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It's almost over.
Cameron strained his face muscles to stay pleasant. Since he'd left Major League Baseball to follow his passion for painting, he’d encountered two types of people: those who were shocked that he could do something else than put up strikes on a scoreboard, and the sycophants waiting for the right moment to convince him to return to baseball. The general managers of the two local teams had come today, and something told him neither was interested in his brush stroke technique.
Cam wasn’t interested in them.
He sipped the glass of wine and plotted a disappearing act. His publicist could take care of everything else. He would catch the next flight back to New York.Screw marketing and publicity. You’re not doing this shit for the money.
The excitement of his artwork being on the walls at Goupil extinguished after the first hour. He couldn't even enjoy his dream of an exposition. He needed the distance, the skyscrapers, not the pleasant smiles or the ‘welcome back, hon’he got from everyone. He was on the front page of the Baltimore paper. The article dripped with sentimentality and purple prose describing how good it was to have the prodigal son back. And, of course, speculation that maybe he could paint and play another ten years while bleeding Orioles’ orange and not the odious white and blue.
It was like his parents commissioned the hack-job article. He needed the fuck out so fast he was even willing to drive.
"Well, it’s not very good if you ask me. He's done better."
The gasp bounced against the walls, dragging him away from the clutches of boredom. Cam, and everyone else, turned to follow the small feminine voice. His interest piqued for the first time since he walked in the room. No one had criticized his vision so harshly until now. The Arts Time editorial section had once tried. That article ended up making a name for him instead of breaking his art career. Goupil had called the morning after.
Well, this should be interesting.
Cam searched the faces around him. Then he looked down and there she was. Four-and-a-half feet of girl crowned by a mane of loose honey brown curls.
With sharp green eyes, her face was angelic, like one of Raphael’s own cherubs. She wore glasses and an air of ten, going on twenty-five, years old. A whiplash contrast with her skinny jeans and blue Converse sneakers. Her long sleeve t-shirt had an image of Frida Kahlo’s painting, 'The Two Fridas.’ It wasn't exactly what you would see a child wear, and yet it was as natural on her as the golden raw sienna tinge of her skin.
Cam was a good reader of people, and he’d bet his last MVP bonus that the kid asked for the design on the shirt. He also knew he would put her face on canvas. He was already memorizing the diamond angle, her deep-set eyes, and heart-shaped mouth.
"And you are?" he asked.
"Bronwyn Alyxandra," the child said with so much pride he couldn’t help but smile. "Mama was in her Jude Deveraux reading phase when she was pregnant with me. Don't ask." She finished with a wave of her hand.
Cam's mouth opened, but he found himself at a loss for words. Who was Jude Deveraux? Maybe a relative of hers? "Nice to meet you, Bronwyn Alyxandra. I'm…"
"Call me Bron. I know who you are. Artistic genius, nasty curve thrower, moody after every game, womanizing jock." She continued, "I read all about you onDaily Mail. Mama says I can't believe everything the gossip blogs say, but Uncle Nathan says it'salltrue."
Cam blinked. How old was this kid? "What do you say we get something to drink and continue chatting? You can tell me why you think my painting is not good."
Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "You're famous and all but you're still a stranger. I can't go places with you."
She was smart. Cam smiled. "I didn't mean out. I meant get something from the refreshment table over there." He tilted his head toward the hors d'oeuvres.
She peeked at the table and then looked back at him. A smiled flowered on her lips and the air stuck in Cam's throat. He knew those eyes, that face, and mostly, her attitude. She also mentioned an Uncle Nathan, who’d talked about Cam. He didn’t believe in coincidences. It wasn’t hard to deduce who her mother was.
"Bronwyn, what's your last name?"
He didn't need her to say it. It was written all over her, in her every move.
"Arenas. Come on." She took his hand and began to pull him towards the table of goodies.
His heart slammed against his ribcage, his feet rooted to the ground. Arenas was Adrianna Hayes’ mother’s last name.
“What’s your mom’s name?”
The little girl’s shoulders drooped. She looked away and mumbled softly, “Adrianna.”
He almost staggered back. Adrianna must have taken her mother’s name. Bron was her daughter. He tugged at her arm until she turned around.
"Who are you here with?"
"Um…" Bronwyn stared at her feet. He knelt on the floor before her and tilted her chin up with his index finger.
"What's wrong? You can tell me."
