Once I’m closed inside, I take a fortifying breath and break the golden seal on Jared’s handwritten note.
As soon as I start to read his words, a knot of emotion tightens in my throat.
Melanie,
I am so sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you.
For too many years, I have been consumed by anger and pain. It showed in my work, and in the selfish ways I lived my life. I thought revenge was the answer, the thing I needed in order to finally move on. I was wrong.
I had no right to pull you into my world, into my troubles. Least of all, into my cowardly, pointless game of retribution. You are good and kind and courageous, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, both inside and out. The light you’ve brought to my life has changed me. You’ve made me better. You showed me all the things I was missing because I hadn’t let go of my past.
And now, I’ve lost you because of it, too.
Maybe this is the best thing for you. I’ve stayed away because that’s what you’ve asked of me. But please know my love for you was, and always will be, real.
Yours, Jared
Tears blur my vision as I glance down at the wrapped painting on the bed. I cut away the twine, then begin to remove the paper.
I realize at once that this isn’t the portrait I was expecting.
I am the subject of the painting, but I’ve never seen this one before. I never posed for it, yet he’s captured me in arresting detail.
I gasp in astonishment as, bit by bit, a portrait of me standing on the deck at his beach house emerges. Jared’s painted me as if I’m gazing directly at him, the wind catching my loose hair, green waves rolling in the distance behind me like the Kentucky pastures he clearly loves and misses.
He’s remembered every detail of my face. The precise shade of my eyes. The soft expression on my face instantly calls back all the feelings I had for him on that perfect day we spent together. The love I felt for him then . . . and still do.
Vaguely, I hear the soft knock on my door. I don’t realize I’m sobbing until my mom pokes her head in to make sure I’m all right.
“Oh, honey,” she says, stepping inside to wrap me in her comforting embrace.
I sag against her shoulder and weep. I can’t help myself. I can’t harness the tumult of emotion and confusion that engulfs me.
She lets me cry only for a moment before drawing me away from her. Sweeping my tears away with her thumbs, she cradles my face in her hands. “My sweet girl. Look at how he sees you. The man who painted this portrait knows my daughter better than anyone ever will. And he loves you, Melanie. He loves you very much.”
I glance back at Jared’s painting, unable to deny what my mother is saying. I can hear his deep voice echoing in my head as the words from his note play back to me now. The hurt I’ve been carrying around for the past few weeks starts to crumble away, replaced with a burgeoning hope.
“I love him, too. I love him more than anything, Mom.”
Her mouth curves. “Sweetheart, why are you telling me? Jared’s the one who needs to hear it.”
“You’re right.” I swallow, wiping my cheeks as I get up off the bed. “I have to see him. I have to go to him right now. Oh, God. I have to hurry!”
32
JARED
She’s not coming.
I don’t know why I thought she might.
A pathetic, desperate part of me wanted to believe she might be feeling as miserable and empty as I’ve been this past month without her.
That’s some of the reason why I sent the portrait to her house tonight. I thought she might see it as the peace offering I intended it to be. I had hoped the note I enclosed would be the declaration of love she refused to accept when I feebly blurted out those inadequate words that awful night at Muse.
But she’s not coming.
The courier should have arrived at her house more than a couple of hours ago. Ample time for her to decide if she can forgive me.
Evidently, she can’t.
Somehow, I need to find a way to be okay with that decision, despite that it feels like a crushing weight seated on my chest.
“Jared,” a female voice calls to me through the clusters of patrons gathered around my unveiled new works. Dominion’s manager, Margot Chan-Levine, glides toward me with a dour-looking gentleman in a stuffy suit and bow-tie. “I have someone I’d love for you to meet.”
I spend the next ten minutes answering questions from the French art critic and pretending to be interested in his attempts to impress me with his credentials.
I’ve long grown accustomed to the fuss my art usually stirs up at its debuts, but even I have to admit this level of excitement is astonishing. Not even the drizzling rain that started in the past hour has slowed the traffic of invited VIPs and patrons packing the gallery. If I was uncertain how the change in my artistic style and subject matter might impact my return after a two-year absence, this exhibit erases any doubts.
And I couldn’t be more bored.
For the past three hours since my newest paintings were unveiled at the reception, I’ve been glad-handed by reporters and patrons, and toasted with a seeming endless flow of champagne—none of which I’ve imbibed.
All around me, I hear effusive praise for the trio of paintings dominating the focal wall of the gallery . . . and whispered speculation about who is the mystery muse depicted in my new work.
Unlike the portrait I gave to Melanie, none of these show her lovely face. That’s a privilege I don’t intend to
