by Isla Dean
They clinked glasses, sipped, then wandered out onto the veranda.
“One more toast,” Donatella announced. “You, lovely woman, have already sold more paintings than Van Gogh did in his entire lifetime. And you’ve still got both your ears!”
“Oh geez, Donatella. Van Gogh is one of the most—”
“No need for a lesson. I’m happy with my points as they stand.”
“Sorry, natural reaction. Cheers to hopefully selling some paintings tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that too. So much to drink for, we may not be able to walk straight after this.”
The women stretched onto vivid orange cushions that covered wrought iron chaises. A bird squawked and soared through the sky, then circled below into the harbor in search of snacks to steal from unsuspecting tourists.
“If Aiden and his brothers get their father to invest along with them, and they make you an offer you agree with, where will you go after you sell? Don’t you think you’ll miss Villa Blue?”
“I’ll always love Villa Blue in my heart.” Donatella tapped a hand to her chest, held it there. “Always, always, always. But the responsibility is nearing too much for me. The taxes, the upkeep. I’ve let the place go a bit more than is fair to it. It’s had a good life with me and I’ve had a good life with it.”
Donatella paused to appreciate her current place in the world. “I’m not sure where I’ll go. Honestly, I just don’t know. Sometimes I dream of going back to Italy but I’m not sure that’s my destiny.”
“Maybe you should stay on Parpadeo.”
“There are many maybes but I’m not a hypothetical thinker. I’ll know what to do when it comes time. For now, we sip champagne, we enjoy Villa Blue, the view of the sea, and for the moment, we know we’re home.”
“To being at Villa Blue. To being home.” Ivy sipped, swallowing back champagne mixed with a well of emotion. “This is home for me. Villa Blue is where my center is, where my heart is. I think you’re taking this whole thing better than I am.” Ivy’s eyes misted. “My heart and my home are here.”
“Maybe you found your heart here, but it is within you, where it matters, that’s where your home is.” Donatella lifted her glass. “To your heart. May it always be open and soddisfatto.”
“Oh, now you’re just trying to make me cry,” Ivy told her before drinking. “And you’re also going to make me drunk and possibly start cussing in Italian like last time we drank champagne. When was that? New Years?”
“We’ll balance it out with pizza this time. The dough’s rising, then we’ll pile on the cheese, some peppery salami, some salty olives.” Donatella kissed her fingers and let out a noisy, “Mwah.”
“Pizza and champagne. You always know the perfect things.” As Ivy said the words, a prickle of panic burrowed deep. The important colors in her life were beginning to turn, as if the sun were setting against what she’d painted for herself. The life she had now was her true north, a place and time she wanted to stay seeped in.
She was a painter frantic to hold up the sun so the light, the setting, the subjects wouldn’t change.
But change happened whether one expected it or not, wanted it or not, so she figured she may as well enjoy every sip, every conversation, every moment, every saturated color in the light she loved most—the light at Villa Blue.
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, wanting to arrive early at the Lemieux Gallery in San Francisco to make sure the art was hung properly and the order of paintings flowed, she took the mid-morning ferry into port. Then, once situated in the silver compact car she’d rented, she cruised up the 101 for a solid six hours, stopping three times for bathroom breaks.
Nerves were getting the better of her.
She heard Donatella’s voice in her head reminding her that she’d already sold more paintings than Van Gogh and she felt a little better. Though, really, it wasn’t about the facts and figures, the hard bottom line. It was about showing her art, sharing her art.
Of course, if people made purchases, it would be icing on the cake. Plus, it would mean she would have money to buy actual cake.
Cake, she thought idly, wondering why she hadn’t thought about stopping for food. Her stomach was jittery, unsettled, so she lowered the driver’s side window and inhaled the air that was moist with late afternoon fog, attempting to calm herself.
With the help of the GPS, she navigated to the gallery near the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, found parking in the nearby garage, then began the trek down the sidewalk when the idea that she was nearing her show washed over her.
This was it. She’d created art, had pushed emotion and perspective out of herself, had challenged herself to keep going even when she’d felt like she was trying to shove an iceberg from the recesses of her heart through her fingertips to put paint to paper. Even through the frozen artist’s block, she’d painted.
Then Aiden had shown up and that iceberg had begun to thaw, melting through her heart and her fingers as she created painting after painting, with emotion gushing out of her.
The effort, the struggle, the determination, had been worth it. She was building a life she’d always dreamed of. She’d focused and had put to work the energy of being with Aiden—sharing nights, thoughts, ideas with him—and she’d delivered more than the fifteen paintings she’d agreed upon for the show, deciding to let the gallery select which to hang.
She calculated that she had about an hour to get to the gallery, do a walk-through, get acquainted with the manager, then maybe head out for a coffee and a piece of cake before her show. Sweets would settle her.
Or maybe she was justifying eating cake, but that was okay too.
Pedestrians and cars filled the streets, their energy zooming ahead of themselves, Ivy thought, painting the picture in her mind. There was a purpose in the city that she could appreciate, a drive toward something. But her senses quickly overwhelmed, bombarded by the sights, sounds, smells, and swirls of feelings around her.
A quick, hot spread of anxiety spewed inside of her as she rounded the corner.
It’s okay to be nervous, she thought, giving herself a pep talk in her head: It’s okay to be excited, to have heated nerves fluttering in my belly. I’m living my dreams and this is what it feels like. Enjoy the ride, enjoy each moment. I can do this and I’m ready.
She took a deep breath then walked the remaining steps to the tall glass doors.
Closed, the sign said.
Chapter Eighteen
New York fit Aiden like an old, worn-in baseball glove. It was easy—his playground since childhood—and familiar.
His brothers, still in their suits from the meeting with their father, had barged into his loft in Chelsea and made use of his whiskey collection, which was also familiar.
“To us. The brothers who bought an island.” Logan held up his glass from the throne of a deep leather chair. “Wait, what the hell do we know about running an island?”
“Nothing,” Aiden said. “That’s the adventure.”
“We didn’t buy an island. We’re in escrow on purchasing two square miles of real estate along the promenade. And we didn’t buy the city of Parpadeo Harbor either, that’s run, effectively, by the City Council.” Emmett ignored Logan’s dramatic yawn. “We will own a small percentage of an island, and unlike Townsend’s terribly written agreements, there will be penalties if anyone pulls out of escrow now.
“Also,” he continued as if his brothers hadn’t already heard his speech, “with a year-round population of three thousand, we’ll need to make sure, once we close escrow, that we issue a statement with the local paper. We’re devoted to preserving the heritage of the island as we ensure we’re evolving, restoring the luster from its heyday in the Golden Era of Hollywood, etcetera. We should also start attending the Council meetings. They meet every Tuesday at seven p.m.”
“If you weren’t so cute, I’d punch you,” Logan offered with a smile.
“Details are important.”
<
br /> “And thank God we have you to tend to them.”
Emmett stabbed a look at Logan.
Logan countered by holding up his glass. “To adventure, to us, to Parpadeo. And to our father who, for some crazy reason, said yes to our crazy plan.”
“Why do you think he said yes?” Emmett asked, always on a quest for information.
“We’re just that good,” Logan offered after swallowing a gulp then inspecting the translucency of the whiskey in his glass. “This tastes like a Speyside single malt. Is it?”
Aiden nodded, Emmett rolled his eyes.
“He said yes because it was well thought out, clearly defined, and it fucks with Townsend,” Aiden told them. “The only reason he’d say no would be out of pride, and Eliot James values money over pride.”
Logan’s dark eyebrow raised. “Thank God you’re the oldest. I don’t want to know the ins and outs of Eliot James like you do.”
“That’s why Dad paid Aiden more than you,” Emmett informed him with a wicked grin.
The look of incredulity on Logan’s face made the statement worth it, according to Emmett who laughed.
“That’s fucked up.”
Aiden eyed his brothers, watching them banter as usual. “I was negotiating the property in Copenhagen while you were in college pouring Jägermeister into a beer funnel.”
Logan’s face tightened into a grimace. “Not one of my brightest ideas.”
“Dumbass,” Emmett put in, drank from his scotch. “Jäger through a beer funnel?”
“Stop saying that word or I’ll throw up. Residual cell memory.”
Aiden and Emmett exchanged a look, pleased as conspirators to have obtained the gem of information—to be used another day when least expected or appreciated.
“I still can’t believe we bought an island. I feel so responsible,” Logan declared, changing the subject, and knowing full well it would earn him another sneer from Emmett. “Shocking, I know. But I’m twenty-four, I’m supposed to be irresponsible.”
“The last time you declared how responsible you were, the property you had the company buy slid off the coast of Maine into the Atlantic,” Aiden reminded him.
“Only part of it,” Logan countered.
“The main part.”
“And we rebuilt it and the place is better for it. The media in town agrees.”
“That’s because you slept with the reporter.” Hating the clenched hold his tie had around his neck, Aiden tugged it loose.
“Chloe. No, Jenny.”
Emmett rolled his eyes. “How the hell do you confuse Chloe with Jenny?”
“They came as a pair. Literally.” Logan beamed as he drank.
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re jealous.”
Aiden vaguely listened to his brothers toss insults at one another, but his mind wandered elsewhere. “We’re in agreement on the offer we’ll put in for Villa Blue?”
Because his words were weighted, Logan and Emmett both abandoned their conversation and agreed.
“I still can’t believe you want to live there. Mister never-in-one-place-long-enough-to-catch-a-cold.”
“Just for a year,” Aiden said, finally yanking off his tie and tossing it aside. “To run things from the ground. Don’t want the subs to steal our budget on handshake deals and give us shoddy workmanship. Plus, like Emmett brought up, we’ll need to attend town meetings, frequent local spots, make nice with the local business owners.”
“And you’re in love,” Emmett added.
Aiden drained the remainder of his drink, eyeing his brother. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Why else would we be going through all this work to buy a villa and eighty percent of a town on an island three thousand miles away?” Emmett asked, his eyes narrowly watching Aiden.
Logan perked up. “If you’re not in love, I’m moving in on the hot blonde.”
“Back the fuck off.” Aiden jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction.
“See, that’s love talking right there.”
“It’s a great investment opportunity,” Aiden told them sternly. “We’re finally coming out from under our father’s wing, doing our own thing, we’ll give a group of investors good value for their investment, it’s a solid start to our portfolio, it’ll open the doors for other opportunities, and…holy hell I’m in love with her.”
At Aiden’s blank look, Logan took the vulnerable moment to verbally punch him. “When’s the wedding? I hear from our esteemed brother Emmett here that Parpadeo has lovely, wedding-like weather year-round.”
When Logan didn’t get a response, he glanced at Emmett then they each looked back to Aiden. “You okay, bro?”
Emmett rose, dutifully grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the counter and refilled Aiden’s glass.
“I’m in love with her. Is that what this is?” He rubbed at his chest as he swallowed back the whiskey to soothe—or fuel—the burn. He didn’t care which. “I’m missing her show. Should’ve bought her a damn phone.”
“What happened to her phone?” Logan asked. “And where are we going to dinner? I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Emmett countered.
“Steak,” Aiden decided without giving it thought as his mind was elsewhere. “STK. And her phone drowned when we went cliff diving.”
“Yeah, let’s go to STK.” Logan pulled out his phone, pressed a few buttons, ordered a car. “Ride’ll be here in five. And that must be love. Cliff diving together. Did you hold hands when you jumped?” he asked, cooing out his words, teasing.
“Shut up.”
“People in love get mushy and their comebacks go to shit. That’s what’s happening here.” Logan informed him, earning a lip curl from Aiden.
Emmett took his glass to the kitchen sink. “Logan’s right. She is hot.”
“Hot, definitely hot.” Logan smiled, enjoying seeing his eldest brother twisted up. “Hotter than what’s her name, that painter who wanted to paint all of us nude. Remember her?”
“You meet the weirdest people,” Emmett told Logan then turned to Aiden. “Do us all a favor. If she paints you in the nude, warn us so that we avert our eyes from every gallery we pass.”
“But if she paints in the nude, let us know. We’ll definitely watch,” Logan finished.
Aiden, barely paying attention, frowned at them. “What? What did you say?”
Logan punched him in the arm then walked out the door with Emmett and Aiden following behind. “The sexy artist is in love with Aiden, Aiden is in love with the sexy artist, none of us want to see Aiden naked, we bought an island, let’s go eat,” Logan declared in a final recap.
The elevator doors slid open and they piled in.
Frowning, Aiden’s mind sped through thoughts. Was Ivy in love with him too? He checked his watch, wondered if she was already at the gallery in San Francisco, wondered if he was letting her down by not being there. If he was in love, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He should’ve sent flowers or candy or arranged for ice cream to be delivered to her as congratulations. Instead he’d left her a bucket of chalk.
His head began to pound as he considered that he had no idea how to be a man in love.
But he was good at catching on quick, he told himself as he followed his brothers into a waiting car. He damn well better learn fast. What good was it to have an island without the woman he wanted to share it with?
Ivy knocked lightly on the door to the gallery and waited. The lights were on, spotlighting her paintings that hung at the front of the all white, modern space.
When no one answered, she stepped back to take in the moment, seeing her paintings lined up on display. And it was stunning. She knew they would be there, knew they would be hung front and center, but seeing them suspended in the window made excitement burst in her chest.
And there was the promotional poster in the corner featuring a photo of her and a collage of four of her paintings. And her name, Ivy Van Noten.
&nb
sp; She’d done it. Well, almost.
A dull grip of panic fisted in her empty stomach. “Closed,” she said aloud, trying to make sense of it.
Searching the window to make sure she hadn’t missed a closure notice—she hadn’t—she knocked again, pounding louder, feeling stupid. She checked the hours for the show that were printed on the poster. Yep, all fine.
But all wasn’t fine. Fear crept up and she reminded herself to just relax, that there must be a perfectly good explanation. Maybe there was one person on shift and they had to lock up to go to the restroom or grab a coffee.
Ordering herself not to freak out, she took one last look through the windows, studied her paintings, then attempted a calm stroll to the nearby café she’d spotted. She’d get a latte, a pastry, enjoy both, then wander back in time for her show. No big deal. They couldn’t very well have a show with the doors closed.
One hour and two lattes later, the doors still weren’t open. The sun had set, leaving the streets lit only by the dim glow of city lights and sporadic street lamps. But regardless of the light around her, the darkness swamped Ivy.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, warding off the tattered chill of night air. Or maybe nerves were to blame for making her body shake. Whatever the reason, it sure as hell wasn’t helping to stand there.
When a woman in sky-high heels and gold glinting at her wrist and ears approached on the arm of a sharply dressed man in a suit, Ivy offered them an apologetic smile.
“Going inside?” the man asked.
“It’s closed,” Ivy told them. “I’m not entirely sure why. Are you here for the show?”
“Oh that’s you,” the woman said, pointing to the poster with Ivy’s picture on it. “You’re Ivy Van Noten. I thought you looked familiar. We bought one of your pieces when we were on Parpadeo last month. That small museum on the promenade?”
“Gallery, honey,” the man corrected.
“Gallery, yes. Then I saw the announcement for the show in the news and we came to buy another piece. It’s closed?”
Ivy’s heart seized. People had come to see her show, had come for her art. The excitement of the idea bubbled up over the confusion for a fast, fizzy moment.
