“So what are you going to do to get Ellie back?”
I turn up my palms. “I’m going to do what every lovesick guy does when he knows it’s real. I’m going to be there when she’s ready.”
Ellie
Saturday, December 15th
If I close my eyes and focus on the wind rolling off the river and through my hair, I can almost imagine I’m someone else. A woman who’s spending her weekend visiting this cute little tourist town in Indiana. A woman whose most difficult decision for the week will be where to have dinner on Friday and whether she should blow her budget on the Prada bag she spotted on discount. I used to be that girl. Before I took a job in Jackson Harbor and fell for two thrill-seeking bad boys. Before I helped one fight an addiction to pain pills and leaned so hard on the other that I didn’t even realize I’d fallen in love.
But today I’m someone new. I’m a woman brave enough to show my secrets to the world. A woman who’s invested countless hours in her talents and poured herself into a new opportunity. A woman who knows how to be alone, even if she doesn’t like it, and who believes in herself, even if it doesn’t come naturally.
“Are you ready?” Maggie asks.
I turn to Maggie Thompson and smile at the New Hope art gallery owner. My new friend. It’s strange to see a face in person after spending hours replicating it. I see why Bauer loved painting her so much. She’s beautiful. But the woman standing next to me radiates an inner strength the artist never captured. Because he couldn’t show it clearly, or because she didn’t have it yet?
“I’m ready,” I say, “but I’m scared.”
She takes my hand and squeezes. “Life’s best gifts lie on the other side of fear.” She nods toward the gallery that sits above the cobbled walkways leading to the riverside. “They’re waiting.”
She leads the way to her gallery, and I trail a few steps behind. After Huxley was arrested, I decided I needed to get rid of the paintings. I thought about destroying them, but I ultimately decided to give them to the woman who modeled for the originals. When I’d spoken with Maggie nearly three years ago, she made it clear the Discovery collection was an ugly part of her past, and she was happy to see them destroyed. Since I felt guilty for bringing them back to life, I brought the paintings to her. My confession. My secret shame.
Maggie stops at the French doors at the back of the gallery. She smiles as she watches the people mill around inside. “You see that?” she asks, pointing. “All those people are here because they want to look at something you created.”
“I still can’t believe you did this for me,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Nah, I didn’t do anything but give you some walls where you could hang your work. You did this.” Maggie had an artist pull out of a December exhibition spot, which gave me two months to put together a show of my own work. I rented a small studio space in Jackson Harbor and barely slept, barely left my studio for anything but appointments with my real estate clients, food, and sleep. I visited Colton once and made a brief appearance at a girls’ night, but other than that, I painted. I knew what I was being offered and I was determined to make the most of it.
“You believed in me when the only evidence you had of my talent was a bunch of replicas.”
She grins and tosses back her curly red hair. “They were damn fine replicas. Anyway, my husband loves them. Something about you being the artist instead of Bauer saved them from the bonfire pile.”
My gaze snags on a man on the other side of the glass. He catches sight of me and freezes, his intense eyes locking on mine.
I want to soak him up, to memorize every inch of his face and breathe him in. God, I’ve missed him. Every day I locked myself away and painted. Every time I picked up my phone to text him and made myself put it down.
“Wow,” Maggie says, a little breathless. “He’s as gorgeous in person as he is in your paintings.”
“Tall, dark, and bad for me.”
“Is he yours?”
I shake my head. “You can’t own a person. You can only hold space for them.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Looks like he’d hold the whole damn world for you.” She pulls her gaze off him to study me. “Is he really bad for you?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not at all.”
“In that case, I’ll send him out.”
Maggie strolls in through the French doors and takes two flutes of champagne from a server. She hands them to Levi, nodding out toward the patio where I stand. She says something to him, and he smiles, nodding.
He closes the doors behind him as he joins me. “Some champagne?” His voice is the bridge to a favorite song, and I ache for more. I didn’t know if he’d come tonight. I couldn’t have blamed him if he’d declined my handwritten invitation. But now that I see him here, I realize I didn’t need to worry. Of course he came. This is Levi. My rock. The one I can always rely on.
“Thanks.” I take the glass from his hand. My fingers slide over his, and sparks of electricity crackle across my skin and up my arms, leaving a trail of heat under my winter coat.
“Congratulations,” he says. “It’s an amazing turnout.”
“Maggie is great at this. She knows how to bring people in.”