Easy and I yell at each other all the time, but we’re still good. Malik and I don’t yell, but we argue. Is this any different? I wondered, even though in my gut, I knew. Although she didn’t yell and scream in typical Bianca fashion, her silence was even more telling. Since we’d become friends, she hadn’t gone a day without sending an email, text, or call. Even when I didn’t respond, she would send me an update on her life or a funny story or whatever she had going on.
I have to find B and apologize. If for nothing else, I need to know the name of the woman she was with last night.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark green button up shirt. I didn’t shave the stubble on my face and I smiled knowing Bianca was going to give me shit about it.
Grabbing my phone, wallet and keys, I ran out of the house. Revving the engine, I backed out of my driveway and hauled ass to the other side of town. Fifteen minutes and a wrong turn later, I pulled into Bianca’s riverside neighborhood. The houses were beautifully constructed and architecturally magnificent; Bianca’s home was no exception.
This would be an awesome place for a shoot, I thought as I pulled through the open gate and parked behind Bianca’s car in the wide driveway. Hopping out, I took my time walking up to the front door. It was my first time being at the Baker house and I wanted to take in the scenery.
Knocking and ringing the doorbell, I listened for footsteps. The wind whipped around me and I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I called Bianca. It went straight to voicemail.
Where are you? I wondered, knocking again.
I turned quickly at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The black town car with tinted windows drove past my car and Bianca’s and came to a stop in front of the main doors. Waiting to see who would be in the car, I was surprised when an older version of Bianca stepped out.
“Hello. Who are you?” the woman, who looked like she could be Bianca’s mother, asked in a clipped tone. A man, presumably Bianca’s father, quickly exited the vehicle and eyed me suspiciously.
“Good evening. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Baker,” I said politely, slowly pulling my hands from my pockets. “I’m Roman. I’m friends with Bianca.”
“Who?” Mrs. Baker replied, her hand coming up over her chest daintily. She looked me up and down before turning to her husband.
“Roman Harper. Bianca used to be my teaching assistant.”
“Oh…the artist,” Mr. Baker realized, his eyes lighting up at the connection. Stepping forward, he shook my hand roughly. Looking at his wife, he continued, “Lidia, you remember him.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Baker gasped. “Roman Harper. The Roman Harper.” She shook my hand and a faint smile crossed her red painted lips. “I do remember you. I just didn’t recognize you with all of that hair on your face.”
Smiling, I ran my hand over my jawline. “Yeah, I haven’t shaved in a few days.”
“Looks more like you haven’t shaved in a few weeks.”
Grabbing two bags of luggage out of the trunk, Mr. Baker spoke up. “Leave the man alone, Lidia. He’s fine.” Looking at me, he continued, “You’re fine.”
I laughed. “I can see where Bianca gets it from.” Reaching for the bags from Mr. Baker, I carried them to the front door as Mr. Baker spoke with the driver.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Baker asked as we waited for Mr. Baker at the door. The look she gave me was cold, yet slightly amused.
“Bianca gives me a hard time when I don’t shave,” I explained, looking at the details of Mrs. Baker’s face. She had a few lines around her eyes, but besides that, she looked young. “Wow, Bianca looks exactly like you. You two could be sisters.”
Giggling, Mrs. Baker’s face transformed from cold and unyielding to warm and welcoming in a matter of seconds. “Oh now stop!”
“Would you like to wait for Bianca in the house, Roman?” Mr. Baker asked as he saddled up the steps. “She is on her way home now.”
“I would like that. Thank you.”
Following Bianca’s parents into the house, I found myself looking around in awe. I’d grown up in a nice sized house, but the Baker house looked like a museum. The marble floors echoed our steps as we made our way to a formal living room that appeared to be four times the size of mine.
Wow.
“I’ll get some beverages for us to enjoy,” Mrs. Baker chirped as she passed the room where Mr. Baker had stopped.
My eyes immediately focused in on the open space on the walls of the living room. For all of the dark mahogany leather furniture and polished oak floors, the bare walls screamed for art.
“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable,” Mr. Baker insisted, grabbing the suitcases from me. “I’ll take these upstairs.” Looking at his wife as she returned with an expensive looking bottle of wine, he smiled. “Don’t scare the kid off Lidia. Bianca will be home in a few minutes.”
I sat down in one of the winged-back chairs and watched their exchange.
Mrs. Baker laughed as her husband left. As soon as he was out of earshot, her laugh came to an abrupt stop. Filling her glass to the rim, she brought the sparkling liquid to her lips.
“You should try this. It’s delicious. The flavor is magnificent. Bianca has good taste…” She took a sip. “In wine,” she added.
“Yeah. The 2007 Sassicaia is Bianca’s favorite.”
Mrs. Baker watched me as she took another sip. “Bianca’s last boyfriend was only after her money—our money—and the lifestyle she can afford,” Mrs. Baker blurted out coolly.
Where the hell did that come from?
My eyes shifted from left to right. “I was not aware of that,” I said slowly, dragging the words out. “I did know that he was a…” I took a breath. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“And you think you do?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory or harsh, just reflective.
What?
“Mrs. Baker, I think you’ve misread this situation. I’m not Bianca’s boyfriend.”
“Well, that’s a relief!” Giggling, she finished her glass in a couple of large gulps. “You seem like a decent young man. You are a talented artist. I remember seeing some of your pieces and being impressed. And it takes a lot to impress me. But you are an artist and a teacher. Those two things combined don’t make you a financially compatible match for my daughter. More than that, you’re a bad influence.”
I felt my eyebrows come together as I listened to her. “What?”
“Working with you for however long she was your teaching assistant apparently gave her hope that she would amount to something in the art world. Bianca is good. Better than most, I’m sure, but she doesn’t exhibit the level of talent needed to make something of herself as an artist. And I’m afraid that her associating with you will lead her to believe otherwise. She needs to find a respectable career.”
My gut told me that Mrs. Baker was everything Bianca told me she was, and her words made my blood boil. Clenching my jaw, I stared at her for a second. “First, Bianca is incredibly talented and she will make a great curator, which is what she wants to do with her life, by the way. Second, being an artist is a respectable career.”
“Oh now Roman, I meant no offense to you. I’m just telling you what I want for Bianca. I’m sure you make a fine living doing what you do. Bianca mentioned you sold a few paintings before she went to Italy and that’s great. Really, it is. But that’s not common. You’re special. You’re an anomaly.”
What the fuck?! Does she realize she’s talking shit about my career and her daughter at the same damn time?
Before I could respond, she continued, “Her father and I have worked too hard to have a daughter not do anything with her life. That reflects poorly on us. She either needs to do something remarkable or marry well. Preferably both.”
And there it is, I thought, staring at her mother in disbelief. Everything Bianca said about her mother was the absolute truth.
“With all due respect, Bianca is incredible. I�
�d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about her like that.”
Mrs. Baker smiled and lifted her glass as if she were toasting me. “I like you.” Taking a sip, she watched me carefully. “Very direct. Not easily intimidated.” She snapped her fingers. “You remind me of Stanley when he was young.”
As if on cue, Mr. Baker strolled into the room.
“Roman,” Mr. Baker said, patting my shoulder as he walked passed me to sit beside his wife on the leather loveseat. “So tell us about yourself.”
“What would you like to know, sir?” I countered, not in the mood for a question and answer. Especially not after his wife just insulted my career and my best friend.
“Are you from around here?”
“I spent the first five years of my life here in Richmond, then we moved to Huntington, California, and that’s where I grew up. I moved back to Richmond to go to VCU because of the art program and I’ve been here ever since.”
“Art, huh?” His smile seemed genuine. My gut told me Mr. Baker wasn’t that bad of a guy, but after the conversation I’d had moments earlier with his wife, I was still wary.
“Yes. Art. Some find it disreputable, but I make a pretty decent living off of it so I’m happy.”
Mr. Baker looked between me and his wife quizzically. Mrs. Baker laughed, shaking her head.
“What did you say to him, Lidia?” Mr. Baker burst out, turning his entire body to look at his wife. He picked up a glass of wine and held it in his hand until she spoke.
“I just said that our daughter needed to focus on her future. She’s twenty-six now. She can’t walk around pretending to be an artist. If she wants to move to New York and try her hand, she wouldn’t make it. She doesn’t have the experience. And what would our families think? What would our friends think?”
“She’s still young, dear,” he replied, sipping from the glass.
“Stanley. At twenty-six, I’d finished law school, passed the bar, and was climbing the ranks at my firm. Youth isn’t an excuse.” Sipping her second glass of wine, she sighed. “Our only daughter comes from a family of doctors and lawyers and judges and CEOs. It’s too late for her to follow in our footsteps, but it’s not too late for her to own a business and marry well. Someone with wealth would do her the honor of stabilizing her.” She looked at me with wide eyes. “Not that you wouldn’t make a fine husband, Roman. You just wouldn’t—”
“Lidia!” Mr. Baker interrupted, looking embarrassed. “That’s enough. Roman is a guest in our home.”
“With all due respect,” I started, clasping my hands together tightly in front of me. “Bianca is a talented, beautiful, interesting, funny woman and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Having her as a wife would be an honor for any man who is fortunate enough to marry her.”
Mr. Baker smiled at me and something that looked like respect crossed his face. He raised his glass before taking a sip. “Here, here.”
Mrs. Baker looked surprised. “I didn’t say she wasn’t! I’m just saying—”
“What’s going on here?” Bianca asked from the doorway. Her voice startled me.
How much did she hear?
“Bianca, have a seat. We’re talking to your artist friend, Roman.” The way Mrs. Baker said artist grated on my nerves.
As she tentatively entered the room, the energy shifted. Even while I was getting my third-degree from Mrs. Baker, the room didn’t seem as cold as it did with the four of us sitting in it together. I wanted to break the ice, but I didn’t know what to say. The dysfunction Bianca had warned me about was real.
“Mother. Father.” Her voice came out slowly, almost accusatory. “Why are you in town?” Bianca questioned, cutting the icy quietness.
“To check on things. Your father is heading to Paris for a conference so I’m going with him. We are just here for a week to figure out what we are doing with the house,” Mrs. Baker said, her tone bored, her beverage count up.
“Are you selling it?” Bianca asked, incredulously.
Glancing over at Mrs. Baker and then me, Mr. Baker replied slowly, “We are. That’s why we’re here.”
“What? When were you going to tell me? I live here!” Bianca shouted. For the first time since she’d walked in, I really looked at her.
Bianca’s dark hair was pulled back, away from her face. Her eyes were surrounded in coal and her full lips were smothered in a soft red tint. My eyes discreetly raked her body. From her four-or-five-inch heels to her burgundy dress, my gut told me she’d been on a date.
With Ashton? The thought both interested and irritated me. What could she possibly see in him?
“You know what? Forget it.” Standing abruptly, Bianca smoothed down the front and back of her dress. “Let me know when you want me out. Roman, come on.” She stormed out of the room with purpose.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said, shaking Mr. Baker’s hand.
“It was a pleasure young man. Come back and see us.”
“Mrs. Baker….” Flashing a smile, I extended my hand toward her. “Thank you for the drink and for the conversation. It was enlightening.”
The front door slammed and we all reacted to the thundering sound.
Shaking her head slightly, Mrs. Baker laughed. “Nice meeting you, Roman. It has been eye opening.”
“You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age,” Mr. Baker acknowledged. “Good luck with your art.”
“Thanks. You two have a goodnight.”
Tossing them both a wave, I made my way down the hall and out of the front door. Bianca was pacing beside her car as if she were considering leaving.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I made my way to her.
“Hey,” I greeted her nonchalantly.
“Hey? Are you fucking kidding me, Roman?”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, taking my hands out of my pockets and grabbing her hands. “I’m sorry that I spoke to you the way that I did. You didn’t deserve that. I was frustrated and tired and angry, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“You think I give a fuck if you yelled at me?” Bianca shrieked forcefully as she yanked her hands out of mine. “You don’t get it do you?” Shaking her head, she put her hands on the top of her head as she started pacing again. Gesturing emphatically with her hands, she started pointing and poking me in my chest. “It’s about trust. You don’t trust me. You apologized for lying to me and then after I opened up to you, you shut down. You don’t trust me. That’s what I have a problem with. That’s a deal breaker for me.”
I took a deep breath. This is worse than I thought it was going to be.
“Bianca, I’m sorry. Listen to me.” I put my hands on her shoulders to keep her from moving away. Bringing her face close to mine, I looked into her eyes. “It’s hard for me to talk about a lot of stuff in my life, but I will try to answer whatever it is you want me to answer. There’s a lot on my plate right now and you know I can’t deal with more than one thing at a time. I was pushed into a corner and lashed out. I apologize for scaring you with what I said when I was drunk. I apologize for not telling you more about my past. I apologize for coming here unannounced. I apologize for sitting and talking to your parents. I apologize for not shaving in a couple of days. Okay? I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please.”
She looked at me long and hard, and I saw the moment the light turned on in her eyes. Something I’d said resonated. Something stuck. She was going to forgive me.
“That beard is ridiculous,” she mumbled, pulling out of my grasp again. My hands instantly felt cold. I returned them to my pockets.
She smiled. It was small, but it was there.
I exhaled.
Bianca looked at me in that way that she did. It was raw and emotional and it scared me shitless, so I looked away.
“Why were you here, talking to them?” Bianca asked; her voice didn’t have the same bite to it that it’d had initially. “You’ve never come over when I’ve invited you, but you happen to show up the day my parents arrive and
have more of a conversation with them than I ever have? That’s not cool.”
“I know. It wasn’t like I waited until you told me about your parents to come over. I just...I was here. They pulled up and invited me in. They said you were on your way back from…Where were you again?”
She narrowed her coal lined eyes at me. “I was out.” Folding her arms over her chest, she said, “What made you stop by today without calling?”
“I…I um, I got an email from that woman again.”
Bianca’s face softened and she looked up at me with a worried expression. “What happened? Did you figure out who it is?”
I didn’t want to lie to her because I didn’t want to make our situation worse. “Maybe,” I revealed slowly. “But first, Easy told me he saw you at Parachutes Bar. He said you were with—”
Her eyebrows furrowed as she moved her hands to her hips. “Is this about Ashton?”
“No. Wait. You were with Ashton?”
“Yes. Ashton asked me to go with him and I needed to let off some steam so…yes. I went to Parachutes with Ashton.”
When I have more time, I’m going to have to figure out what she sees in him. That guy is an ass. But right now, I have to figure out who sent me that email, I silently mused.
“Easy said you were with a woman. The same woman I saw you talking to at Art House the night of my showcase.”
A slow smile crept across Bianca’s face. “Yes.”
She’s not making this easy.
“She’s the woman that you put on the list of possible suspects. Right?” I prompted her, wanting to know more about the woman, but afraid of the questions I might get in return.
“Yes.”
“Okay…” I dragged the word out and tried to suppress my growing annoyance with her coyness. “I need to know her name.”
Heartache Page 11
