“Hang on,” I tell her, getting up to pour some water from a pink plastic pitcher on a rollaway tray near the bed. “Here you go. Don’t drink too fast.”
I hold the straw to her mouth, tipping the cup carefully while she takes a small sip. It’s all she can manage; she closes her lips and turns her head away on a winced groan.
“Better?” I ask.
“Not really,” she murmurs, her tongue sluggish from the opioids dripping into her veins from the IV. “I’d be better if I wasn’t dying.”
I nod, knowing there’s no need to pretend with Kathryn. She’s always been blunt and practical. Fearlessly so.
“Can I get you anything else right now?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, just blinks up at me with bleary, listless eyes. “Is Avery with you?”
“Yes. She stepped outside for a minute.” I place the paper cup down on the tray beside the water pitcher. “I’ll let her know you’re awake.”
“Dominic . . . wait. Let me say something to you. Please?”
Lingering in this room is the last thing I want to do, especially now that my mind is swamped with a lot of old memories I thought I’d left behind in Florida. But I figure I owe it to this woman to finally hear her out. Hell, I owe Kathryn Tremont more than I’ll ever be able to repay.
A look of mild surprise—and relief—settles over her face when I remain standing at the side of the bed. “Will you always hate me?”
I scowl, realizing just how deeply my anger hurt her. “I never hated you, Kathryn.”
“You never loved me, either.” She states it matter-of-factly, then closes her eyes. For a long moment, she simply breathes. “Well . . . that’s all right. I’m not an easy woman to love.”
She motions for me to give her more water. I let her drink, then I use the edge of her sheet to dab at the small trail of liquid that leaks onto her chin.
“You were so young when I saw you that first time,” she murmurs, watching me tend her. “Were you even twenty?”
“Just,” I reply, recalling the older, beautiful,
sophisticated woman who spotted me parking cars at a fancy event not long after I arrived in New York and proceeded to attach me to her arm like one of her flashy baubles. Not that I’d complained. She was mercurial and fascinating to be around. And she had wealth and connections I could never make on my own.
Simply put, we used each other, both of us happy with the arrangement because it served our own selfish goals.
“You had so much to look forward to, Dominic. I sensed that about you from the start. And I only wanted to be the one to help you get there. I wanted to—” Another racking cough seizes her, making her frail body convulse.
I slide my hand to her back, trying to assist her in finding a more comfortable position. Her spine is a knobby ribbon against my palm, her skin cool and clammy beneath her thin hospital gown. When the cough subsides, she takes another small drink then sags against the mattress.
“I never meant to hurt you. That party I arranged in the Hamptons for you—for your art—it was never my intention to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable. I only wanted the rest of the world to see your talent.”
“My talent was gone, Kathryn.”
I’m shocked to hear the words come out devoid of fury. The regret is still there, but it’s not Kathryn who’s to blame for what I’ve lost. It’s my father. And me.
I hold up my right hand, the one riddled and ruined with heavy scars. “I was never going to paint again, so parading my work in front of a bunch of people who would only look at me in pity afterward wasn’t the kind of help I needed. I sure as hell didn’t want it.”
“I know,” she admits quietly. A sound like a small sob catches in the back of her throat. “I understand that now. And I want you to know I’m sorry that I didn’t understand it then.”
I shake my head, recalling my self-destructive, unhinged reaction the day of the party when I discovered my art was about to be shown to a room full of critics and media and countless other of Kathryn’s society friends. In a blind rage, I savaged it all. Five paintings—the only ones in existence, the only things of value I took with me when I left the old man in my rearview mirror and headed for New York—demolished in a single, stupid act wrought by my own hands.
The irony of it hadn’t escaped me, even then.
“Forget it,” I tell Kathryn. “That’s all ancient history, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, Dominic. It does matter. I didn’t know what you needed back then.” She gazes at me sorrowfully, but without any trace of bitterness. “I wasn’t what you needed. But that lovely girl outside . . . she is.”
My eyes lift, searching for Avery in the corridor. She’s listening to Pauline, nodding, her face solemn. My heart constricts at the sight of her, feeling too full for my chest. Yet I can’t look away. Everything I want is standing in that hallway. Everything I could ever need.