by Marti Green
At night, we walked along the Seine and talked about our life together, about the careers we’d begin, the family we’d start, the home we would make. Everything seemed possible then.
After Paris, we flew to Nice for a week lounging on the sun-soaked beaches of the French Riviera. Our suite at Château Eza, on the Côte d’Azur, overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. When we weren’t on the beach, or shopping at the quaint boutiques, we’d lounge in our room’s outside Jacuzzi and sip champagne. The two weeks seemed like a dream, one from which I didn’t want to awaken. If I’d asked Ben to stay in France, I know he would have. Back then, he’d do anything for me. Even give up law school.
There it was. The elephant in the room we never spoke of. I’d ruined his life by pushing him into a career he hadn’t wanted, with a boss who disliked him. And he was right. If I’d been more patient, if I’d been willing to wait another three years to get married so that he could become a lawyer, would he still have been drawn to another woman’s arms? I didn’t know the answer. I only knew he wasn’t happy, and I had a role in that. That knowledge didn’t stop me from hating him for what he’d done.
I called out to him from the foyer.
“In here,” he shouted from the den.
I hung up my jacket, then walked over there. The television was tuned to a basketball game, now on mute. He stood up and pulled me to him. “I’m sorry, honey. How’s he doing?”
“It’s bad.”
“Can I do anything for you? Did you eat?”
“I’m just tired. I’m going to bed now.” I could deal with only one crisis at a time. Ben’s infidelity would have to wait.
CHAPTER 31
Dad insisted that I go about my business every day, even though I would have preferred to be by his side. I reluctantly agreed that I would continue at the gallery but go directly to his apartment once I closed up, to spend each evening with him. I’m certain Ben won’t mind. In fact, I suspect he’ll be relieved. It will give him more time with his paramour. I’ve steeled myself to the fact that he is seeing someone else but cling to the hope that it’s about sex, not love. When this crisis with Dad is over—hopefully because he’s recovered, but if he doesn’t, after his funeral—I’ll confront Ben with my knowledge of Lisa. Until then, I’ve decided to simply push my image of them together to the deepest recesses of my mind. Willful blindness.
I arrived at the gallery a little before 10:00 a.m., and as usual, Sandy had readied everything for our opening. Although we attracted some share of walk-in traffic, most of our customers were steady ones and made appointments. I had two scheduled for today, the first at 10:30 a.m. Mrs. Sonia Belvedere and her husband had recently purchased a country home in Rhinebeck, New York, an elegant retreat on thirty acres bordering the Hudson River. She was one of my dad’s clients, and I’d worked with her before. Now, she was looking for artwork to adorn her new weekend home.
A few minutes before she was scheduled to arrive, the phone rang, and I recognized my grandfather’s number. I picked it up on the first ring. “Hi, Poppy.”
“Is it true?” he asked without so much as a hello.
“You spoke to dad?”
“Just got off the phone with him. Tell me he was being overly dramatic.”
“Have you ever known him to be? He’s the family optimist.”
“Damn!”
“It’s possible he’ll get into a drug trial.”
“Good. When will he know?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe in a week?”
“Well, I’m flying up. I need to be with him.”
That was my grandfather—someone who could always be counted on. Even though he now lived in Florida, I always knew he would be back if I needed him. “I’m glad. Dad will be happy, too.”
I heard a knock and looked up to see Sandy standing in the doorway, mouthing that my appointment had arrived. “Let me know when you book a flight, and I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Nonsense. I’ll take a cab. And I’m coming up today, so I’ll see you tonight.”
“Love you, Poppy.”
“Ditto, Pips.” That had been his nickname for me since I was a toddler. Short for pipsqueak, I’d been told. I hung up and pulled out a folder marked Sonia Belvedere, then walked into the showroom. I felt better already.
I arrived at my father’s apartment a little after 7:00 p.m. and immediately got a bear hug from my grandfather. Although he was approaching seventy, he was still a big man, skimming six feet tall, with a barrel chest and a full head of mostly gray hair.
“You should have given me a heads-up,” he said when he finally pulled away from me. “Your father looks like shit.”
“He’s lost a lot of weight in just a short time. He’s having trouble keeping food down.”
“He’s got to eat.”
I saw the worried look on his face and reached out to hold his hand. “How long can you stay?”
“I thought I’d try to make it to Thanksgiving, but I can stay longer if you need me. It’s just, you know, the cold really does a job on my bursitis.”
“I didn’t even expect you to stay that long. You’ve got to take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Hey,” he said, a sharp tone to his voice. “Don’t talk about losing your father. This isn’t over yet.”
I nodded, then headed into my father’s bedroom, Poppy right behind me. Dad was sitting up in bed, a tray of uneaten food on his nightstand. I walked over and gave him a kiss. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad.” He smiled weakly. “I managed to get some work done today.”
I could see the dullness in his eyes, the feebleness of his posture, the slackness of his jaw. “Liar. You’re feeling worse, aren’t you?”
He hesitated a moment. “It hasn’t been a good day.”
“When will you find out if you’re in the trial?”
“Dr. Haber called this afternoon. They turned me down.”
I couldn’t help it. The tears started rolling down my cheeks, even though I wanted desperately to hold it together for Dad.
“Come here, sweetie,” Dad said, as he patted a spot on the bed.
I sat down, and he took my hand in his. “You are my beautiful daughter, and I don’t want to leave you.” He looked over at Poppy, standing at the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to leave you, either, Dad. I will fight this as hard as I can, and I will do everything Dr. Haber tells me to do. But . . . I also want to accept with grace what I have no control over. And it would give me great comfort if I knew that you both were able to do that as well.”
I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand, then leaned down on the bed and lay my head on Dad’s chest. I wished that I could grant my father his wish, that I could accept the inevitable, not rail against it. I just had too much fury roiling inside me. Anger that my mother had died when I was so young. Anger that I might lose my father too soon. Anger that Ben, the one person I needed to lean on as I went through this, was cheating on me.
Despite my grandfather’s presence, I felt alone. There was no best friend that I could talk to about Ben. He had been my best friend since we’d met, our second year of college. Sure, there were women—men, too—I was friendly with, but none with whom I’d share intimate secrets. I’d grown up an only child, so my parents had filled my afternoons with ballet and horse-riding lessons, with gymnastics and soccer, with museum visits and theater performances. I’d spend a few years at an activity and then grow bored and be on to something else. I spent two years studying fencing and two more convinced I was meant to be a figure skater. The one constant over the years was art. I’d always loved drawing. It was a busy childhood, but one that didn’t lead to any close friendships.
School was the place I should have found my one true best friend, but I never did. I tended to be shy and didn’t reach out to others. I wasn’t excluded. I was pretty and came from money and wasn’t awkward, so I was invited to after-school playdates and parties when I got olde
r, but I was the hanger-on, not the main attraction.
From the age of five, I knew I was adopted. “Chosen,” my parents told me. The word was supposed to make me feel special, to take the sting away from the knowledge that, in order to be chosen, I had to first be given away. My parents loved me fiercely; I never doubted that. Yet, I grew up with the painful awareness that first, before I was loved, I was rejected. I suspect that’s why I’d always held back from forming close attachments with schoolmates. Part of me feared I’d be turned away again if someone got to know the true me—the unlovable me. The first time I ever truly opened myself up was with Ben. And that fear, the one that had dogged me since I was five, was now realized. My husband was rejecting me.
CHAPTER 32
A day away from the office, and I’m thrilled. I need the fresh air to clear my head of the nightmare scenarios that keep swirling around. I’m headed out to Greenport, along with Phil, who was driving the company van, to visit one of my artists. Phil did all the physical work at the gallery—hanging paintings, moving them around in the racks kept in the back, retouching paint on the walls when needed. He was only twenty but had a good eye for art, and often accompanied me on visits to my artists.
I’d first spotted Conrad Jefferson at a Manhattan art show eleven months ago that showcased emerging talent. At the time, he’d been represented by a small uptown art gallery but had yet to make a sale. Conrad was different from the usual artist. Most were young, usually under thirty, hungry for recognition from art connoisseurs. Conrad had spent a career as a plaintiff’s personal-injury attorney, regularly clearing between $200,000 and $300,000 each year. When, at forty-two, he hit his first big payday, pocketing almost $1 million after taxes, he bought a lovely old farmhouse on the north fork of eastern Long Island, with views of the bay. He hadn’t wanted the fussy wealth of the Hamptons for his children. When the weather was fine, he took his family from their Great Neck home out to Greenport for long weekends.
At fifty-four, he took on a class-action lawsuit and ended up collecting a $9 million fee. With his children already grown and living on their own, he decided it was time to retire and pursue his passion—painting. He added a studio onto the Greenport house, sold his family home, and moved with his wife to this former little fishing village.
When’d I first met Conrad, I told him he had a lot of raw talent, but he wasn’t yet where he could be. I told him I’d consider taking him on in a year if his work evolved. It had, and I’d signed him up for my gallery. He was now ready to be included in a group show I was planning, showcasing new talent. Phil and I were here to choose which paintings to include.
Phil pulled into Conrad’s driveway, and we walked up to the front door. When my knock was answered, my mouth dropped open. The man in the doorway held out his hand. “Hi, I’m—”
“Ezra Jefferson!” I couldn’t believe the hottest new contemporary artist in the last five years was standing in front of me. “Are you related to Conrad?”
Just then, Conrad entered the foyer. “Charly. Phil. Glad you’re here. I see you’ve met my son.” Son? Of course, I’d fleetingly wondered if they were related, but since Conrad never mentioned Ezra, and Jefferson was a common surname, I’d just assumed they weren’t. They certainly didn’t look alike. Although they were both around six feet tall, Conrad was built more broadly, with a soft body. His face was round with thin lips and narrow eyes. Ezra was all sinewy muscle, with large, soulful eyes and full lips. The one feature they shared was softly curled honey-blond hair.
I shook Conrad’s hand. “Why didn’t you ever tell me Ezra was your son?”
He grinned sheepishly. “You know how kids of famous parents always want to make it on their own? Well, it’s the reverse with us. My first gallery took me on because of Ezra and then let me languish. I wanted someone who believed in me.”
Conrad led me into his studio, Phil and Ezra following close behind. As we looked over his paintings and debated which ones to take for the exhibit, I kept thinking what a coup it would be to land Ezra Jefferson for my gallery. It wouldn’t be easy. I knew he was represented by one of the top galleries in Manhattan. Still, I’d stolen away other artists before. And I welcomed the challenge. It might take my mind off my father . . . and Ben.
Two days later, I met Ezra for lunch at the Red Cat, on Tenth Avenue. After we gave the waiter our orders, I asked, “How long have you been with the Simon Sloane gallery?”
“Six years. I’ve never been anywhere else.”
“Are you happy there?”
“They’ve been good to me.”
“How good? What’s your split with them?”
“The usual. Fifty-fifty.”
“I could do better than that.”
He laughed. “You’re trying to poach me. I’d hoped maybe you were interested in me on a more personal level.”
I held out my left hand. “Married.” Then added, “For now.”
Ezra was easy to talk to. I didn’t expect him to abandon his gallery on the first lunch. It always took wooing. And I had to admit, I looked forward to seeing him for as long as it took.
I’m ecstatic! Dad got into a trial program. He kept telling me that it doesn’t mean the trial will work, that it could make it worse, but at least now, there’s something to hold on to. I needed this. I’ve been working myself ragged each day getting ready for tonight’s opening of the new exhibition, and then spending each night by Dad’s bedside. My grandfather has been a godsend. Even though Tatiana, Dad’s longtime live-in housekeeper, is there to prepare his meals and help him out, she’s not family. Poppy talks to me three or four times each day, keeping me apprised of what’s going on, until I’m finally with them.
“Fifteen-minute warning,” Sandy said as she popped into my office.
“Thanks.” Tonight’s guests would start arriving soon. I went into the bathroom and changed into a black Zac Posen sheath dress, with short sleeves and cutouts in both the front and back. Next, I slipped on a pair of black suede Louis Vuitton low boots, embellished with silver-and-pink baubles. I love shoes. I have ever since I was a child. My closet at home contained at least eighty pairs of every type of footwear. Ben often made fun of me, but I didn’t care. It was my one concession to being wealthy. I mean, I admit I spent lavish amounts of money on clothes. Being fashionably dressed was important in the art world. So, I had my Céline bags and designer dresses, but the only thing I bought excessively was shoes.
Tonight, I was displaying the work of three artists: Conrad Jefferson; Emily Wilson, a young phenom from LA; and Baruti Nkosi, a South African artist I’d discovered in London. Each was a contemporary painter with a unique style. Nkosi wasn’t able to attend, but the other two artists were expected to arrive at any moment.
I’d just finished refreshing my makeup when my two artists arrived, followed soon after by the first of my invited clients. I expected there would be many walk-ins to the show, but it was my clients who would receive the focus of my attention. The gallery had become successful in less than three years because I’d tapped every connection my father and I had, and I’d developed a roster of wealthy art collectors who relied on my advice. I’d sent invitations to almost one hundred people and hoped that at least one-third of them would show up. The one person I knew wouldn’t be here was Ben. He’d come to my first two shows, then begged off after that, complaining that he just didn’t fit in. At first, I was hurt, but now, Ben was the last person I wanted here.
An hour after the doors opened, I’d already exceeded my expectations. Sandy had made sure the wine was flowing, more than sixty patrons filled the space, and “sold” red dots had been placed on more than half of the paintings. I was feeling giddy with success. I’d been circulating among the guests all evening, but now I made my way over to Ezra, who had arrived earlier with his father.
“Pleased?” I asked Conrad.
“Very.”
I turned to Ezra. “I could do this for you, too.”
He smiled, a radi
ant smile that made his deep brown eyes shine, and dimples appear in his cheeks. “I know you could. But I’m happy where I am.”
“Sometimes change is good.”
“I need more convincing. Maybe over dinner?”
I hesitated only a moment. It would mean staying away from my father’s bedside another evening. I knew he wouldn’t mind, but that wasn’t what held me back. I couldn’t deny the heat I felt standing next to Ezra. Part of me wanted to act on that attraction, to get back at Ben for betraying me. Part of me knew that would be wrong.
“Whenever you want,” I answered. “Just name the night.”
CHAPTER 33
I’m finding it hard to control my anger toward Ben. Once the private investigator I’d hired had handed me the evidence of Ben’s affair, I’d told him I’d no longer require his services. I had no need for proof that he continued to see Lisa. It was obvious, each night when I returned from my father’s apartment, that he’d been with her. He pretended that he’d been home all night, watching television, but I saw the self-satisfied look on his face. I wanted to scream at him, to slap his face as hard as I could, to throttle him as I asked how he could have done this to us. I wanted to take the Glock 19 that I kept in my desk at the gallery and shoot that smile off his face, then gloat as I stood over his dying body. Instead, I came into our townhouse each night, feigned exhaustion, then headed to our bedroom. If I wasn’t already asleep when Ben turned in for the night, I pretended to be.
