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In this sliver of a moment, I think about Margaux. Her enthusiasm for Halcyon was almost contagious. The way her eyes lit at the sight of each piece. The way she’d clasp at her heart as if it was thundering hard and it was all she could do to still it. The way she would gasp and exhale as if she was taking in the most otherworldly paintings she’d ever seen.
Her reactions appeared genuine.
I don’t think she was oohing and aahing for my sake—she was truly in awe.
But while she was taking in the sights, I found myself taking in her . . .
The way her dress hugged every arch and camber of her body, the way her satin blonde hair skimmed the tops of her delicate shoulders when she walked, the subtle yet feminine way her hips swayed with each step she took. The way my car smelled faintly like her floral-musk perfume the entire ride home.
There was something different about being with Margaux this time. Maybe it was the lack of pressure since it wasn’t a date and neither one of us was attempting to impress one another, or maybe it was the fact that we were just a couple of people bonding over our appreciation of art. But being in her presence tonight was almost a tranquil experience.
Natural in a way.
It wasn’t forced or awkward.
I wasn’t calculating the minutes until it was over.
Not to mention it was nice having an adult conversation with someone that didn’t revolve around work or kids’ activities.
For the first time in years, I felt a familiar piece of my old self coming back to me.
Tomorrow I’ll pick up those three paintings from the Halcyon studio, and I’ll have my assistant take them to be professionally framed. While I could easily find someone to deliver the works to Margaux on my behalf, I’m thinking it might not be the worst thing . . . if I did it myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SLOANE
“Mr. Henwell, thank you so much for coming in this morning,” I say when I greet my first client of the day on Tuesday. “I appreciate you moving our appointment. I have a little bit of a family emergency going on.”
I’m tired but wired. I spent most of last night consoling Margaux, who was beside herself over learning about her pregnancy, and as a result, I downed not one but two Americanos this morning before I even set foot in the gallery.
Motherhood is the farthest thing from Margaux’s radar right now (though to be honest, I don’t believe it’s ever been on her radar). On top of that, since she has an IUD, the doctors need to remove it as soon as possible, or else it could lead to a miscarriage or infection.
I’m taking this afternoon off so I can accompany her to the doctor for an ultrasound and the removal of the IUD.
Margaux is terrified, though I suspect her fear has more to do with none of this being in her grand plan than anything else. She has scheduled, designed, and crafted every detail of her ideal life for as long as I can remember. Unplanned motherhood was never on her vision board.
“Yes, yes, of course. Anything for you, love,” he says in his posh British accent as he adjusts his wire-framed glasses. I first met Rupert Henwell when I worked at the Brickhouse Gallery years ago. We bonded over our mutual adoration of artist Melanie Biehle, and we haven’t looked back since. “I hope everything’s all right? It isn’t anything with you, is it?”
He places his hand on my shoulder, his chin tucked and his voice low and thick with concern.
“No, no,” I say. “It’s my sister.”
He lifts his hand and chuckles. “What kind of hot water has our Margaux landed herself in this time? Never mind. Don’t answer that. Look at me—always sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. My mother would be horrified if she heard me . . . God rest her lovely soul.”
“I’m sure she’s going to be fine,” I tell him without going into it. “She just needs my support right now.”
“Tell her that everything always works out,” he says, matter of fact. “It always, always does. Even when we don’t believe that it can. It just does. Life is funny that way.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her that.”
Rubbing his hands together, he scans the gallery. “Now where were those new Paula DeLang urns you were telling me about?”
“They’re in back.” I give him a wink and point to the door clearly marked STAFF ONLY. “We haven’t put them on the floor yet. I told my boss you get first dibs.”
“Have I told you lately how much I simply adore you?” he asks with a chuckle.
The last time I brought Rupert in for a private preview, he thanked me by sending an elaborate flower arrangement, gifting me a one-week stay at his vacation home in Nantucket, and writing a full one-page letter to my boss about what a talented, knowledgeable, and service-oriented art broker I am. He finished off with demanding I receive a raise immediately—which resulted in me receiving a generous onetime bonus.
