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“I imagine that being in prison for so long would make it difficult to fit back in with the outside world,” Bianca continued.
“That, and the entire island hates him because he stole their money,” Alana offered, sounding more flippant than she’d planned for.
Asher had re-entered the gallery space, speaking with overt enthusiasm to the gallery owner, a woman with asymmetrical earrings.
“Oh!” Bianca began. “I’ve just been to see the painting.”
Alana arched her brow. “The painting?”
“You know. The big one he’s decided to sell.” Bianca’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ve never seen it up close. It’s terrifying and honest. It’s like seeing another side of you, one that I never got to know.”
Alana’s lips parted as shock rolled over her. “I beg your pardon?”
Bianca lifted a quivering thumb to point toward the room furthest away from the street, the one shaped like a triangle. Alana clacked toward it, her heart thudding.Was it possible that he’d actually decided to sell it? After twenty-seven years of saying that he “never could part with it.”?
“Hello, Alana!” A high-society American reached out to her, pecking both of her cheeks like the French did. Alana was just as guilty of “Frenchifying” her life, yet currently found it distasteful and silly. “You look just as splendid as ever,” the woman continued, clutching Alana’s hand. Alana’s nose wrinkled at the smell of her perfume.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Alana heard herself say. There she was again:Actress Alana, acting the part of Asher Tarkin’s wife. “It’s an important night in Asher’s career.”
Every night seemed an important night in Asher’s career.
As Alana strung herself through the crowd, a never-ending array of Asher’s dearest admirers reached out to her, pulling her to all eight corners of the octagon room and every curve of the oval room. When she finally escaped, she found it difficult to breathe. Surrounded by the world he’d cultivated and the intensity of his fame, she found little space for herself. This was especially apparent after her weeks on Nantucket Island, the glorious sun-kissed world she’d abandoned.
Alana grabbed another glass of champagne from the drink table and sidled toward the triangular room in the back, her heart pounding. Just as she approached, a collection of incredibly tall and thin Parisians eased to the side, allowing her a picture-perfect view of the painting up for auction.
There, illuminated by a sharp spotlight overhead, was seventeen-year-old Alana, a creature of impossible promise and sincere heartache. It was the painting that had launched both Asher and Alana’s careers, the painting that had formed the bonds of their fledgling love. Alana’s knees tweaked beneath her, threatening to give out.
Was that ever really me?
She could see it echoed back in seventeen-year-old Alana’s eyes: the horrific pain and guilt after Jeremy Farley’s accident. She’d hardly ever spoken about that to Asher, as she’d wanted to bury the events of that time deep in her past. During her recent trip to Nantucket, she’d been careful not to bring up Jeremy Farley’s name around her mother or sisters. Still, as she’d watched Julia and Charlie return to the love they’d once abandoned, she couldn’t help but feel the density of that horrific event and the unimaginable ways it had impacted her.
She’d never really gotten over it.
“At least a million,” a man whispered nearby to his much shorter friend.
“You think? I could see it hitting a million five,” his shorter friend muttered back.
“Are you going to bid?” the tall friend asked.
The shorter friend shrugged his rounded shoulders. “You think you’re the only worthy art collector here?”
“I just can’t imagine that it would suit your collection,” the taller man suggested. “But do as you please.”
“Let the bidding begin.”
