I run my fingers across my chin. "Yes. This is a print of Voyage. He painted this after the birth of his son. He donated it to a children's hospital in Paris, I think. They sell cards of the prints in the gift shop there to raise money for equipment."
He studies my face, his expression unreadable. I should tell him that I know all of this because my grandmother loved Brighton Beck with a passion that was only matched by her adoration for her music and her thirst for literature. When she bought one of his watercolor paintings at an auction, she'd been giddy. She had it hung over the worn leather chair in the library of her house. Each time I walked in there to talk to her, I'd catch her staring at it. I've followed his career since her death.
"Can I open the card?" I ask tentatively, wanting to break the silence.
"Please," he says as he motions towards my hands with his chin.
I smile softly before I cast my eyes back down to the card and the surprise that waits inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Gabriel
Compared to the notable relationships I've had in my life, I don't even know Isla Lane yet. We've spent no more than a few hours together in total. She's years younger than I am. She has an entry level position at one of the many boutiques my company owns. She was honest on her employment application when she mentioned that her community college career was limited to just a year. She was in pursuit of a Bachelor of Music degree but apparently she's put that on hold.
I earned dual degrees at Princeton. I know many of the world's most influential people on a first name basis. I own several apartments on different continents and I covet art because I find it captivating in a way that many people don't.
Yet, now, as I watch Isla staring at the greeting card I purchased months ago I'm in awe. I'd walked into the gift shop of the hospital in Paris after I'd visited one of our executives. She was there, with her husband, standing watch over their newborn daughter who had a simple procedure.
The cards had caught my eye immediately. I'm not a friend of Brighton Beck's but we share common acquaintances and the experience of walking through the corridors of that facility, on my way towards the exit, had been humbling. I've always had my health and to see children struggling with theirs had been enough to prompt me to purchase all the cards they had in stock.
I'd shoved them into a cabinet in my office when I returned to New York but today, thinking of Isla's birthday, I wanted to give her one.
The extent of my gift giving is typically delegated to my assistant, but with Isla I wanted something more. I wanted it be personal. I wanted her face to light up when she saw the card even if I thought her reaction would be restricted to a comment about the beauty of the design.
How the hell could I have known that she'd not only recognize Brighton Beck's work but that she'd understand and appreciate the meaning in the print?
"These are symphony tickets." She cradles the two tickets in her fingers. "These are close to the stage. They're orchestra tickets, aren't they?"
The smile on her face is genuine. It's what I anticipated when I called the box office and tossed out a few well-respected names with the hope of securing two tickets to the sold out performance next week. "I know that your seat last night was in the third balcony. I wanted you to have the experience of being close to the stage."
"My seat was practically outside the building," she says under her breath. "This is amazing."
"You can take whoever you'd like." I brush my fingertips over her hand. "Perhaps Davis Benoit would like to go with you or your roommate."
Her face softens as she looks up at me. Her lips part slightly before she closes them again, her eyes falling back to her hands. "This is a generous gift. Thank you."
"You belong at every performance," I say as I reach down to grab the glass of water I'd poured earlier. "You actually belong on the stage."
She doesn't break my gaze as she absorbs the compliment. I know instinctively that's because she believes there's as much truth in my words as I do. I swallow the water in one long gulp, all the while regretting not pouring myself something stronger.
"Will you go with me?"
It's the invitation I had hoped she'd offer. I could have easily invited her to the performance straightaway but I wanted her to choose. I want her to crave my presence next to her, just as much as I crave hers.
I set the glass on the table before I take a measured step closer to her. "I'd be honored to go with you, Isla. A late dinner after the performance would make for a perfect evening."
"A late dinner here?" Her eyes scan the dimly lit room before they settle on the view of the city.
I lessen the space between us again as I move even closer to her. The distance separating us now is little more than mere inches. "I can arrange that. Is that what you want? To come back here after we watch the performance?"
She places the card and envelope on the table
before she turns so her back is against the window. Her heels shift slightly, ever so slightly, as she laces her fingers together in front of her. "Yes, I want that."
I stare at her face, entranced with how utterly beautiful she is. Her nose is delicate, her lips full and pink. Her blue eyes are wide and framed by long lashes. She's breathtaking, even though her lipstick has smudged slightly and her hair is even more tousled than it was earlier.
I slowly unclasp the cuff link on my left wrist, sliding it into the pocket of my pants before I roll the sleeve of my white dress shirt to the elbow. Her eyes watch my every movement as I do the same with my right arm.