“Deal,” I say.
His face lights up as he returns my smile. “Oh, listen, before I forget, I have something for you,” he says.
I cock my head and look at him. “For me?”
He nods and fishes an envelope out of the inside pocket on his jacket. I take it from him, looking at it like it's a snake coiled and ready to strike. He nods, a smile on his face, and a sparkle in his eye. I open the envelope and pull out a pair of tickets – and feel my eyes grow wide.
“You're kidding me,” I say. “How did you get these?”
He shrugs. “I get all kinds of weird crap floating through my office. Most of it, I just toss,” he says. “I saw this though, and immediately thought of you. I know how big into the art scene you are.”
I nod enthusiastically, shocked that he actually remembered my passion for art. It's something I've always thought he considered beneath him. I'm stunned, and honestly, a little touched.
“The Sheldonhurst Holiday Gala is one of the premier events in the art world,” I exclaim. “This is an exclusive event – you have to be somebody of great influence and importance to even get an invitation.”
“Well, good thing for you, you happen to know somebody just like that.”
I jump out of my seat and run around the table, squeezing him hard, a rush of warmth and gratitude flowing through me – things I've not felt for my brother for a long, long time.
'Thank you, Mason,” I say. “This means – a lot.”
He nods. “Of course,” he replies. “I'm glad you like it.”
I stare at the tickets again, resisting the urge to pinch myself. The Sheldonhurst Holiday Gala. I can't believe it. Never, in my life, did I think I'd ever be able to go. And yet, here I am, tickets in hand, a rush of excitement flowing through me.
I can't wait, and I look across the table, smiling warmly at my brother for the first time in – well – as far back as I can remember, to be honest. Maybe, he really is making an effort.
And if he is, I should too.
Chapter Seven
Carter
The cameras flash, and the assembled paparazzi shout questions over each other as I stroll up the red carpet, Audrey – my date for the evening – on my arm. She’s a beautiful woman, a fashion model. Audrey preens, and waves, blowing kisses to some of the paparazzi. Personally, I'd prefer to not be fodder for the tabloids, thank you very much. But, being something of a public figure myself, I can't really escape it.
“Carter,” Shannon says as she steps up to embrace me. “So good to see you. Thank you for coming.”
“As if I would miss it,” I reply, though I'd wish I could have done just that. “And let me say, I'm honored to be receiving your award. It's very humbling. Thank you.”
I give her a hug and a smile. Shannon is the director of the Sheldonhurst Foundation – the group responsible for putting on this little party and giving me an award I don't feel like I really deserve.
“No one is more deserving of the honor,” she says. “You've done so much for these kids.”
I shrug. “I was there once,” I say. “I know what it's like.”
Audrey looks at me, an uncertain smile on her face. “Award?” she asks.
Shannon turns to her and takes Audrey's hands in her own. “You are stunning, dear,” she says. “Truly stunning.”
Audrey gives her a condescending smile that says she already knows she's gorgeous.
Her attitude is a huge turn-off. I’ve taken Audrey to a few public events, and it seems like tonight will be the last. Sometimes, if feels like I’m destined to live my life without ever finding someone to really connect with. A woman who lights up everything inside of me. I had her once. Or, I thought I did. And stupidly, I gave her up. Not that I had much choice. I was put into an impossible position and forced to decide between two people I cared about. I made my choice, and I've lived with it ever since. I snap back to reality as Audrey simpers at Shannon.
“Thank you,” Audrey replies. “What award is Carter receiving tonight?”
Shannon's eyes widen, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh, he didn't tell you?” she asks.
“Carter is receiving the Sheldonhurst Seal tonight,” she says. “It's our highest honor, and it's given to those who have made a transformative change to the community.”
Audrey looks at me, the light of surprise in her eyes. “Oh, really?” she asks. “And what sort of transformative change has he made?”
Shannon looks from Audrey to me, perhaps realizing for the first time how little I've shared of my life with my date. A little color blooms in her cheeks, realizing that she has perhaps, overstepped her bounds. I don't fault Shannon for it. How would she know?
“I didn't really do anything,” I say. “I wrote a few checks. Honestly, I don't feel worthy of such an honor. The Sheldonhurst Foundation does the real work.”
Shannon quickly recovers and smiles graciously at me. “Well, thank you for saying so,” she says. “But, without generous benefactors like you, we wouldn't even be in operation. Your contributions to our efforts make you more than worthy.”
“Thank you for saying so,” I say.
She kisses me on the cheek and motions us toward the door. “Go, go,” she says. “There are refreshments inside. Go and enjoy yourselves.”
Audrey takes my arm and we walk inside a gallery that's stuffed with people. On the stage is a string quartet, playing soft classical holiday music that can barely be heard over the thunderous buzz of conversation.
The gallery is decorated for Christmas and makes the explosion of holiday cheer in my own offices look like child's play. The Sheldonhurst Foundation went all out, as they always do. In the main atrium, there’s a tree almost as large as the one in Rockefeller Center adorned with lights, ribbons, and tasteful ornaments.
A waiter stops before us bearing a tray with champagne. I hand a flute to Audrey and take one for myself. Drinks in hand, I guide her over to one of the displays that showcase some of the work that will be up for grabs in the silent auction later. She looks at it for all of two seconds before growing bored, her gaze drifting aimlessly around the hall.
The Sheldonhurst Foundation is dedicated to improving the lives of the underprivileged in New York. They have a ton of different programs that span a wide range of things, all aimed at bettering the lives of those in need, and fostering a love of education, as well as the arts.
The program I'm directly involved in is the Ravere Group. The Ravere Group identifies promising young artists across a variety of mediums. The Group works with these underprivileged kids, honing and shaping their craft. The best of the best receive admission to one of the most prestigious art schools in the country. The competition is always fierce and produces some truly inspiring works.
But more than anything, the mission of the Ravere Group is to provide hope to kids who might not get it otherwise. It gives them a place to belong while nourishing the creativity and passion within them.
When I first heard about the Ravere Group, I was immediately drawn to it. I began donating and working with them without even stopping to wonder why. Over the years, I realized it's because I identify so strongly with the kids in the program. I was just like them once. I know firsthand what they're going through. It’s
my way of giving back and giving somebody the same chance that was given to me.
On another level though, my interest in the Ravere Group stems from her. The one who got away. Darby opened up my heart and my mind all those years ago, and it’s because of her I developed an appreciation for art. It's because of her, I began studying it a bit, and collecting pieces here and there.
Oh, I'm still an artistic moron compared to most people. But, because of Darby, I began to see the beauty in the world around me and realized that art can really frame and encompass it.
I guide Audrey to the showcase displaying the photography. As much as I enjoy a painting, something about photography speaks to me more than any other art form.
I make a mental note of the pieces I'm going to bid on, and then we move on, Audrey looking more than happy to do so. She's here to be seen – on my arm, no less – and nothing more. And it irritates me. Not that I really want to be here either, but at least I'm here because I actually believe in the mission of the Foundation, and not just because I want my face in the tabloids, pretending to want to genuinely better people's lives, but secretly, don't really give a shit.
I drain the last of my champagne and set the glass on the tray of a waiter who's passing by. Audrey's glass is still mostly full. Her face lights up and she lets out a shrill squeal when she sees somebody she knows. The two women embrace like old friends. I recognize the woman but can't quite place her. Probably some high-end model or B-list actress or something similar.
Audrey and her friend quickly launch into a conversation filled with nothing but gossip, basically forgetting I'm standing there. I roll my eyes and touch Audrey on the shoulder. She looks up at me, annoyed that I interrupted her.
“I need something a little stronger,” I say. “I'm going to head to the bar.”
She nods and turns back to her friend. I don't even know if she even heard and processed what I just said, but whatever. She'll figure it out. I weave my way through the throng of people, heading for what looks like the quiet oasis of the gala.
This is mostly a wine and champagne sort of crowd, and other than a few other older men who look like they'd rather be anywhere but here, the bar is pretty much empty. I order a scotch and when the bartender hands it to me, I throw some cash into the tip jar and turn around, leaning back against the bar, and surveying the crowd.
A small gap opens in a pocket of people, and when I see her, my eyes grow wide, and my heart stutters.
“No way,” I mutter. “It can't be.”
I look closer as waves of disbelief wash over me. She looks exactly like she did the last time I saw her over ten years ago. Exactly the same.
“There you are,” I hear Shannon say. “Come, come, dear. It's time for your speech.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” she laughs.
I'm afraid to look away from her, wondering if she's some sort of mirage or phantom that will vanish the moment I break eye contact. Shannon takes hold of my arm and pulls me toward the stage, but my eyes remain fixed on her. Then, like clouds passing by the face of the moon, the pocket in the crowd closes again, and I completely lose sight of her.
It had to be Darby. There's nobody else it could be.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might actually explode. Not because of my speech, but because I just saw the one who got away. After all these years, I was standing less than thirty feet from her – and couldn’t do a damn thing.
As I let Shannon drag me to the stage, I let the feeling of serendipity wash over me. I feel like I'm being given a second chance to correct the mistake I made all those years ago. It's like fucking kismet or something, and I vow to not let her get away from me again. I'm not going to let anything – not even her prick of a brother – come between us again.
I’m determined to make her mine.
Chapter Eight
Darby
Some might think it's silly, but it's been my dream to be invited to the Sheldonhurst Foundation Holiday Gala for years. Truthfully, long ago, I'd wanted to be one of the artists showcased at the gala. But, given the fact that it's a spotlight dedicated to the underprivileged, and I grew up on the Upper East Side, I didn't exactly fit their criteria for consideration. I understood the reasoning, but it still stung at the time.
The Ravere Group is a prestigious program and some of today's most influential artists, across a variety of mediums, have passed through its doors – another reason I always hoped to showcase at the Holiday Gala.
While some of my work is sold in fine galleries around the city, I haven't quite made the name for myself I dreamed I would when I was younger. Which is fine, I guess.
As I walk past all the showcase displays, I feel a small twinge of jealousy float through me. But, it’s a minor, fleeting emotion. More than anything, I simply feel awe. There are so many talented kids in the program, and the world through their eyes brings me joy. Some of my students, I think, are good enough to be accepted into the Ravere Group, and I'm going to make a point of pushing them toward it.
I weave my way through the crowd, moving from one showcase to the next, admiring the work I'm seeing – some of the pieces so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes. I'm alone, which is probably for the best – I can wipe away my tears discretely. Jade was supposed to come with me, but her son got sick, so she had to cancel at the last minute.
I wasn't going to let that stop me though. There was no way in hell I was going to cancel. I've been wanting to see the Sheldonhurst Showcase for years, and I wasn't going to let flying solo for one night deter me from that.
I still can't believe that it was my brother, of all people, who not only remembered that art is my passion, but scored me tickets to the premier event in the city. Honestly, it's a little mind-blowing, and makes me think, for the first time ever, that he's trying. He's really trying.
I take a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and turn to the stage as I see a woman with iron-gray hair and wearing a beautiful evening gown step up to the microphone. The string quartet finishes their song with a flourish and leave the stage to a warm round of applause.
“Good evening,” the gray-haired woman says. “My name is Shannon Watts. On behalf of the Sheldonhurst Foundation, I’d like to welcome you to our annual holiday gala, and thank you for your attendance. And also, for your generous contributions. As you know, our Foundation is involved in...”
With everybody distracted, and most of the displays clear of people, I tune her out a bit and head for the photography showcase – one of the only displays I hadn't yet seen. The images are stunning, and I'm absolutely blown away by the talent I see before me. It's simply amazing. I move among the showcases, each one more stunning, more striking than the last.
“...without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to this year's recipient of the Sheldonhurst Seal,” I hear her say, “he's a pillar of the community, and has been one of the Ravere Group's most generous benefactors for years now. Please join me in giving a warm welcome, and a word of thanks to Mr. Carter Bishop.”
I freeze the moment I hear his name broadcasted over the loudspeakers, and echo around the gallery. A moment later, applause erupts around the room. I had to have heard her wrong. Right? What does Carter know about art? He never took it seriously. Never appreciated it like I do. Why in the world would he be associated with one of the top art programs in the country? It had to be a mistake. Somebody else with the coincidence of having the same name.
I turn slowly, my eyes wide, my throat dry, and my heart pounding violently in my chest. When I see him, my stomach lurches, and it's all I can do to keep from throwing up. Or fainting. I'm not sure which one I'm closer to. But, it's him. It's definitely him.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he walks across the stage, the spotlight making him stand out – not that he needs it. He looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. Not that I'm surprised, given that I saw his photograph recently. But seeing him live and in the flesh is a lot different than seeing him in some printed, mass-produced photo.
Carter is still tall, trim, and handsome as sin. I’m shaking so hard as I watch him embrace the woman on stage and accept the award she hands him, I almost drop my champagne flute. He looks at the small crystal trinket, his face a mask of humility and appreciation.
He turns and sets it on the podium, leaning forward toward the m
icrophone.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice as rich and smooth as ever. “Thank you, Shannon. Thank you to everybody who does such an incredible job with the Sheldonhurst Foundation, and the Ravere Group, in particular.”
There is another loud round of applause that goes on for a while as I stand there, completely riveted to my spot. It feels like I'm seeing a ghost, newly risen from the grave. My palms are as sweaty as my throat is parched. I swallow down the entire flute of champagne, drawing a curious look from the woman standing next to me. If she only knew, she'd understand.
“I'm truly and thoroughly humbled, and honored, to be receiving this award,” Carter says. “But truthfully, there's somebody who deserves it more than I do. I probably would have never taken an interest in art if it weren’t for them. Or the world around me, if I'm being completely honest. I mean, I grew up a poor kid in Hell's Kitchen, what did I know about art, right?
Well, this person had a deep, lasting impact on my life, and she inspired me to look at art – and the world – differently. If not for her, I never would have found my way to the Sheldonhurst Foundation, or to the Ravere Group. If I'm being completely honest, she should be the one up here accepting this award. Not me.”
Carter pauses, and the crowd applauds his humility and grace. He looks a little abashed for a moment and looks down at the award. As the applause goes on, he looks up, scanning the crowd. I'm sure he's looking for whatever blonde supermodel came on his arm. Needles of pain pierce my heart as I look at him and remember the devastation, he wrought in my life all those years ago.
I feel the tears welling in my eyes as I look at him. I want to turn around and flee, but I can't seem to make my body move. It's like my muscles have locked into place and won’t obey my commands. All I can seem to do is stand here, staring up at the man who shattered my heart into a million pieces.
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