Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  “Don’t worry,” Christa said, sensing my fear. “Max and I will go with her on all the tourist excursions.”

  Thank God for that. I’d been to New York twice before and loved it. I had no intentions of being a tourist. I wanted to immerse myself in the place, not view it from the top of some lame double-decker red bus designed for sightseers.

  “You can think about that another time,” Maddy said. “Right now Scarlett needs to have some dinner with her wine and then go home. She’s got an exhibition in New York to prepare for.”

  *

  True to her word, Maddy packed me up shortly after dinner and sent me on my way.

  It was just as well I’d chosen to leave my car parked securely in my apartment’s garage. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t sober enough to drive.

  Rounding the corner of my street, I saw what appeared to be a male figure sitting on the front steps to my building. It was dark and he was in the shadows but I would recognize that physique anywhere.

  I closed the distance between us quietly. He hadn’t seen me and was looking at his phone, the screen illuminating his profile behind the curtain of hair falling across his face.

  “John. What the hell are you doing here?”

  He didn’t jump as I’d hoped. He turned off the phone, stood slowly, and dropped it into his trouser pocket.

  Damn. He was wearing a tailored black suit, the matching black tie loosened at the neck. It highlighted his broad shoulders. I was suddenly undecided between half-naked in a wet suit and him wearing a suit as his ideal outfit. He towered over me. His eyes reflected the streetlights. It made them appear like otherworldly orbs haloed by white light. They were thoughtful as he studied me.

  “You’ve had a rough day,” he stated.

  I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. “And how exactly would you know that?”

  “Maddy told me.”

  Goddamn it. How much more explicit could I have been about my friends not contacting John regarding this? “Well, she shouldn’t have. Her interfering has just caused you a wasted trip.” I pushed past him up the front steps and typed in my key code.

  “I’m not here to sympathize.”

  The door clicked open and I turned my back to it, shielding the entrance. “Then what are you here for?”

  “You need a second opinion on your artwork.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. It’s none of your business.” Ironically I’d been thinking of asking him for his opinion but the combination of my shitty boss, interfering girlfriends, and four, possibly five – I couldn’t remember – glasses of wine, was making me contrary.

  “Are you including the portrait of the old guy?”

  I stared at him. I knew I wasn’t at my sharpest, but what on earth was he talking about?

  “I’m guessing not. It was up the back, stacked behind a few others. I only caught a glimpse of it, but it stuck in my head.”

  I knew there were a lot of paintings up in my loft, but that I could totally forget a painting disturbed me. The creative process of each one was usually etched deep into my brain long after I’d painted it.

  Curiosity won out over the indignation of being ambushed. “You’ve got two minutes to show me what you’re talking about, then I’m kicking you out,” I told him.

  He followed me upstairs and had the good sense not to talk to me on the way up. Inside, we wove our way up the loft stairs. I flicked on the down lights to illuminate the oversized space. He walked to the far left corner, then turned back to me.

  “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  I waited while he carefully moved several paintings out of the way. The way he was standing I couldn’t see the painting he was searching for. It wasn’t until he picked up a large canvas that almost came up to his shoulders and placed it on the wall beside him that I saw what it was.

  “No.” My voice echoed harshly around the loft space.

  If John thought my reaction was odd, he didn’t say anything, just watched me carefully from his position beside the painting.

  I shook myself, attempting to shake off the memories the painting elicited, and tried to gather my thoughts. “What I mean is that one isn’t for public display.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “It’s personal.” I turned and looked out the window at the view of the building opposite. The dark windows stared back at me. Rather than feeling eerie I found it comforting that there were no neighbors to peer in on me.

  “Scarlett?”

  I didn’t turn around. “Yeah.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think it’s one of your best paintings. I don’t know who he is, or when you did this, but when I look at this painting I don’t just see him. I can feel him.”

  I inhaled a sharp breath. Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I quickly blinked them away. “It’s not going in the exhibition. It’s not for sale,” I managed, thankful my back was still to him.

  “If you don’t want to sell it, then why not ask if you can include it in the collection but only for display purposes? I think it would really add to the show.”

  I wanted to tell him to leave. To get out. But my reaction to seeing the painting again had shaken me and left me feeling unsteady. If I told him to leave now he’d never let it rest and I actually still did kind of want his opinion. Steeling myself, I turned back to face him. “I’ll think about it. What do you think about the other paintings I’ve chosen?” I pointed to the wall opposite where fifteen paintings were lined up beside one another. “I still have five spots to fill.”

  John turned and walked closer to the paintings, his black shoes clicking softly on the timber flooring.

  They were all portraits, not that a lot of people would call them that. My style was strongly influenced by Expressionism. When I painted someone I was less concerned about conveying the physical qualities accurately, it was about sharing the emotion of the subject. I used big, bold strokes and colors at odds with physical reality. A person’s face might be red or blue to demonstrate their mood and they’d often be distorted. It was the sort of art that people either identified with or dismissed.

  “It’s a great selection,” he said after a minute. “But I feel like something is missing.”

  “Really?” I was too surprised at the truth of his observation to be defensive. “What do you think it is?”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead he turned and went back to stand by my other paintings. “You’ve chosen a lot of really intense ones. I know it’s your signature style, but you need something to balance it all out. Like this.”

  He picked up a smaller canvas filled with purples, blues, and blacks. The woman was subdued and more contemplative.

  “She’s beautiful. Softer than the others,” he observed. “She won’t steal the show but you need to give people a chance to breathe so they can fully appreciate your darker, bolder work.”

  I blew out a long breath and sat down on my bed. I had so many dark, intense paintings I’d been trying to include all of them. It had become a sort of negotiation with myself about which ones I could bear to leave out. With that as my focus I’d totally missed the sense of balancing the collection.

  “Pick another one,” I demanded.

  John nodded and turned back to the paintings. I didn’t say anything while he shuffled a few of them around carefully so he could view the ones sitting further back. After a few minutes he pulled out a portrait of an older woman painted in hues of reds and oranges. An Italian lady. She’d been a character. Her family had asked me to paint a portrait of her for her sixtieth birthday. I’d loved painting her so much I’d asked if I could do a second painting for myself. The vibrant colors communicated her passion for life and her strength.

  “Good choice,” I said. “Pick another one.”

  He did this two more times until only one choice remained.

  “It needs to be that one,” John told me, angling his head toward the port
rait I’d told him wasn’t for sale.

  I didn’t turn to look at it. I couldn’t. The annoying thing was, I knew he was right. I just wasn’t sure if I could do it. I sighed, leaned back on my arms and stared at the ceiling.

  I heard John’s footsteps as he walked toward me. The bed shifted under his weight when he sat down next to me.

  “Who is he?”

  I stole a glance at him. How could a man be so gentle and masculine at the same time? It disarmed me.

  “He’s my father.” I knew I would regret it later but I was too tired – or too drunk – to care. I wasn’t sure which.

  Silence fell between us. After a while John cleared his throat.

  “Has he seen it?”

  I continued staring at the ceiling. “No. And he never will.”

  I felt John stiffen beside me. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett, I didn’t realize he’d passed away.”

  I let out something resembling a tight laugh. “He hasn’t, John. Both my mother and father are still alive.”

  John waited patiently. I knew he was confused, but I liked the way he didn’t always open his mouth. It was like he was giving me room to think.

  Eventually I sat up and dared a look at the painting. Bàba stared back at me just as I remembered.

  “It was my final year artwork at high school,” I said softly. “It was the reason my mother kicked me out of home.”

  Chapter 9

  “Wait a minute,” John said, frowning. “That painting got you kicked out of home?”

  “Well, it wasn’t so much the painting itself. My parents had forbidden me to take art for my senior year. I managed to keep it a secret until the graduation ceremony when I received a special award for my final year artwork, which is the painting you like so much in front of you.”

  I sighed again. I might as well tell him all of it. “My parents didn’t actually see the painting. It was on display elsewhere and they were invited to go and view it after the ceremony. Of course my mother refused and left in a fury, dragging my father with her. I’m still amazed I managed to hide the evidence of my dishonesty for two whole years before they found out. I used to doctor my school reports before giving them to my parents so they wouldn’t know.”

  “How did you doctor your reports?” He looked slightly bemused.

  “I’d scan them into a computer and then piece the report back together without my art results. There were a few tense conversations where my mum asked why the reports looked like photocopies, but I managed to convince her the school kept the originals for their records.”

  John frowned. “Surely you would have been a subject short then?”

  I almost laughed. “Good Chinese daughters? They do extra credits. I was a bad Chinese daughter because I only did the minimum number of credits required to graduate, only they didn’t realize I was doing extra credits because I was taking art.”

  “But why? What’s so horrible about taking art? Your parents must have seen how incredibly talented you were.”

  This time I did laugh, but it came out harshly. “Oh, John. Art will get you nowhere, don’t you know that? It’s for students who fail at English and math and science.”

  “Were they blind?” John wondered.

  “No, just single-minded.” I studied him. The angles and planes of his face were a testament to his mixed heritage and I was deeply envious. “Your mother was born in Australia, wasn’t she?”

  If he thought it was an odd question he didn’t comment. “Mum’s parents emigrated out here in the nineteen-fifties.”

  “What sort of activities did you do when you were growing up?”

  This time John did give me an odd look at the change of subject. “Mainly sports. Soccer, cricket, and surfing mostly.”

  “You got to choose?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  I decided not to answer him. “I’ve got a theory, John. Chinese immigrant parents are harder on their children. They sacrificed a lot to come here and they want a better life for their kids. Too bad if it means their kids grow up hating them. I endured all sorts of creative forms of punishment so I’d be assured of that better life. You were lucky. Your mum’s Australian Chinese.”

  Understanding lit John’s features. “You didn’t get a choice, did you?”

  I met his eyes. “I chose art.”

  “And your mother threw you out of the house. Shit. No wonder you’ve got a conflicted relationship with your art.”

  I stood up from the bed. “I don’t know why you keep thinking that. My mother and I disagree about a lot of things. Art is only one of them.” I walked over to where the paintings for the exhibition were lined up against the wall. “This is really good. Thanks for your help.”

  John gripped his chest, eyes rounded in shock. “Oh my God. Did you just thank me?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Careful. You’re about to overstay your welcome.”

  “Considering I only had two minutes to start with I figure I’m on borrowed time anyway.” The lopsided grin he sent me did strange things to my stomach.

  “Idiot,” I muttered, but I was smiling. “I’m going to kick you out now. Nothing personal. It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” He stood up. “You’re finished taking advantage of me.”

  “John—”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Joking, Scarlett. I’m glad I could help tonight.”

  I nodded and slipped from his grasp, the contact making me uneasy. He followed me down the stairs. When we reached the front door, he turned to me and held his arms open wide. “Come here.”

  “What?”

  “A hug. You look like you could do with one.”

  I eyed him suspiciously.

  “It’s a hug, Scarlett.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really do—”

  Before I could finish protesting I found myself enveloped in his arms. He guided me gently so my head rested against his chest. I had the strange sensation of being engulfed in a protective cocoon, although I couldn’t figure out if it was comforting or disturbing. In true Scarlett style, I stiffened.

  “Jesus, relax, would you? You’re missing the point.”

  Point? What point? I was about to resume my protestations when I inhaled the scent of him. He smelled like the salt and the sea, which was impossible because he was wearing a business suit and nowhere near the beach. It was mixed with a warm and inviting spicy masculine scent. I tried to focus on something else. Like his heart. I could feel his heart beating. It reminded me how much safer I’d felt with his arms wrapped around me in the pounding surf.

  Clearly I was having some sort of post-traumatic flashback.

  John’s chest started to shake and I felt the deep rumbling of his laughter. “Try wrapping your arms around me. You can do that, can’t you?”

  I was about to push away from him when his hands found my arms. He guided them around his back.

  Oh my God. His back. Even through the layers of clothing I could feel the muscular landscape that was John Hart’s back.

  I leapt backwards out of his grasp. “Experiment over,” I concluded. “Scarlett Wong doesn’t do hugs.”

  John’s lips twitched. “I’ll have to remember this the next time I want to make you feel uncomfortable. Works a treat.”

  “Are you leaving yet?” I demanded.

  “Great seeing you too. Bye, Scarlett. Let me know what you decide about the final painting.”

  I waited until he’d closed the door behind him before collapsing onto the back of it. Holy shit.

  Any physical contact with John Hart was strictly prohibited from now on. A simple hug and all I’d wanted to do was rip the clothes from his back. As enticing as that thought was, it was a horrible idea, because everyone knew I’d just use and abuse him.

  And I couldn’t do that.

  Because, damn it, I was starting to really like the guy.

  Chapter 10

  “Let me get this straight. You like him so tha
t’s why you’ve been avoiding him?” Christa shouted over the music to be heard. “I really don’t get you.”

  “I mean I like him as a friend and I don’t want to ruin it by jumping him.”

  Christa turned and looked longingly at the bar where Cate was buying our drinks, then returned her focus to me. “I’m confused. So because he’s your friend, you’re not going to go there?”

  “Exactly. When have the men I’ve gone to bed with ever been friends? Too complicated.”

  “Max is my friend and I totally went there.” She grinned. “Still do. Regularly.”

  “You’re in a relationship.”

  “I seem to recall you telling me I was in love with Max and it was no big deal. Why is it such a big deal for you to be in a relationship?” Christa shook her head at me, not expecting an answer, which was just as well. She twisted in her seat and waved at Cate so she could locate us in the crowded bar area.

  Tonight was my celebratory going away drinks. I didn’t leave for another week but because everybody except Maddy would be joining me in New York, we didn’t want her to feel left out. Especially with her due date only about seven weeks away. We were all conscious that soon things would be changing. Regular catch ups as a group would be all the more difficult with the added responsibility of her being a parent.

  It was hard to believe that four weeks had passed since I’d last seen John. With the pieces for my exhibition finalized, there’d been no further excuses for him to drop by my place. I’d made a concerted effort to be busy after the hugging incident too. If I occasionally found myself contemplating the artistry of his exquisitely formed back it was from a creative viewpoint, nothing more.

  Cate arrived at our table with a tray of drinks. “Ladies. Alcoholic beverages for us and pregnancy-safe mineral water for Maddy. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Toilet,” Christa and I said in unison.

  On cue, Maddy waddled out of the toilets toward us.

  “I can’t believe how big she’s become,” Cate tried to whisper, but ended up shouting it anyway. It didn’t matter, the bar was packed and Maddy couldn’t hear. “It looks like she’s ready to give birth any day now.”