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She glances up as her male attendant parks me in the open doorway, then struts away without a word. “Ah, Avery. You’re a bit earlier than I expected.”
“I’m sorry.” I feel awkward and intrusive. I had no idea she wasn’t well. No wonder she sounded weary when she answered the phone. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your day. I, um . . . I should come back some other time.”
“Don’t be silly.” She waves her hand faintly, motioning me in. “We’re just wrapping up.”
I take a hesitant step inside the room, marveling at the enormous collection of fine art on display all around me. Everything from masters to unknowns, all of it awe-inspiring. And then I see it—a full portrait of Kathryn at a younger age, when her hair wasn’t steely gray but rich, dark brown. She is lean and vibrant, her gaze tenacious yet vulnerable.
Arresting and . . . familiar.
“Beauty,” I murmur, glancing back at her in surprise. “It’s you. Jared Rush’s painting on display at Dominion. You’re Beauty.”
And now that I’m looking at Kathryn, I don’t know how I didn’t realize it either of the times I saw her in person. The haunting nude portrait of a defiant, beautiful woman taking pleasure in her body despite the disease that was ravaging it had mesmerized me when I saw it at Nick’s gallery. It had disturbed me, even aroused me.
“That painting was done several years ago,” she confirms. “It was meant to be a celebration. A declaration of war. It was my way of telling cancer to fuck off.” She gestures to the medical apparatus sprouting from her body. “Jared’s the only one who knows it’s come back. They already took my ovaries and uterus. Now it’s in my bones.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For me? Don’t be.” She scoffs, her lips curved in a tenacious smile as the nurse begins to carefully remove the chemotherapy tubes and equipment. “I’ve never backed down without a fight. I have no intention of starting now.”
I say nothing as she is attended to, then given instructions for her medicines and reminded of her next appointment. I don’t know Kathryn well enough to be standing here now, but there is a part of me that feels closer to her than any other woman in the world.
After all, we both love Dominic Baine.
Kathryn’s love for him might not be the same passionate, all-consuming kind that I feel for him, but I have no doubt that she still cares about him. And in that sense alone, we are connected.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” she says, once her nurse has departed the room. “I didn’t think you’d call.”
“I didn’t want to,” I admit. I’m still uncomfortable with the whole idea. Coming here like this. Keeping it from Nick. “I haven’t told him that we met. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
She nods, understanding without me telling her that Nick’s feelings about her may never warm. “Of course, he doesn’t know you came. He would never permit it.”
“Permit it?” No matter how guilty I feel for keeping this from Nick, the implication that I should need his permission to do anything grates on me. “He doesn’t control where I go or who I see. He doesn’t own me, if that’s what you think.”
“No,” she says. “It’s not what I think. But you love him. And so I’m trying to decide why you would risk coming here, knowing he won’t approve.”
I hold her shrewd stare. “I had to come.”
“Because you want me to buy some of your art? Or because you think I can help you understand him?”
“Both.”
“All right,” she says, lowering the recliner’s footrest, then slowly easing herself out of the chair. “We can begin with your work.”
I set down my padded portfolio and unzip it as Kathryn slides her feet into Chanel logo scuffs, then walks gingerly to the windows to open the drapes. I’ve unpacked all three paintings and leaned them against the wall, waiting in silence as she returns to me.
I can’t read her pensive expression. The long moments of silence seem endless as she looks from one piece to the next, then, finally, to the next.
“How long have you been painting?”
“Ever since I can remember. I started painting with my fingers when I was a kid. Once I picked up a brush, I never looked back.”
“Hm.”
That wordless response is neither a comment nor a critique, yet I see her shrewd gaze narrowing slightly as she studies each of my pieces. She tilts her head as if looking for meaning in the dark, abstract compositions. Does she see their sensual nature, the eroticism that inspired them? Maybe she does, and the images are offensive to her more conventional tastes.
I clear my throat, feeling the need to fill the lengthening quiet. “Until recently, I painted mostly architecture and still life. Portraiture here and there. I’m trying new things now.”
“I have no doubt about that, dear.” Kathryn’s slender brows quirk almost imperceptibly, the first crack her implacable veneer has allowed. “Has Dominic ever given you his opinion of your art before?”
