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“Let’s start by embracing it. Your old daydream is dead—sorry, love, but it is. Bubbles is gone, and I’m going to give it to you straight: your chubby musician hasn’t shown up.”
“Yet,” I add instinctively.
She lifts her eyebrows.
“Right. Daydreams again,” I muse. “I told Caleb I’d go out with his friend. I haven’t had a date in a while, so that’s a start.”
“It is. A good one, I’d say. Now, how about your professional life? In those daydreams you speak of, how did you spend your days?”
“Painting,” I say automatically. “I paint all day, every day.”
“And why is that the daydream instead of reality?”
“Well…” I think of Hugh Wheeler, who’s still waiting on those twenty paintings, and the fierce inner debate about wanting to take advantage of the opportunity, but wanting it in my own right, not because Sebastian Andrews called in a favor.
“I’ve got a sabbatical, of sorts, funded by the Andrews Corporation’s blood money. It’s enough to tide me over until I find a new job, but I will need to find a new job.”
“Painting’s a job,” May points out.
“Sure, if you’re Botticelli living during the Renaissance. I’m trying to get out of the daydream, not sink further into it.”
May taps her finger against her cup very gently, studying me. “What about the Chelsea art dealer?”
I look at her in surprise. I haven’t told anyone about that.
She grins. “Caleb will tell you just about anything if you feed him a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and bacon.”
“Weak-willed traitor,” I mutter.
“More like a loving brother. But what’s the status with the art guy? Did it fall through?”
I slouch a little on the couch. “No. I haven’t really pursued it.”
“Really? Your brother said you were painting around the clock.”
“I was. Then I found out…” I exhale. “The art dealer only sought me out because Sebastian Andrews told him to.”
“Sebastian Andrews.” She blinks. “The insanely good-looking businessman with the good butt?”
“That’s him,” I say grumpily, draining my tea and setting it back on the table. “Apparently, this is all part of his MO. He shuts down businesses, then tries to make himself feel better by inserting himself in his victims’ lives.”
I regret my words instantly. They sound petty. They feel untrue.
“So, just so I’m understanding the whole story,” May says slowly, reaching for my saucer and beginning to fix me another perfectly sweetened cup. “A very handsome man came into your life. Offered means and opportunity to finally detach yourself from a legacy you never really wanted. Then he introduced you to someone who could turn those daydreams you’re so fond of into reality. And we hate him?”
I accept the cup she hands me and stare blindly down at the tea. “Oh hell. When you put it that way, I’m the bad guy.”
“Well, if you didn’t like hearing that, you’re definitely not going to like this,” she says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs.
I look at her warily. “It gets worse?”
“You said yourself the best parts of your life are your daydreams,” May says gently. “I imagine this includes your mysterious pen pal? The fantasy of what he could be?”
I nod.
“Would you say that the fantasy of one man is keeping you from seeing the reality of another man?”
I narrow my eyes, already knowing where she’s going with this and not liking it one bit.
Or maybe… maybe I like it too much.
Maybe I like him too much.
All of a sudden, I know what comes next—what May means by embracing the uncertainty of the future.
I scowl down at my tea, then up at May. “Any chance you’ve got something stronger?”
She’s already on the move toward the kitchen. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Twenty-Two
Hugh Wheeler’s partner is the complete opposite of the lanky, irritable art dealer. Short, round, friendly, and flamboyantly dressed, Myron Evans has gone from being a complete stranger a week ago to what feels a bit like my best friend.
I take the tissue Myron’s waving at me. “Thanks. How’d you know?”
“Honey. I’ve witnessed lots of debut artists seeing their art displayed in a gallery for the first time. I’ve yet to see one who didn’t cry, and that includes an impressionist who looks like Thor.”
“Oh God, he was gorgeous,” Hugh says, coming out from the back room, iPad in hand. “Sold well too. Shame he works so damn slow.”
Myron wags a finger at his partner—a status that applies both professionally and personally—and chides him gently. “You know the rules. We never judge the artists.”
“That’s your rule,” Hugh says grumpily. “Shane may be beautiful, but he is a lazy piece of shit.” He looks over at me and grins. “Not like you. You are a delightful firecracker of a workhorse.”
“Though, I notice I don’t get the gorgeous label like the lazy impressionist,” I tease.
“Your features are nicely arranged. For a female,” Hugh says distractedly as he notes one of my paintings on the wall is crooked and goes to straighten it.
