I was happy, and clearly from that picture—Simone was not.
One point for Alexis.
Chapter Fifty
The next few weeks were a blur as we straightened out Dad’s affairs and transferred the files within the office. I operated on automatic—I ate, got dressed, went to work. I was glad to go to the office so I would be forced to think of other things. Both Phillip and Nick wanted me to move home to Seattle and take over Dad’s side of the caseload. I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no. I told them I would think about it.
Simone had left for Paris on a Chanel shoot.
“Will you help me look for an apartment when you return to New York, Oliver?” I said yes, to avoid an argument, reminding myself breaking up with her over the phone was unacceptable, though it would have been infinitely easier.
The next day, I gave my brothers my answer: I’d made a life for myself in New York. I didn’t want to return to Seattle. With that decision made, I was anxious to return home.
IT WAS A relief to be back in New York. Back in the familiar surroundings of the city that never slept, in my own apartment, in the routine of my job. But everything was different, too. The loss of my father hung over me like a dark cloud—things I wished I’d said, moments when I wished I would have made time. Whether I wanted to or not—I viewed life differently now.
I didn’t hear from Alexis, which didn’t surprise me. Given her history with Ryan Leeds, I knew she wasn’t about to give second chances to somebody like me who had been vague to begin with. Why should she? I’d never given her any indication that I was confused about my feelings for her—no indication that I was planning to break up with Simone. As far she knew—I was Mr. No Commitment. What was attractive about that?
SIMONE STAYED IN Paris on an extended shoot for Chanel. She didn’t expect to return to New York for a month and though she begged me to come to France, I opted not to go. Instead, I pulled out my easel and brushes, my oils and acrylics. An unused bedroom that had amazing light became my studio. I bought a stack of fresh canvases and began to paint again.
AS PAINTING HAD been therapeutic in the past, so it was again. Emotions that I could barely acknowledge in my day-to-day life, emerged as colors and shapes on the canvas. There was one painting in particular that I labored over. It was a large canvas—36” x 48”—and from both a technical and expressive aspect, it was a challenge. The delicate play of light against the dark; the serenity, yet the tragedy—it was a complex mix of opposites and I was obsessed with getting it right. I spent countless hours working on it—using every skill I had as an artist to convey the emotion I knew the work could—and should embody. It became my obsession, as if I could somehow get this right, then perhaps I could find my way in my own life.
IT WAS A Friday night in March when I returned to my apartment with a sense of excitement. It had been a long, grueling week and I had the entire weekend ahead of me with no commitments. I planned to turn on a favorite playlist, order in and finish my canvas.
Music flooded the hallway as I rounded the corner from the elevator and I wondered who was having the party. The level of noise was unusual, because our building was normally quiet. As I reached my apartment music reverberated through the door so loudly it felt like the beat was pulsing in my chest. There was only one person I knew who listened to European Techno.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the electronic beats washing over me like a wave. Simone was in the living room, dancing with a wine glass in her hand. By the way she moved I doubted it was her first glass. She was barefoot and wore a blue silk camisole with matching shorts, flinging her black hair back and forth in time to the music.
She hadn’t heard the door open. The thick Persian rug absorbed my footsteps as I warily approached, wondering how she’d gotten in.
I stopped at the top of the stairs that led into the sunken living room and stared. The fireplace was the dramatic focal point of the room—a white wood mantel with a black granite surround and hearth—centered between two soaring windows. There, displayed on the mantel was the painting I’d been working on of Alexis.
The image was of her sleeping—looking almost angelic in the soft glow of the morning sun. It was from the perspective a lover might have—upon waking in the morning after a satisfying night together. Except now, she had a black moustache, complete with goatee, horns on her head and her eyes, which had been closed before, glowed red. The transformation was horrific in every sense.
I must have made a noise, because Simone whirled around to face me.
“Ah, my Oliver has returned.” She swayed slightly on her feet and my gut tensed, waiting for what I knew was coming. “I have come to surprise you, my darling, and instead, you had a surprise for me, didn’t you?”
I circled to the side bookshelf and turned the music off. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the previous noise.
“How did you get into my apartment, Simone?”
“The super, of course. He recognized me. He knew I was your girlfriend. But tell me this, Oliver—if I am your girlfriend, then who is this?” She turned and threw the contents of her glass at the painting. The wine splashed across what had been Alexis’ face and the fresh red paint that had become her eyes ran in little rivers down the canvas.
Simone whipped back around. Her eyes were narrowed and as evil as the painting she had destroyed. “I recognize her now. I thought it was odd that you would invite your ‘client’ to a family dinner but you knew her before you went to Seattle, didn’t you, Oliver? She was our rude little waitress at Antoine’s that night. The one you had to rush off and talk to the manager about. Did you know her before we went to dinner—is that why you took me there?” She was shouting. “Have you been seeing her behind my back all this time? Is that why you are painting her instead of me—painting her in this picture like—like you love her?”
Chapter Fifty-One
One day rolled into another and the dramatic interlude of the last few months seemed like a distant dream. Everything was as it had been, including my inability to write.
I worked the night shift at Antoine’s which meant I had most of the day to work on my manuscript. I would get up early every morning, pack up my laptop and head to the Starbucks at Broadway on Bond. They had a nice little table in the corner where I could set up my ‘office’ for the day.
But try though I might, my story didn’t seem to move forward past the middle. I got lost when I hit the midpoint, returning instead, over and over, to the beginning where I would waste time re-writing to make my character’s motivations clearer, to strengthen my setting, to do any number of things that never seemed to equate to reaching ‘the end’.
ONE TIME, WHEN I was feeling down, I’d gone and stood outside the towering office building in Midtown that housed Beckett, Johnson and Day. While I stood there, black suits walked in and out of the front doors like ants, scurrying to and fro. It was easy to imagine Oliver in this world. Not so easy to imagine myself here. I’d half expected to see Oliver when I got there. Like one of those fateful moments in the movies, when True Love puts two people right where they’re supposed to be at the same moment. Unfortunately, True Love must have been out back on a smoke break when I got there because Oliver wasn’t anywhere in sight.
I THOUGHT ABOUT quitting more often than I wanted to admit. But if I quit—then what became of my dream? What dream would I have? I forced myself back to work—refusing to consider the possibility that I wouldn’t finish. We’ve all heard the stories over and over. Anyone who ‘made it’—be it author, athlete, artist or actor—all of them had to work hard for every break they got. Failure was not an option. I was going to become a published author. I went back to work with renewed determination.
I had been back in New York for almost two months when the call came.
IT WAS AFTER four o’clock and the streets were crowded when I walked out of Grand Central Station. I was on my way up Madison toward Antoine’s to start my dinner shift when m
y phone rang.
“Alexis?”
Caroline’s name had come up on the screen so I knew it was my agent before I answered. Dread churned in my stomach. She was going to ask me if I had something new for her to read. And the sad answer was no. I mean, not yet.
“Hi Caroline.” I forced my voice to be chipper. “How are you?”
“I have news.”
“Really? What’s that?” My stomach did a slow roll. Oh my God, was she quitting the business? Or maybe she was going to fire me. It had happened to some of my writer friends—their agents had made up some excuse after several manuscripts failed to sell and dumped them. Was I going to have to find a new agent on top of everything else?
“Jen Zelinski from HarperCollins just called. She said she can’t stop thinking about your manuscript. She’s changed her mind and wants to buy FAÇADE.”
I jerked to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing everyone behind me to walk around.
“What?!”
“She’s already been to their editorial committee and has run it through sales, marketing and acquisitions. She got the green light to make an offer and she just called.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Tell me this isn’t a joke,” I whispered.
Caroline laughed. “It’s not a joke, hon. She even wants to fast track it with a September release, since all the big books come out in Fall. What do you say?”
“YES!” I thrust my hands in the air and danced in a circle, all the while, shouting “Yes, Yes, Yes!!!” I ignored the stares as I pulled the phone back down to my ear. “Yes,” I whispered.
“I’ll review the contract and forward it on to you for signatures. You should see something in the next few days. Congratulations, Alexis. You’re going to be a published author.”
THERE WERE NO words to describe my joy. I called my mom and dad first and of course, they were thrilled for me, though the conversation was a bit stilted given the scene when I’d left Seattle. When I’d asked where Jessie was, there had been a little hiccup of silence before they told me she was out with Ryan. I truly didn’t care about Jessie and Ryan, or what Ryan had done in the past or any of it. I had a future of my own now and that was all that mattered. Finally, finally I was free.
Nandini and I danced around our apartment more than once, imagining what my cover might look like, if they would change the title and a million other little details. I had a small group of online friends who I shared critiques with and we had a virtual celebration. But the one person I really wanted to tell—and couldn’t—was Oliver.
THE DAYS TURNED into weeks. My editor started revisions before I’d even signed the contract. My manuscript came back with comments on every page, sometimes it looked like every line. At first my self-confidence in my writing ability was shaken, but then I realized I had the greatest opportunity of my life—to learn from a successful editor about what it took to write publishable fiction. I embraced every comment and suggestion and it was easy to see how my story was getting stronger.
I RECEIVED MY contracts, signed and returned them and not too many weeks later, my first check arrived. I took a picture of it, I was so proud. HarperCollins didn’t pay me enough to quit my waitressing job, but it was a start. My foot was in the door and anything could happen.
Then it was front matter: copyrights, dedications and back matter: acknowledgements, author’s note. I needed to get an author photo because they were going to put my picture on the inside back cover flap (What?! Really?) and what did I think of these cover ideas? It was exciting and exhilarating and more wonderful than I ever dreamed.
Caroline emailed me one day. You need to start a website and blog. A lot of book publicity falls on the author. Better start now.
So, I delved into the world of online marketing. That in itself was a full-time job, or so I told myself, as an excuse for why I wasn’t writing the next book.
Throughout it all, I thought often of Oliver. What would he think? What would he say if he knew? Me—Alexis West—a published author! More times than I could count I had opened the book he had given me in the hospital, and read the words written there:
Take a leap of faith—
The future is unwritten.
Every time I took the Six back down to Lower Manhattan I deliberately looked for the Beast’s picture in the subway to prove to myself that I didn’t care. And then one day she wasn’t there. She’d been replaced by a handsome man in an ad for razors. I smiled and skipped down the walkway. Who knew? Maybe next year it would be a picture of an author.
Chapter Fifty-Two
My break-up with Simone was a relief. I just wished I’d taken care of it before she’d destroyed my canvas—but maybe it was better that she had. After I’d escorted her to a hotel and gotten her checked in safely, I returned home with mixed feelings.
What exactly had I been painting with such concentration? Such dedication? Was Simone right? Was I in love with Alexis?
I had Googled Alexis’ name more than once after I returned to New York, but received no results that looked even remotely close to accurate. I thought about going to Antoine’s and inquiring for a forwarding address but couldn’t bring myself to be that desperate. I’d left a message with her mother and she hadn’t returned my call. That itself was a message and I needed to accept it.
For a while, I searched faces as I walked down the busy streets of Manhattan, thinking I might run into her, but I soon gave up. Wherever she was, our worlds didn’t intersect.
SPRING TURNED TO SUMMER and I continued to paint. A college buddy of mine owned a gallery down in Chelsea. He was one of the few who knew I painted.
“Whenever you’re ready, Oliver, we’ll hold a solo exhibition for you. Just say the word.”
What I wouldn’t admit out loud to anyone was what I knew in my heart: I was preparing to take a leap of faith.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Summer turned to Fall and the day finally arrived: September 27th—my book released out in the world! My parents and Jessie flew in for my launch party, which was held at the local library. We had cupcakes and balloons and lots and lots of copies of my beautiful new book for people to buy. HarperCollins had kept the title, FAÇADE, and the cover was dark and mysterious with two faces and the title (and my name!) in bold, raised white. I loved every inch of it.
There were author events to take part in, as well as several conferences where strangers lined up to receive a signed copy of my book. It was surreal and wonderful, yet throughout it all, there was something—make that someone—missing. Someone who would jump on the hotel bed with me and scream in excitement that somebody wanted my autograph. Someone who would eat pancakes with me at midnight to celebrate. I wondered if Oliver ever thought of me.
“ALEXIS, I’VE GOT more good news. Books of Wonder wants to hold a signing event for you around Christmas. Will you be in town?”
“Caroline—that’s wonderful. Yes, I’ll be here until a few days before Christmas.”
“Great. I’ll get back to them and they’ll coordinate directly with you on dates. How’s your next book coming along? Your editor asked about a sequel to FAÇADE and possibly something else. Harper is starting a new contemporary line and they’re looking to fill their list. I mentioned you were working on something and she’d like to take a look. What do you think?”
My heart thudded into my boots. “I think that’s great. I’ll pull something together for you.” I was still stuck in the middle of my unfinished contemporary. What was I going to do?
MY BOOK SIGNING at Books of Wonder was scheduled for seven p.m. on the third Saturday in December. I got off at 23rd Street to walk over to 18th Street where the bookstore was located. I was excited and depressed at the same time. A signing at Books of Wonder was a wonderful accomplishment for any author. A rite of passage—if you were one of the lucky ones.
The rumor was that The Shop Around the Corner in my favorite movie You’ve Got Mail, was based on Books of Wonder. Yet, I didn’t really have a
nyone special to share this milestone with. Nandini was up in Boston visiting her family for the holidays, plus, she’d been to several of my signings already. You could only ask your best friend to come and buy a book so many times. Some of my writer friends would be there, but still—it wasn’t the same as sharing the excitement with someone you loved. Someone with whom you were in love.
The streets were lit for Christmas with twinkle lights and green garlands and giant candy canes. Snow, my favorite part of winter, was predicted for tonight and yet, there was a giant hole in my heart. Had it been a whole year ago that I’d met Oliver and spent that time in the hospital with him? It was beginning to feel like a dream and his face was becoming a little fuzzy in my memory.
As I turned the corner my gaze was drawn to an art gallery that was all lit up. The big windows glowed with yellow light for an exhibition, looking warm and inviting. I paused in front of the window to check out the paintings. There was an array of scenes displayed—beautiful work done by an obviously talented artist. One was a garden scene, a riot of color enriched by the delicate play of sunlight illuminating the flowers. A young girl with her back to the viewer leaned forward to smell the scent of a red rose, a single butterfly floating on the wind above the petals as if to join her.
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