by Lexy Timms
“I’ll let you eat anything as long as it gets you into my house.”
“And into your bed,” she said.
“Into my life, Hailey.”
For the first time since we’d collapsed against one another, she opened her eyes and looked at me. I searched her face for any sign of emotion while my words digested behind her eyes. I slowly sat up, stuffing myself back into my pants while she tried to locate the pieces of her outfit she could put back on her body.
But when she was done, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.
“Into your life, it is,” she said breathlessly.
Chapter 26
Hailey
Finally, the time had come. Thanksgiving had come and gone with an official announcement of John’s gallery showing, and early December boasted of its official date. My gallery had been decorated in little things like tasteful red decorations and a small, white Christmas tree in the windowsill that lit up red and white. John’s paintings decorated the walls, speaking of his life and his love. His beauty and his grace. His hurt and his tragic demise.
There were more paintings than I’d realized, to be honest. He had painted enough beautiful paintings to fill the walls of my gallery up twice, so the Saturday evening gallery was made up of the more beautiful paintings I knew he had been proud of. I’d stashed a few in the little shop just in case some sold tonight because I didn’t want there to be any bare spots on the walls.
Not with all this wonderful artwork littering the storage shed out back.
Bryan had the event catered in. There were glasses of wine and champagne. There were a couple of people walking around with trays of hors d'oeuvres and snacks. There were so many people who came out to the Saturday evening gallery that people were waiting outside with their coats pulled against their bodies to keep warm in the chilly December air.
And like I had suspected, John’s art was flying off the walls.
Bryan was absolutely stunned. Every time I tried to mingle with the guests, someone would come up with another tag they’d taken off one of his pictures. I’d ring them up, ask them if they wanted to have it framed here, and then I’d take the picture off the wall. I eventually had to enlist Bryan to replace the pictures, showing him how to fit them on the wall and where I was keeping the extra paintings.
An hour and a half into the gallery showing and Bryan was having to dig around in the storage shed to find even more.
I changed my hair color to a bright cyan for the showing. I chose not to get it cut, allowing it to grow past my chin. My hair matched the elegant gown I was wearing for the evening, coupled with a black faux-fur cover for my shoulders in case I got chilly.
Which was a good idea, because I don’t think the door of my gallery ever really closed for more than five minutes at a time.
Bryan was in this beautifully tailored tuxedo. It hugged him in all the right places, showcasing the breadth of his shoulders as well as the strength in his legs. I had to admit, it was hard keeping my eyes off him, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.
Though I could tell by the way he was stealing glances at me that he was struggling just the same.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said into my ear.
“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself,” I said, grinning.
“I can’t believe this many people showed up,” he said.
“I can. Your brother’s artwork is incredible, and I knew the community would embrace its dark beauty.”
“Miss Ryan, there you are.”
I turned my head toward Jennifer Skyles, who was pushing her way through the crowd of people to get to me.
“Miss Skyles, I’m so happy you could make it,” I said.
“Thank you for running your article about the gallery showing,” Bryan said. “It meant a great deal to us.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “The story I ran on you two was the most popular one I’d run all year. The two of you are the reason I got promoted.”
“Well, congratulations,” I said, smiling. “I’m happy for you.”
“Listen, I wanted to ask you something. They’re giving me a permanent column in the newspaper dedicated every day to the art and theater community in the area. No more pop culture fillers and part-time pay,” Jennifer said.
“Wonderful. What do you need?” I asked.
“I want you to contact me whenever you have an event like this going on. It’s obviously a massive hit, and I’ve already got emails in my inbox asking me if you do this regularly. So, you’ve got my card. Keep me updated.”
“Oh my gosh. I certainly will,” I said, smiling.
I felt Bryan kiss the side of my head as I turned my gaze toward him.
“I’m going to see how the waitstaff is doing. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“That’s fine. People are waiting with tags in their hands, so I’ll be right here,” I said.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Jennifer said. “Just keep me updated. Oh! And if you see people walking around with notepads in their hands, don’t be alarmed. Other bigwigs from newspapers that don’t matter have come out to do a piece on how the gallery’s going.”
“Wait, seriously?” I asked.
“Yep. But I get the exclusives on your next gallery showings. Deal?” she asked.
“Deal,” I said, grinning.
Jennifer gave me a hug around my neck before I went back to ringing people up. I had to track down Bryan and let him know there were more holes in the walls to fill, and I could’ve sworn I saw tears in his eyes. He rushed out back while I made my way back to the counter, but when I got there, a man was waiting.
He didn’t have a tag in his hand, but he did have a card.
His eyes were a steely gray, and his skin was tanned. His black hair was slicked back, but there was a bit of salt and pepper in his tailored beard. I couldn’t quite place his features, though I knew they weren’t inherently American. It wasn’t until I looked down at the card he had between his fingers that I realized where he might be from.
“Ramon Escalante,” I said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ryan,” he said.
His accent was thick, and his tongue was fluid. The words he spoke seemed to simply roll off his lips like a tumbleweed effortlessly blowing through the desert. He had an aura about him that seemed to entrance me, and it wasn’t until he placed his card in my hand that I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“Your gallery is quite a wonderful spectacle,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said as I looked down at his card. “Are you interested in any of the paintings on the walls?”
“Not necessarily the paintings,” he said as he leaned against the counter. “I’m more interested in how wonderfully you’ve matched your hair with your dress.”
His features were sharp. Bold. Strong. I had no idea why he seemed familiar or why I was acting the way I was around him, but as my eyes fluttered back up to his, it suddenly clicked.
“You’re the art dealer,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, smiling.
His smile was bright and kind, despite the fact that there seemed to be a very devious glint in his eye.
“Might I ask where you’ve gained your accent?”
“I’m originally from Madrid, though I received my American citizenship a few years back,” he said.
“Ah.”
“Might I ask who the artist of all these paintings is? A beautiful woman like yourself does not seem to be the type of tortured soul to emote the way these brushstrokes do,” he said.
“No, I cannot claim the beauty of these paintings. The artist’s name is John McBride. Posthumous,” I said.
“Such a shame when an artist’s work cannot fully be devoured until his passing.”
“It is a shame, but it is also a way to honor his life. That is what this is, an honoring of a soul that wanted nothing more than to bring his own version of beauty into the world,” I sai
d.
“Now that sounds like the beauty of your own soul, Miss Ryan.”
I saw Bryan look over out of the corner of my eye as he quickly pushed his way through the crowd.
“Keep my card,” he said as he stood at the counter. “I will soon be in touch.”
“Might I ask why?”
But before I could get the question off my lips, Bryan’s arm was around me while Ramon was turning his back toward me.
“Who was that?” Bryan asked.
“Ramon Escalante. He’s an art dealer. Wanted me to hang onto his information,” I said.
“He wanting to sell you paintings or something?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Art dealers aren’t usually sellers. Their curators of a specific kind of art they attempt to sell to others. You think he might want to become an expert on my art?” I asked.
“As long as he doesn’t want to become an expert on you, I’m good.”
I smiled up at him before I rose onto my tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Feel better?” I asked, grinning.
“A little. But I can’t believe so many people turned out to see my brother’s artwork. It’s selling faster than I can keep it on the walls.”
“People are touched by his art. I knew they would be. John was a beautiful soul, and it helped me make a couple new connections today.”
“What else happened?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve now got a permanent in with Jennifer in her column to advertise more galleries as I throw them. Plus, a couple of other reporters are really jotting down notes. I think that could turn into something, too. Plus, there’s Ramon.”
“Ramon?” he asked.
“The art dealer.”
“So, we’re on a first-name basis with him now?”
“You aren’t. I am,” I said, winking.
I could see the jealousy rising up Bryan’s neck, and it was a bit sexy. I’d never done anything to make him jealous before, and I felt his grip around my waist tightening with every second that passed by.
But then, a familiar voice rose above the crowd that shook both of us from our thoughts.
“Bryan. Hailey.”
“Drew!”
I waved toward him as a couple more people approached the cash register. I rang up the tags and got their information, taking note of the frames they wanted, so I could prepare the paintings to be shipped out. Some people wanted to take them home tonight and others wanted them shipped to other places, so I had to keep a running log of addresses and phone numbers in case I needed to contact someone.
“Wow, this place is packed,” Drew said.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m actually glad you came. I have a question for you.”
“What can I help with?” Drew asked.
“You can help me pull a few more paintings from the shed before Hailey talks your ear off,” Bryan said, grinning.
I rolled my eyes and shooed the men off, and it gave me time to make some rounds. I wanted to thank people for coming and shake the hands of the other reporters. They asked me a few questions and jotted down my answers while smiles graced their faces. I could see Jennifer eyeing me curiously, wondering if I was giving them some kind of scoop I wasn’t giving to her first.
I could tell she was going to have a problem with boundaries, but she was a wonderful resource to have nonetheless.
But then, I felt a hand descend onto my lower back.
“Hey Bryan, what’s—?”
“Sorry, beautiful. Bryan wants to see you out back,” Drew said.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“He went a bit pale, that’s all.”
I thanked the reporters for their time before I rushed out back to find Bryan. He was sitting on the little stool in the shed, a large painting in his hands. I recognized John’s name scrawled across the back, but I never remembered him painting on that big of a canvas.
And the look in Bryan’s eyes was almost sickening.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked.
But all Bryan could do was look at me with tears in his eyes.
“Bryan, what are you holding?” I asked.
I stepped around him to stand at his side, and suddenly, my blood ran cold. It was a beautiful picture of a sunset, with oranges and yellows and blues splashed along the top of the canvas. There was an apple orchard with apple trees blossoming and the grass swaying in the wind.
And in the forefront of the picture, there was a fox, a red-coated fox with a white stripe all the way down its back and tail.
Complete with brown eyes.
“Oh my gosh,” I said breathlessly.
“Did John paint this?” Bryan asked hoarsely.
My watering eyes leaned back, taking in John’s signature in charcoal on the back of the painting as a tear ran down my cheek.
“Yes,” I said, whispering. “He did.”
“I take it there’s a story here?” Drew asked.
“You’ve got no fucking idea,” Bryan said.
I put my hand on Bryan’s shoulder as the tears freely streaked down his cheeks. The two of us gazed at the painting of the fox, our minds back beside John’s grave as shocked smiles spread across our cheeks.
“He was there,” Bryan said. “That was him.”
All I could do was lean over and kiss the top of Bryan’s head as he held the painting in front of his face.
“Keep it,” I said breathlessly.
“It’s a beautiful painting, we should—”
“Keep it,” I said.
“I take it one of you will fill me in on the story later?” Drew asked.
“We’ll go get milkshakes one day,” Bryan said mindlessly.
“Good. Now, what did you want to ask me, Hailey?”
“I, uh, oh, yes. I, um, wanted to talk with you about displaying some of your tattoo designs in the gallery,” I said. “I think that maybe getting some larger pictures to display permanently on the walls will help advertise your new business. You could keep some cards on my counter, maybe a little booklet of other tattoos you’ve done on people.”
“You serious?” Drew asked.
“Very,” I said, grinning.
“I’d love that, chica. Seriously.”
“Chica. Hm. I suppose it’ll grow on me,” I said.
“Dude and man are his things for me. Don’t let it alarm you,” Bryan said.
“I suppose I could be called worse,” I said, winking.
“Hailey, would it be possible for me to get your opinions on how to do up the inside of my tattoo parlor?” Drew asked.
“Sure. Whatcha need?” I asked.
“Well, my background’s in construction with a love for tattoos. I’m not really an interior design kinda guy. Your gallery’s so warm and inviting. I’d like my tattoo parlor to be the same.”
“I don’t see why not. We could get together sometime over the coming days and spitfire some ideas,” I said.
“Thanks, I’d really appreciate it. I don’t just want a tattoo parlor. I want an artistic business like you’ve got.”
“Drew, I run my fingers over your artwork multiple times a week. I’d love to help you with it,” I said.
Bryan started laughing as Drew’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.
“Way to go, dude, and yikes,” he said.
Bryan grabbed the last four paintings we had of John’s before the three of us started back inside. We walked through the door and shut it, taking stock of the people in the crowd. I didn’t recognize a soul in there anymore, which meant people had left while more people had trickled in. There were two more people standing at the cash register looking for me, but before I could make my way over there, I heard Bryan set the paintings down at his feet.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Holy shit,” Drew said.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Bryan’s eyes connected with a couple across the room. I could only see their profiles
, but I recognized them instantly. The rolled back shoulders. The noses that were slightly turned up into the air. The white hair on top of both their heads that were hair sprayed in place. Every single thing about them screamed money from the bag the woman was carrying all the way down to the loafers the man was wearing.
Bryan’s parents had shown up to the gallery.
“Is your cash register hard to work?” Drew asked.
“Nope. Just ring up the price on the tag, take their money, enter in the amount, and press cash,” I said.
“I got the people lined up. You and Bryan go over there,” he said.
I helped Bryan pick the paintings up off the floor while we both hung them on the walls. It didn’t matter that almost all of John’s paintings had sold. It didn’t matter that we’d racked up close to ten thousand dollars because of this showcase. It no longer mattered that we were shipping his artwork everywhere from Texas to South fucking Africa.
Now, the only thing that mattered was why his parents were here.
They had somehow found a way to make it about them even though it wasn’t.
“Mom. Dad,” Bryan said.
“Hello, son,” Michael said.
“It’s very nice to see you two again,” I said.
His mother turned to look at me, clocking my hair and the way it matched my dress before her lips downturned in a very staunch disapproval.
“I didn’t expect to see you guys here,” Bryan said.
“We didn’t expect to come,” Dorothy said.
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
Bryan took my hand solidly within his, trying to quell the tremble that was reverberating throughout his body.
“Just taking things in,” Dorothy said.
“Looks like John had some talent,” Michael said.
“He did. About eighty percent of his artwork has sold in the past two and a half hours,” I said.
“You’re selling them for ten dollars apiece?” Dorothy asked.
So, they’d read the articles leading up to this gallery. That meant they knew the whole story about how Bryan and I met. About John and his death. About how I’d met their son and how Bryan and I were tethered and bound together before we’d even met one another. They knew the whole story, from A to Z, and they were still acting like rich, pretentious assholes.
