of his dark brown eyes giving me a once-over.
“You are stunning, Faith Winter.” He releases me and waves a hand in the air. “I see it now. You in a bathtub on the cover of a magazine with a headline: sexy, successful, and talented.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. He shuts my car door and snags my arm. “Let’s go.”
I double step to keep up. “I’m never going to be naked on a magazine.”
“Not if you keep smashing grapes instead of painting.”
My heart sinks. “You hated the photos. You think I lost my touch.”
He stops walking and settles his hands on my arms. “They’re magnificent, like you are. Go in there and be a painter, because I don’t represent winemakers.”
The door opens, and a woman steps outside. “Josh. Now.”
“Let’s do this,” Josh says, taking my hand and leading me into chaos. There are greetings and handshakes, and before I know it, I’m sitting in a chair on a spotlighted stage with two other artists I don’t know but admire on either side of me, the gallery around us in darkness, the crowd standing around us.
“Welcome all,” the announcer says from the podium in front of us. “As you know, we have three new artists to introduce you to tonight, but because I know you are all anxious to see the Chris Merit release, I want to explain how this works. We’ll unveil the painting in exactly one hour. Highest bidder wins, and all proceeds—one hundred percent—are donated to the Children’s Hospital. In the meantime, we have our three featured artists here tonight. They will be donating twenty percent of all sales tonight to the Children’s Hospital as well. Please visit them in the crowd tonight. Please visit their displays and our many others.” He has each of us stand, and after a few more words the lights come up. I stand and look left to find Josh waiting for me at the steps, but something intense, something familiar, compels me to look right, and I suck in air. Nick Rogers is standing there, looking like dirty, sexy, delicious lust in a tuxedo.