“Are you leaving?”
He adjusted the sleeves of his collared shirt underneath the jacket, shifting his watch in the process. “Get dressed.”
“I’m…I’m coming with you?”
“I said get dressed.” He stepped away like the conversation was over.
I went after him. “If I’d known, I would have prepared myself better.” It was clearly a fancy event, and while I had gowns in the closet, my hair and makeup weren’t fresh. He must have debated whether to invite me or not, and at the last minute, he did.
He turned back to me, his eyes scanning my face. “You’ll still be the most beautiful woman in that room—whether you’re prepared or not.”
Fender drove us into Paris.
He was a large man in a small car, but he must have preferred speed and luxury over comfort.
I was in a gold gown and decorated with diamonds and jewelry, my hair down and in soft curls, my makeup sultry in the way he liked. “Where are we going?”
When he arrived in Paris, the traffic slowed him down, so there was a lot of stopping and going, but he gradually approached a historic building that was attracting a lot of cars. Men in suits and women in gowns stepped out of their vehicles and ascended the steps to the grand entrance. Despite the traffic and the confusion, he oozed calmness. “Art show.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. New artists present their work?”
He always took his time answering me, giving a long pause to determine if he should respond at all. “Yes and no. These private events showcase historic collections, paintings that are hundreds or thousands of years old. Sometimes museums sell their inventory to raise money for something else. Sometimes sellers have had a painting for so long that they want something different. And yes, there are some relatively new artists, but they’re the finest artists in Europe.” He pulled up to the front, and the valet immediately stepped forward to collect the keys.
We exited the car, and Fender buttoned the front of his suit as he came to my side, like he was a gentleman with a respectable business. When he came close, he regarded my appearance as if he needed a moment to take me in before he placed his arm around my waist. He looked into my face, came close like he might kiss me, but he pulled away instead.
He always teetered on the edge, reacting to his instincts but never giving in. He looked at me the way he used to, but there was also a glaze of resentment and anger that had slowly faded over the past month. It was still there. Just distant. Faded.
With a glass of champagne in hand, Fender mingled with people he knew. He introduced me as Melanie, but the rest of the time, he spoke in quick French. He seemed to be charming, and he made people laugh pretty often.
I wished I could understand what he said.
His arm was always around my waist, always holding me close, and we moved to each painting to admire it in silence. They were placed on the walls, an art light flooding the art with illumination to make it stand out.
It was obvious which paintings were old, really old, and super-duper old.
With his hand on my back, Fender would admire each one in great detail, standing there for twenty minutes sometimes. Without looking at the man standing to the side, he spoke. “Je vais le prendre.” I’ll take it.
The man nodded then took it off the wall so it could be wrapped and ready for transport.
Fender guided me to the next painting.
“There are no prices anywhere…”
“Doesn’t matter.” He examined the next one with the same interest, his eyes focused the way they often focused on me.
I turned to study his visage, to see the way he appreciated everything on display as if he were an artist himself. “I didn’t realize how much you loved art.” It was a beautiful and unexpected quality he possessed, another sign of softness that contradicted his hardness.
“You’ve seen my home.”
“I thought maybe Gilbert picked everything out.”
“No.” He finished his glass of champagne and held it out in midair, like he would drop it and let it shatter on the floor if a staff member didn’t get there with a tray in time.
But they swooped in and took the empty glass before providing another—like royalty.
Fender moved me to the next painting.
I was more interested in him at this point. The art was beautiful, but after a while, it was hard to remain focused when the pieces started to blur together. “Why do you love it so much?”
He took a drink then licked his lips. “Because it’s history. Because it’s one of a kind. Because it’s evocative like fire. Because it’s priceless.” He turned to look at me, his dark eyes absorbing my face the same way he’d just absorbed the painting. “Because it’s beautiful.”