AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Eying the wrapped and framed paintings in the back seat, I think about her reactions at the Halcyon studio on Monday. I’ve been playing them on a loop in my head for two days now, though for what reason, I’ve yet to figure out.
Twenty excruciatingly slow minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic later, Antonio pulls up in front of Margaux’s building. Within seconds, I’m heading up the same familiar steps I’ve trod before—steps I never thought I’d trek again in this lifetime.
I press the buzzer for 2C and wait.
A few seconds later, the lock on the building door buzzes, and I head in.
After rapping on her door, I finger comb my hair into place and straighten my tie, which suddenly feels a couple of millimeters too tight. The door swings open a few seconds later, and standing before me is a dressed-down version of the woman I’ve spent all of a handful of hours with but can’t seem to get out of my head lately.
“Hi.” Her pale-pink lips arch at the sides, and she angles her head as she gazes up at me. Her sleek blonde hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, leaving a few strands to frame her heart-shaped face. There are no pearls on her tonight. No lace. No diamond earrings. No lipstick. Not even a hint of makeup at all. And yet here I am, staring at the natural beauty before me, losing my train of thought . . .
Margaux laughs a nervous chuckle before glancing down at her black leggings and gray Columbia University T-shirt.
“Spent the day in heels,” she says. “I have this thing about being comfortable the second I walk through the door. You want to come in?”
She pulls the door open wider and steps aside. The faint scent of flowery candles and fabric softener wafts from inside, like she recently threw a load of clothes in and lit a candle. It’s cozy and warm and welcoming in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“I don’t want to impose,” I say.
Margaux waves me in. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hand delivering me three Halcyon paintings. The least I can do is offer you a drink.”
Her apartment is classic and efficient yet homey—black-and-white checkerboard floors in the kitchen. Wood in the entry, hall, and living room. An old cast-stone fireplace filled with various shapes and sizes of ivory candles. Various works of art hung in strategic places along the white walls—one above a bar cart, another above the emerald-green velvet sofa, a small collage of various works in the hallway.
“You like whiskey, right?” she asks as she heads to the brass bar cart in the corner. “You seem like a whiskey kind of guy. I think that’s what you drank the first night we met, anyway . . .”
“Whiskey’s fine.”
Whiskey, scotch, it all ends up in the same place.
I stand the three paintings carefully against the wall, just beyond the entry rug.
“Cheers,” she says when she returns with a crystal tumbler in hand. One for me and one for her. “I don’t normally drink this, but I’m drinking it in honor of you tonight and your generosity.”
My mind immediately conjures up some scenario where we’re drinking some ex-boyfriend’s whiskey that was left behind and forgotten about, and I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that or why I even care.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against hers, holding her pale-blue gaze captive for what feels like forever and not nearly long enough at the same time.
I take a sip. Margaux follows suit, only she immediately breaks into a coughing fit. As soon as it clears, she heads to the kitchen sink for a glass of water.
“Pretend that didn’t just happen,” she says between substantial gulps. “Pretend I drank it in one smooth swallow and that I looked really cool doing it.”
I let out a stifled laugh—something I probably don’t do near enough of these days.
“Done and done,” I say as I take her in. It’s rare to find people who don’t take themselves too seriously in this city.
Emma was the same way. Always self-effacing. Always making jokes at her own expense. It was one of the things I loved most about her. She was as authentic as they came. Unabashedly herself. Never afraid to look silly in front of anyone.
“Where are you going to hang these?” I nod toward the pieces resting against the wall.
“Oh,” she says. “I was thinking of putting them above my bed.”
She squeezes past me and reaches for the first painting, carrying it to the kitchen island and carefully peeling back the thick brown paper that protects it.
“Fool’s Gold,” she says before peeking at the back. “Number one.”
Sipping my drink, I watch her do the same with the other two pieces, standing back in silence as she oohs and aahs over them as if she’s seeing them for the first time all over again.
