Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Along the far wall is a small collection of works that has never left these expansive, hollow walls, works that I’m sure could fetch a pretty penny if those in the know were aware of their existence.
Hell, even the unfinished one could go for tens, if not hundreds, of thousands with the right buyer.
Anchored in the center of the loft, Margaux takes in her surroundings with wide, glimmering eyes. She’s statue still. Lost for words.
Where was that “gift of gab” Theodora was talking about?
“You . . . okay?” I break the silence after a few beats.
Margaux’s shoulders soften, and she turns to me, her eyes glassy as if she’s struggling to keep from crying—not exactly the reaction I expected.
“No,” she says. “I mean, yes. This is . . .”
She lets her words trail into nothing before gingerly making her way to the easel in the corner. Standing back, like a patron admiring a priceless work of art at a prestigious museum, she clasps her hand over her mouth and releases a slow exhale.
“This is stunning,” she says. “Even unfinished . . . it’s incredible . . . the concurrence of the soft, blurred sections and the harsh edges, the light and dark, the surrealism . . . it’s like if Andrew Breithauer and Mona Kane collaborated, only this is ten times better. A hundred times. I’m just . . .”
“I’ve never heard anyone mention Andrew Breithauer and Mona Kane in the same sentence.” Stepping closer, I add, “You know a lot more about art than you let on.”
She turns to me, and her eyes search mine.
“It’s just a little pet passion of mine, I guess,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
“Why didn’t you mention it during our date, when I told you I once wanted to teach art history?”
Lifting a single shoulder, she says, “I’m . . . not . . . sure?”
“I wish you would have.” It would’ve made our date much less awkward than it was. “Would’ve been nice to have some common ground besides my aunt . . .”
“Would it have changed anything?” she asks, squinting. “You said you weren’t ready to date.”
Pressing my lips together, I contemplate it for a moment before shaking my head.
“No,” I say. “Probably not.”
“You’re a good nephew,” she says, “wanting to make your aunt happy.”
“Nah. I’m just a shitty date trying to make things right,” I say. “Someday you can tell your friends that you went on the most depressing blind date of your life, but it’s okay because he took you to Halcyon’s studio.”
“Is Halcyon okay with me being here?” she asks. “Can I tell people about this?”
“I’d prefer you kept this between us.”
“Of course.”
Hands folded in front of her hips, she moves away from the easel toward a painting leaning against the west wall.
“I don’t understand why Halcyon is letting all of these perfectly good pieces sit in this loft instead of on walls and in galleries and hanging in modern art museums where they belong, where people can love them and appreciate their beauty.” She tilts her head to the side, transfixed on a gritty lime-green piece depicting a decaying Manhattan skyscraper—a piece aptly named Sour Apple. “It’s unfortunate, you know? If someone has a gift like this, they’re cosmically obligated to share it with the rest of the world.”
“Is that so?”
She sniffs a laugh, peeling her eyes off the painting and directing them at me. Our stares hold for a second longer than I expected.
“It’s absolutely so,” she says before her smile fades. “I feel that way about all talents. Some people are good with words. Some are good with people or comedy or the theatrical arts or architecture or medicine. It’s such a waste to keep your gifts to yourself.”
“Theodora says you have the gift of gab.”
She pauses, perhaps confused, though I’m not sure why.
When her expression clears, she shrugs. “Sounds like something Theodora would say.”
“She speaks very highly of you. She once told me you’re the daughter she wishes she could have had.”
Margaux places her hand across her heart. “She said that? Really?”
“She did.” Although Theodora undoubtedly has the gift of persuasion. She could’ve been saying that as a way to sell me on the idea of dating someone she hand chose for me.
“She’s too kind,” Margaux says before moving on to the next piece—a neon-colored streetlight painted over vintage newspaper articles. “This is amazing. I’m already obsessed. Do you know what it’s called?”
“I don’t believe that one has a title,” I say. “What would you call it?”
“Hmm.” She presses her full lips together before inching in to take a closer look. “Lost after Midnight.”
“Interesting.”
“It makes me think of wandering the city at night, an old newspaper rolling by, the sky the blackest black, maybe there’s a little alcohol coursing through your veins so everything looks blindingly bright, neon almost.”