The Heiress

by Cassia Leo

  I picked my jaw up off the floor and smiled. “You look…”

  “Nowhere near as stunning as you,” he said, finishing my sentence, then he nodded toward the stairwell. “Shall we?”

  I managed to nod as I fumbled a bit to find my housekey in my purse. Locking the deadbolt, it dawned on me that, with my mom safe in her hospital room, I would be having a night out without having to worry about leaving my mom at home alone. Then, I came to an even more significant realization: This wasn’t just my first date since the accident, it was my first night out with anyone.

  As we walked down the steps, Daniel stole another glance at my dress. “You really do look amazing, but I sort of regret not planning a date where you could dress more casually.”

  I smiled. “That’s very considerate of you, but I’m really looking forward to checking out a new art studio. I…had a friend in high school who used to go with me to the Met once a month, so I never missed an exhibition. I miss that.”

  “Sounds like a good friend,” he said.

  She was a great friend, I thought.

  His comment silenced me as we descended the stairwells. When we reached his Range Rover, which was parked across the street from my building, he reached past me to open the passenger door. I caught a whiff of his scent and I couldn’t help but breathe deeply to inhale more of it. He smelled like a morning stroll through unexplored forest, and money.

  The first time I’d smelled the scent of wealth was when my mom and I took our one and only trip to South Dakota to visit her family, when I was nine. We were queued up at the gate, waiting to board our flight, when a man passed us to get in line with the other first-class passengers. My nose was hit with a flurry of air that smelled like a heady mixture of leather, soap, and incredibly good luck. After that, I began to recognize that scent while I rode the subway or stood in line at the café.

  I’d never smelled it on the bus.

  I sank into the passenger seat as Daniel closed the door, tapping the roof once before he set off around the front of the SUV. As he slid into the driver’s seat, I got a strange feeling that something seemed different about him tonight. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was the way he walked. No, that wasn’t it. It was the way he looked over his shoulder twice before he got in the car.

  I shook my head, thinking how silly I was. I hardly knew the man. How on earth would I know if this wasn’t his typical behavior?

  I was reaching. Searching for a reason not to trust him. Desperate for a reason to turn this evening into a disaster before it even began.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, pulling away from the curb.

  I looked at him and raised my eyebrows in confusion.

  “You’re shaking your head,” he clarified. “Is something not to your satisfaction?”

  I chuckled at this phrasing. “How does someone learn to talk like that?”

  He smiled. “Like what?”

  “Is something not to your satisfaction?” I said in a haughty voice.

  He nodded as he waited for a pedestrian to cross in front of us. “How would you like me to speak? Yo, somethin’ wrong, mama?”

  I should have laughed, but I couldn’t. His impression of the guys in my neighborhood sounded much more realistic than I expected it to.

  “You’re good at impressions,” I replied. “Maybe you majored in sarcasm.”

  He smiled and we drove in silence for a couple minutes, not offering any clarification as to what he majored in or what school he went to. Maybe he could tell I was fishing for information and he wanted to maintain an air of mystery. It wasn’t long before the silence became too much for him.

  He smiled as he reached for the stereo. Thinking of the deal we’d struck allowing me to choose the music in his car, I immediately reached for his hand to stop him.

  He caught my hand in his and laced his fingers through mine. “I didn’t realize we had progressed to holding hands, but I’m game,” he said, pulling my hand toward him and placing a tender kiss on the backs of my fingers.

  I rolled my eyes, ignoring the butterfly parade marching through my belly as I gently extracted my hand from his. “Just following through on our agreement,” I replied, focusing my attention on the touchscreen stereo. “I get to pick the music, remember?”

  I stared blankly at the screen, which displayed real-time navigation information, then pressed the Home Menu button to the left of the screen. I chose Audio/Video from the selections on the screen. Pressing a few more buttons got me to a decent satellite radio station, which was playing “River” by Bishop Briggs.

  He rolled his eyes as he stopped at a red light and relaxed into his seat. “This is the same stuff everyone listens to.”

  “I’m sorry it’s not as cutting edge and hip as your elevator jazz.”

  He considered his response for a long while. “I don’t only listen to jazz,” he said.

  It was a simple statement, but something in the tone of his voice sounded as if he were divulging a dark secret.

  “Okay, what else do you listen to?”

  He shrugged. “Do you like underground hip-hop?”

  I laughed at the cryptic way he was behaving, as if he was asking if I too had a foot fetish. “Not as much as I used to. It’s easier to find that stuff when you’re in school and still going to parties.”

  He flicked his head to the right and flashed me a look of utter incredulity. “You don’t party anymore?”

  I should have felt self-conscious about this question, but I couldn’t get over how strange the conversation and his voice sounded. As if the Daniel who picked me up had been left behind, standing on the curb in front of my apartment. This Daniel sounded like someone I’d see at the bodega, chatting up the store clerk while paying for his case of PBR.

  He didn’t repeat his question. Instead, he moved on to juicier topics. “So…why don’t you ask your family to help you take care of your mom and apply for a scholarship so you can go back to school?”

  “Geez, why didn’t I think of that?” I shook my head as the city lights burned streaks into my retinas. “I don’t have family in New York.”

  His question had made me irrationally angry. I had to chill or this night really was going to end in disaster.

  “I apologize. That was a stupid question,” he said, focusing his attention on the traffic in front of us.

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing. That was an inappropriate response. I just… I tried everything I could, but my mom’s family lives in South Dakota, and her mom—my grandma, whom I’ve only met in person once—is also really sick. She’s been battling emphysema for almost a decade. My grandpa is dead and my mom’s siblings can barely afford the nurse that takes care of my grandma. There’s no one who can help me… No one.”

  My chest ached as the familiar feeling of being utterly alone became overwhelming.

  “Hey, you’ve got Leslie, right?” he said, probably thinking his words were comforting.

  I forced a smile. “Right.”

  A few minutes of awkward silence later, we arrived at The Art Studio in midtown at a few minutes before eight p.m. We parked in an underground parking garage and took the elevator up to the first floor of the nondescript brick building. When we entered Suite 1B, the tension from our conversation in the car vanished in an instant. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. We had just walked into a kid’s birthday party.

  Paintbrush

  Behind the curved receptionist’s desk in front us, a wide white wall displayed a single painting. Off to the right, at a back of a large open gallery space, at least twenty kids and a dozen adults sat on stools behind easels. A mountain landscape projected onto a white wall explained the landscape painted on the canvases in varying degrees of skill. Clusters of pink and purple balloons and a sparkly “Happy Birthday” banner hanging from the ceiling told me we had just walked into the birthday party of a little girl who loved art.

  A thin woman with golden
-brown shoulder-length hair approached us. “Can I help you?”

  Daniel smiled. “I think we may have stumbled into the wrong suite. Is this the art studio that opened in May?”

  “Yes, it is. But as you can see, we’re hosting a private event tonight,” she replied, looking sincerely apologetic. “I’m Layla, by the way. I’m the studio director.”

  Daniel appeared undaunted by this bad news. “Nice to meet you, Layla. I’m Daniel. I’m very sorry we interrupted your event.”

  “Oh, no. I’m the one who should be sorry,” the studio director said, herding us back toward the exit. “Sometimes our receptionist forgets to put private events on the website calendar, and I have no idea how to do it myself. I’m very sorry for the confusion. I hope you didn’t travel too far to get here.”

  Daniel answered before I could. “We drove here from Montreal. We’re Canadian.”

  The woman’s brow crinkled. “Oh, no. Now, I feel absolutely terrible.”

  Daniel smiled as he put his hand on her arm. “I’m only kidding. We live down the street. I’m sure you’ll see us again soon.”

  She let out a dramatic sigh as she clutched her chest. “Oh, my goodness. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she said with a weak chuckle.

  As Daniel began to apologize, a young girl with bouncy blonde curls walked up to him and yanked on his coat sleeve. “Are you the president?” she asked in a bright voice.

  Daniel looked down at her and tilted his head. “No, sweetheart, I’m not the President of the United States. But I am the president of my house. Voted in by a landslide.”

  She looked skeptical of this answer. “You can’t be the president of a house,” she proclaimed.

  Daniel looked appalled by this new information. “Are you telling me my sister lied to me? I’m not the president?”

  The girl squinted at him in confusion for a moment before she smiled and squealed, “No!”

  Daniel feigned sadness. “This changes everything.”

  The girl tapped her finger on her chin, as if she was pondering something. “You can still paint a picture, even if you’re not the president,” she said, pointing at the other children and parents, who appeared to be taking a painting class.

  In the corner, just beyond the dozen or so easels, a table was piled high with frilly wrapped birthday presents and a three-tier princess-themed birthday cake.

  Daniel smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but this isn’t our party. We’re just leaving. You go have fun, sweetheart. I need to go have a stern conversation with my sister.”

  A rush of warmth flowed through me as I watched this exchange.

  Daniel was good with kids.

  He was good in business.

  Great at tackling belligerent customers.

  Even better at repairing broken door buzzers.

  He was a natural protector and provider.

  He glanced at me as he continued speaking to the girl, and the warmth in his smile made my ovaries explode.

  “Kristin?”

  “Yes?”

  He laughed as he realized I hadn’t heard a single word he’d said. “This young lady would like for us to join the party. Care to brush up on your art skills?”

  The hopeful expression on the girl’s face was too adorable to resist.

  “Sure. I could use a refresher course.”

  The girl bounced up and down with glee. “Yay! This is the best birthday ever!”

  The studio director shrugged as we all headed toward the easels. “Rebecca is very exuberant.”

  “Is this your party, Rebecca?” Daniel asked.

  Rebecca nodded forcefully. “I’m six now.”

  Layla, the studio director, introduced us to the parents and children, who were busy painting what looked like the same scenic mountain view. When the introductions were over, Layla gave us each an easel, a cup of water, some paintbrushes, and a set of watercolors. The chalky scent of the paints made me nostalgic for the innocence and simplicity of elementary school, where my love of art began.

  Layla instructed us to make our best attempt at painting a mountain scene displayed on the wall by a film projector. Oddly enough, I recognized Mount St. Helens from the many photography blogs I followed. It was a common scene due to the sheer beauty of the landscape.

  I began my painting by laying out a loose outline of the landscape in a light gray watercolor. When I was done, I tilted my head both ways to make sure the proportions were correct, then I began laying out each part of the scene according to distance and area. I started with the cobalt blue sky and billowy striations of cloud, then I moved on to the snowcapped mountain. This was when I noticed Daniel staring at my canvas. He hadn’t so much as touched his own.

  “Why aren’t you painting?” I asked, dipping my brush into the black paint to darken the gray color I’d already made.

  “Because I’m too fascinated by yours,” he replied, his eyes wide with genuine surprise.

  I glanced around the room and realized he wasn’t the only one staring at my canvas. “It’s not even that good,” I muttered, barely loud enough to hear myself, but Daniel certainly heard me.

  He chuckled. “Are you blind?” he said, rising from his stool so he could stand behind my left shoulder. “You need your own studio.”

  “I have a studio in my bedroom,” I reminded him.

  “No, you need a big studio, with huge windows and lots of natural light, where you can spend all day creating your creepy little sculptures.”

  I rolled my eyes as I added some golden ochre to the gray shadows on the snowy mountain and the grass in the foreground. “Sure. I’ll get on that tomorrow, right after I pick up my Ferrari from the shop.”

  “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me,” he said, sitting down on his stool.

  I waved off his apology. “No need to apologize. It’s not your fault,” I said, suddenly realizing how bitter I must have sounded. “Besides, that came out way more sarcastic than I intended. I shouldn’t be complaining. I should be grateful that I finally got a night off work and I’m doing something I love with someone I…think is pretty darn cool.”

  What the hell was wrong with me? I was babbling like an idiot.

  He smiled as he used his paintbrush to mix some colors on his palette. “So I’m cool?”

  “Yeah, of course. You know you are. Don’t pretend it’s a surprise.”

  He actually blushed as he mixed together some green and blue, then brushed it onto the canvas in wide swaths. “Can I ask you a question?” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “It’s a free country.”

  He was silent for a while, long enough that I thought he’d decided against asking his burning question. Then, he turned to me and looked me in the eye, his expression deadly serious. “What color is this?” he asked, pointing at my painting where I had begun adding the field of flowers in the foreground. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a dark coral. Those are called Indian paintbrush flowers. They’re beautiful.”

  He smiled and went back to his painting. “Do you always apologize for being sarcastic?” he asked casually.

  “No. It’s just that I dated a guy once who told me sarcasm wasn’t sexy. He said it made me sound depressed.”

  Daniel laughed heartily. “Now that’s funny.” He shook his head as he continued brushing more blue paint onto the canvas. “Well, for what it’s worth, that guy was a jerk. I find your sarcasm extremely sexy.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said sarcastically, before I could stop myself.

  He laughed even harder. “Never apologize for being yourself,” he added.

  I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t stop myself. He was practically begging me to be myself, but who was I?

  I knew who I was with Petra and my mom, the only two people who knew the real me. With them, I was mostly goofy, but often sardonic and borderline fatalistic. But it had been a long time since I’d allowed myself to let go, to be vul
nerable, with anyone.

  Feeling like my life had been decided for me, and my only purpose was to provide for someone else, had basically made me shut down. It was easy to believe I had nothing more to give, including and especially myself.

  I swallowed the anxiety that was threatening to shut me down again. “So… You’ve seen where I live. How about you? Where do you live? Trump Tower?”

  He shook his head. “Are you trying to imply that I’m presidential material?”

  I turned to look him in the eye. “Answering a question with a question. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Questions. Plural. Miss Nosy Owens.”

  “How do you know my last name?”

  He cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “Jerry said your last name on the day we met.”

  “I know. I’m just bustin’ your balls.”

  He shook his head and turned back to his painting. “You like bustin’ balls, huh? Were you picked on by your siblings or something?”

  I shrugged. “I never had any siblings, unless you count my…”

  “Your what?”

  I focused on my breathing as I pushed the words out of my mouth. “My best friend. My old best friend…Petra. She was practically my sister.” I choked on the last word as my throat began to swell shut.

  He turned back to me. “Where is she now?”

  I shrugged, though I knew exactly where Petra was.

  We painted in silence for a while. All the while, I was blinking furiously and taking slow, deep breaths to prevent my emotions from spilling over. Daniel was quiet and focused.

  “Do you want to know where I live?” he said, his voice solemn.

  I sighed with relief at the break in the silence. “Yes.”

  We half-finished our paintings and, despite Daniel’s insistence that I needed to take mine home with me, we left it in the corner with the other discarded attempts. I waited for Daniel near the entrance as he pulled the studio director aside for a private conversation. He handed her something small, possibly money, then made his way toward me.