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With her hand pressed against her heart once more, she steps closer to me. Her pale ocean eyes rest on mine. I get the sense she wants to hug me, but she’s holding back.
It’s for the best.
I don’t need a hug.
Knowing these paintings are going to someone who will appreciate them is all the gratitude necessary.
“I don’t know what else to say besides thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says. Her mouth spreads into a gracious smile again. In fact, I don’t think she’s stopped smiling once. “This is the most generous thing anyone’s ever done for me, and you don’t even know me . . .”
She looks as if she wants to go on, as if she thinks she owes me some long, drawn-out, elaborate display of thankfulness, but she stops herself.
“What are they called?” she asks. “What are their titles?”
“Fool’s Gold,” I say. “Fool’s Gold One, Two, and Three.”
She takes them in, inspecting them closely. “Ah. The little flecks of gold flake mixed in with the paint. Fits perfectly.”
“We have to get going soon.” I nod toward the wall of unfinished paintings, the last bit of the collection she’s yet to see.
“Why did Halcyon just . . . quit?” she asks. Her heels click against the concrete floor, echoing off the tall ceiling. She runs her hands along her hips, smoothing out the bunched lace fabric that hugs her curves.
I begin to answer but stop myself.
Margaux inspects the incomplete works, though there’s not much to see. Just some penciled-in outlines and a handful of tested paint colors.
“I have so many questions,” she says with a breathless sigh. “But I know you can’t answer a single one.”
“Correct.”
Returning to the Fool’s Gold series, she lingers before them for a few beats before facing me again.
“I’m truly at a complete and utter loss for words,” she says with eyes lit like stars. “Again, thank you so much. And tell Halcyon thank you as well, will you?”
I would if I could, but the truth of the matter is . . . Halcyon no longer exists.
CHAPTER NINE
SLOANE
“Your daughters . . . how old are they again?” I ask when we’re seated in the second row of his chauffeured Escalade. My skin is humming. Alive with excitement. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever own a single Halcyon piece, let alone three of them.
Three.
He shrugs out of his navy suit coat and drapes it across the third row of seats. His white dress shirt strains against his broad shoulders, and the scent of faded cologne wafts off his warm body, filling the close space between us.
“Adeline’s five. Marabel is four going on fourteen,” he says as we inch through an intersection.
We’re in the midst of rush hour traffic, and while it might have been easier to walk home from here, I didn’t come prepared for that. Margaux insisted I wear a lacy dress and heels because that’s what she’d have worn for this . . . nondate.
“You have any pictures of them?” I’m not sure if I’m crossing any lines by asking this. It’s a personal question, and Roman is notoriously private. But after spending an awkward Friday night together and bonding over Halcyon, I don’t feel like it’s completely out of the realm of things I can ask about.
I’d love to know how Roman knows Halcyon well enough to have full access to their studio. Sometimes artists and investor-collectors form friendships. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. But he knew all the names of all the pieces and had no qualms gifting me three priceless works, which leads me to believe it’s more complex than that.
“I have thousands.” He pulls his phone out with his left hand, thumbs in his passcode, taps on his photo app, and pulls up an album called A+M. Handing me his phone, he says, “They love posing for pictures. Never met a camera they didn’t like. Definitely didn’t get it from me.”
I swipe through a dozen or so images—intrigued enough to want to see more but not wanting to appear like some creeper.
The oldest daughter, Adeline, has pitch-black hair like Roman that spills to the middle of her back in gentle waves, and she seems to have an affinity for Disney princess costumes. Her big green eyes are almost hypnotic, giving her sweetness a bit of an edge. The younger daughter, Marabel, has sandy-blonde curls and Roman’s intense chocolate-brown gaze. At first take, they look nothing alike but are inseparable in every photo, always holding on to one another or posing in some kind of choreographed way. Hands on their hips. Back to back. Holding hands. They remind me of Margaux and me when we were younger.
“They’re adorable,” I say, giving his phone back.
Our eyes catch for a moment.
“I know,” he says with a wink, though the rest of his face remains serious and somber. I can’t help but wonder if he ever smiles? I imagine it would light up his entire face.
