by A. Zavarelli
There’s a big difference between performing for Keller and a few locals and performing for an entire campus. But when I step through the door, it’s even crazier than I imagined.
“Chloe Abernathy?” someone asks.
“Yes?”
The word is barely out before a few flash bulbs begin going off in my face, blinding me. There are questions too. Questions I can’t really make sense of. About my work.
Bastien steps up beside me and ushers me away through a side door.
“What’s going on out there?” I ask.
“It’s a media circus,” he answers. “Everyone is here. Major news outlets, gallery owners across the nation, even Laurent Beaupre.”
I swallow at the mention of the name, and for a moment I’m certain I misheard him.
“The art critic?”
“The one and only,” Bastien answers.
Laurent Beaupre is notoriously difficult to impress. His opinion is renowned in art circles, and he is the person you want at your event. But he never comes to an event of this size and triviality.
Ever.
“I don’t understand,” I tell Bastien. “How is this happening?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “But there are a lot of people out there saying your name already.”
“This is crazy.”
And I feel like I can’t breathe.
“It’s going to be okay, Chloe,” he assures me. “This is what you wanted, right?”
“Yes,” I answer, “but…”
“But nothing,” he tells me. “You have an opportunity here. Are you going to take it and make it your bitch?”
I laugh, because that’s what one of our dance teachers always likes to say. And Bastien is smiling because he knew I’d understand.
So I take a deep breath and nod.
“I’m going to take it,” I tell him. “I’m totally going to make this night my bitch.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “You better get out there and get to it then.”
He walks with me and we re-enter the fray. The crowd is thick. Bigger than I’ve ever seen it. And more than a few times as we walk, I feel people’s eyes on me. It isn’t just their eyes. They are nodding. Saying hello. And they are excited.
For me. About me.
“Chloe?”
I glance up and see Mrs. Hilliard waving to get my attention. She’s the art director for the program. And she looks excited to see me too.
“Chloe,” she repeats, pulling me in for a hug like we are the best of friends. “You have no idea. Just no idea. The response to your work already…”
She pauses to take a breath and shakes her head.
“It’s huge, Chloe. So huge. We have an offer on one of your pieces already.”
“An offer?”
I blink up at her in confusion. They weren’t even intended for sale.
“Yes, on the Salacious piece.”
“Oh.” My excitement quickly dims and I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t sell that one. The others, but not that one.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she tells me again. “The offer is for five hundred thousand dollars.”
I nearly fall out of my ballet flats when she repeats that number three times as though I didn’t understand her.
Bastien is also in shock beside me, trying to shake me out of it, encouraging me to say something. Something that sounds like yes.
But I can’t.
“It has sentimental value to me,” I try to explain.
They both look at me like I’m crazy. But Mrs. Hilliard just nods and continues on.
“The buyer thought you may be hesitant to part with it,” she says. “So he offered to make the contribution entirely to the Witherton Foundation.”
The Witherton Foundation. Otherwise known as the charity for the victims of the Rellek theater bombing.
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
My heart is beating too hard and too fast. Waiting for an answer. An answer that will help me make sense of this.
“He assumed it was of importance to you,” she answers, “based on your work with the yoga studio.”
“Oh,” I reply. “Right.”
Bastien and Mrs. Hilliard are both staring at me expectantly. This is huge. This donation would mean so much to the foundation. The cause that is so close to Keller’s heart.
But that painting means the world to me.
A memory I can’t get back. The value isn’t monetary to me.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell them, because I feel like I need to say something.
“Chloe,” Mrs. Hilliard says in a gentle voice. “This is a huge opportunity for not only a worthwhile cause, but for you as well. Once word gets around that someone purchased one of your paintings for that amount… your work will have real market value. This is incredible. And you would be foolish not to take this opportunity.”
She doesn’t get it. This isn’t about my career. At all.
“I need to think about it,” I tell her. “For the night.”
She sighs out her obvious frustration. “You have until the end of the night. After that, I doubt you will ever get another offer like it.”
I nod, and she sashays away, leaving me to piece together my thoughts. But I don’t have very long.
“You’re up in fifteen minutes,” Bastien says. “We should go get ready.”
I glance in the direction of my paintings. Of Salacious. Wishing I could just have some more time to think on it. But I don’t. So I simply nod and let Bastien lead me away.
Chapter Seventeen
Chloe
Bastien helps me to limber up and prepare for the stage. Which is the only real reason he is here since I’m flying solo tonight. But I also wanted him to get credit for the Nutcracker piece we did together.
Once we’ve gone through the stretches, Mrs. Hilliard appears at the side entrance.
“Five minutes,” she tells us.
I nod and take a deep breath.
“I’ll go set up paint,” Bastien tells me. “You just take a breather.”
I nod and try to relax.
Tonight, there will be no Mr. Vaughn or even Bastien to help me through the performance. I’ll be painting entirely with my body, using the supply that Bastien’s setting up on the canvas now.
I’ve gone over the design in my head numerous times, the way I want it to be. But I haven’t drawn it out. Because I don’t want to lose the magic. So it’s going to be completely free form. No chance for mistakes. It will be imperfect, to me. But hopefully perfect to someone else.
Even if it only resonates with one person in the audience, it will have meaning. And that’s the most important thing.
Bastien reappears, and so does Mrs. Hilliard.
“You ready?” she asks.
I nod, and she speaks into her headset.
And then I’m moving up the stairs and onto the stage. In front of the crowd.
In front of too many people to count.
I close my eyes as I take my place at the canvas. And all I can hear is his voice. Telling me I can do this. That I have to do this.
The music starts, and so do I. The room is quiet, save for the sounds of my feet moving. Painting. I’m completely absorbed by it. By the rhythm and the feeling.
Until I hear a gasp. And then another. And another. And a low murmur spreads through the audience.
And when I look up that’s when I see it.
See him.
Painting a mural on the wall behind me. A backdrop to accompany my piece. A backdrop of the same colors from that night. From Salacious. A piece with meaning only the two of us could ever understand.
For the briefest of moments, his gaze meets mine. And his lips mouth the words.
“Keep going, Chloe.”
I keep going.
I dance and draw and paint, using my entire body.
The en
ergy in the building changes to a low rumbling excitement. And I can feel it thrumming through my veins too. Bleeding into me. Infusing me with all of the emotion I need to complete the piece.
He’s here.
He’s here for me.
My heart is aching when the music stops, but it feels as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
A catharsis.
And there is clapping. So much clapping.
The screen at the back of the room shows our paintings in perfect tandem. But I can only look at his. At the man himself.
There are so many questions in my mind. Questions I need the answers to.
But Mrs. Hilliard is ushering me away before I get a chance to voice them. Into the fray where a hoard of people await with questions of their own.
What does it mean? What do the colors represent? What is the piece called?
I answer them as best as I can before I make my excuses and slip into the back. Seeking him out.
I walk the halls and come up empty.
Another round of the room produces the same results.
And it is with a heavy heart that I realize he has gone again. That maybe I was wrong. He never intended to stay.
That maybe this is the most I can ever have from him. Brief flashes of madness interceded by long solemn silences.
***
Eventually, I find my way back to the piece. Back to Salacious. And I stare up at the colors for a long time. Trying to make sense of them. Trying to make a decision.
To understand the purpose of any of it.
“I thought you would be amongst your fans,” a voice speaks from behind me.
My body relaxes, in the way that only his presence can bring. I don’t turn to look at him. Not yet. Because it is easier to pretend he’s merely an apparition. Until I know for certain that he’s real.
“It’s very overwhelming,” is my reply.
“It’s good to leave them wanting more,” he answers. “They like the mystery.”
“Did you do all of this?” I ask him. “Is that the only reason they are here?”
“The only thing I did, Chloe, was show them your work. The people who are here tonight believed it was worth seeing in person. There is nothing more to it.”
“But you were on stage with me,” I answer him.
“They didn’t know I would be,” he replies. “Nobody did.”
My heart beats louder in my chest. Relieved and excited.
That this is real. That this is genuine.
But it’s terrifying too.
Because I still don’t know the rest. How the rest of this story unfolds. If this will be the first or the last piece of art that we create together.
“I think it will look best above my bed,” he says.
This time, I do turn. Just a little. To meet his gaze.
And he’s as real as he’s ever been. More beautiful than I remember. And more relaxed too.
At ease.
As if maybe his demons have finally settled.
“Salacious,” he murmurs, his eyes still on the painting behind me. “I didn’t realize you kept it. I didn’t realize that you’d hold onto something so tightly, when the man behind it had caused you pain.”
“You didn’t cause me pain,” I tell him. “You gave me growth.”
His eyes soften, and he takes a step closer. Closing the distance between us.
“And I was your teacher. Yet, you were the one to teach me, Chloe.”
“I just wanted you to be happy,” I tell him.
“Are you still holding out on me?” he reaches out his hand, and I take it.
Nothing has ever felt so right. Our paint splattered fingers twined together. The master and his student.
“Will you sell the painting?”
I blink up at him and smile. “You were the buyer?”
“Yes.”
He presses his hand to my cheek and leans in to breathe me in. And the tension between us breaks. I can’t be sure who pulls who. But we come together. In blinding heat and a kiss that I’ll never forget.
A kiss that promises so much more. And an apology too.
“You can’t have the painting,” I murmur against him. “I’m keeping it.”
He smiles against me and squeezes my ass in his hands.
“Then I have a proposition for you,” he tells me.
“What is it?”
“I want that painting, Chloe. I want it above my bed. Our bed.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. “You want me to move in with you?”
“Yes.”
The teasing tone is absent from his voice, and now he is all business.
“And something else. I want your work in my gallery.”
“Your gallery?”
Again, I feel like I’m not processing everything he has to tell me.
“You have an entire room of people out there who want that too,” he tells me. “So you have options. But I’d like you to choose me, and I’ll tell you why.”
He reaches for my hands and takes them both in his.
“I already know what you’re going to say. That I’m doing this because I want to protect you. And part of that is true. I want to keep you from the vultures. I want to keep your work authentic. And not influenced by what they want.”
He strokes his thumb over my skin and pauses before meeting my gaze again.
“But I also want to create with you, Chloe. Like we did tonight. I want to work together. If that’s what you want too.”
He looks nervous. And anxious for my answer. The enormity of what he’s telling me does not fail to astonish me. He’s ready to dive back into the art world. With me.
I nod in answer.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Yes to both,” I clarify. “I’ll move in, so that we can share custody of the painting. And I’ll work with you too, I guess.”
He smiles and then kisses me hard.
“Good,” he says. “Because I really want nothing more than to take you home right now. If you’re ready.”
“I think I’m ready,” I answer. “I’ve officially made this night my bitch.”
He takes my hand in his and we move towards the door.
“Just one more thing, Chloe,” he says seriously.
“What is it?”
“You can do whatever you want in the studio,” he tells me. “But in my bed, you always listen to me.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and lean up on my toes to kiss him on the cheek.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Vaughn.”
The End