Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make him see that his father is right. You never know when your time is up, and sitting around in a state of depression is not the way to live.
After a far-too-long flight and another connection, I’m finally here. I didn’t expect it to be so warm, and I have to shrug off the sweater I’m wearing as I make my way out of the arrivals section of the airport.
With my suitcases on the cart, I sneak between people greeting their loved ones and others welcoming guests holding placards with names written on them. I’ve always loved airports, the excitement of either going on vacation or returning to find people you love waiting on you.
But the moment I stop, the innate pain in my chest reminds me that I no longer have anybody around to wait for me. Sighing, I focus on the here and now, the reason I’ve made it all the way to New Orleans. I promised my mother one day I’d make it here, and I did.
The rental car Mr. Elliot hired for me is waiting at the curb. A handsome young guy hands me the keys with a smile, and I can’t help but think of my best friend. Knowing Phoebe, she’d probably ask for his number, but Phoebe’s in Italy, and I’m here, nervous because I’m about to drive on the other side of the road again.
Behind the wheel, I think about what I’m heading for. This hasn’t been easy, having the world at my feet, and now, coming back here, filled with memories of my mother. She spoke of this city with so much love, so much fondness, and my tears well up being here.
I flick the button to turn on the stereo, and I find a station that has some classical music, which sets me at ease. The roads aren’t too bad once I get a few miles into town, and soon I’m smiling as I pull up to the building, which is so close to Bourbon Street I can hear music when I push open the car door.
Stepping out of the vehicle, I take in the rich opulence of the architecture, and my stomach somersaults wildly realizing I’m here. I’ve made it.
And it’s charming in the most delightful way.
The door of the apartment building slides open when I walk up to it, and I’m met by a man who offers me a smile. He looks to be in his fifties, with an eccentric shirt that reminds me of the photos I’ve seen of Hawaii or some far-off island.
“Hello, I’m Nea Kinley,” I tell him.
“Ah, yes, welcome. I am Rico. I’ll be here every day if you need anything, except Sundays,” he informs me with a smile. “Mrs. Bishop told me you’d be moving in today. Here are your keys,” he tells me as he hands me the set with a small gold lock that he continues to explain is for my post box. “You’re welcome to use it or not, but we like to make sure all residents have privacy.”
“Thank you. This is wonderful.”
It doesn’t take me long to get my suitcases out of the car, and soon, Rico and I have my luggage outside the apartment door. My fingers tremble as I unlock it and step into one of the most stunning living rooms I’ve ever seen.
A sofa sits against one wall, while opposite is a television cabinet with a flat screen. There are plush throw rugs in deep orange, and at the French doors that lead to the balcony, a tinkling of wind chimes dancing in the breeze.
The windows offer a view over the city, and the sun that streams through into the furnished space provides light and warmth. There’s a small dining table off to one side, which leads to the open-plan kitchen. The white tiles aren’t clinical; instead, it makes the place feel like a beach house.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“One of the pretty ones,” Rico states with a grin. “Let me know if you need anything more. I’m in apartment one eleven.” He gives me a wave before shutting the door behind him, and then I take in the apartment once more.
Excitement bubbles in my stomach, twisting and turning as the thought of being on my own in New Orleans finally sinks in. I settle on the armchair at the balcony door and stare out at the city. I should unpack, but right now, all I can do is bask in the excitement that’s taken over.
Chapter 3
Julian
I’ve never once needed anyone.
Even my best friend, Eli Boudreaux, tells me I’m an asshole, but he’s the only one who can say that to me. The house is empty. All the staff have gone home for the evening, and I listen for any sound at all. Silence greets me back, reminding me I’m alone. That even though I had it all for a moment in time, now I’m left with nothing but an empty house and far too much alcohol to consume.
I do this almost every day, when the silence becomes too much. I’m nothing like my father though, I watched him deteriorate, and I vowed I wouldn’t become like him.
I wallow in self-pity, which I know is terrible, but I can’t help it. It’s as if she’ll appear if I’m quiet. Even though we fought every day for the two months right up until she finally moved out and left me for someone else, I still miss the company in this large, empty house.
My wife was right. I’m a selfish bastard.
Now that I’m finally doing what my father always wanted me to—running the gallery—I feel as if perhaps my life isn’t meaningless. I should’ve done it while Shay was still here, but we were far too volatile.
I think about the girl I spoke to on the phone, which was a preliminary interview before actually meeting her. She is nothing more than a young, excitable student who is looking for her big break in this industry. The reason I asked to meet her before offering her the job is because I don’t need some pierced, tattooed goth chick walking around my gallery.
That makes me sound old. But the clientele that frequented Elliot Gallery and Estate in the past were rich, pompous assholes. My father knew how to entertain them. Me on the other hand, I hated it.
Dressing up to smile at strangers wasn’t my forte, hence the reason it took me so long to finally take the step into reopening the gallery. Tomorrow, I’ll decide if she’s worthy of working here and if she’s able to be the face of the company.
I’ve always enjoyed sitting back and running things from the office. And if she’s as enthusiastic as she sounded on the phone, I’m sure she’ll be the perfect hostess.
Heading into the studio, I pull open the cabinet and pour a double shot of bourbon into a tumbler before settling behind my desk. Eli wanted me to come over for dinner tonight, but I can’t face being around him and Kate. Not that I don’t care for them deeply, and not because I’m not happy for my friend, but seeing people gushing over each other reminds me of how alone I am.
I’ve spent months in hiding. Not showing my face at events, not attending art shows because I couldn’t smile when my life was falling apart. Taking a long gulp of the strong alcohol, I swallow it down, letting the burn take hold of me as it slithers down my throat. I focus on the canvas before me. Empty, void of color, just like my life.
I really should give up all hope of getting this thing done, but it was one of my favorite things to do—getting lost in my art.
After Shay walked out, I stopped painting. Even though I spend every night in here until the sun rises again, I’ve not picked up a paint brush. My fingers itch to do it, to create something breathtaking.
But how can I create beauty when my life is filled with darkness?