Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Everyone left about a half hour ago. I tried to stall things, asking like a million questions, but the champagne was gone, there were no pieces left to sell, and most critically, the guest of honor left the first chance he got.”
“But it went well?” I ask, pulling back from the hug and wiping my runny nose. “If there were no pieces left, that means they all sold, right?”
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Okay, so listen, I actually know the guy who owns this gallery. And he owes me a favor from when I let him stay late at the Maya Patel exhibit at MoMA a couple years ago, so I called in a favor.”
She holds up a set of keys.
“Are those…”
“For the gallery, yep. Because, sweetie, there’s something you really need to see.”
I follow her up the steps, and she unlocks the dead bolt and taps the alarm system keypad.
Daphne flicks on the light as I step into the trendy art gallery, but she stops in the doorway and doesn’t follow me in. As though she’s giving me space for whatever I need to see.
I blink, letting my eyes adjust.
I move fully into the main space, spinning in a slow circle as I take in each piece of Archer’s new series.
I’ve started crying again, but don’t realize it until I make a loud hiccupping noise that echoes throughout the room. “He didn’t do Paris.”
“No,” Daphne says softly. “He sure as hell did not.”
“And not acrylics, either.”
“There’s actually a little in there,” she says, gesturing to one of the pieces. “The leaves here. He uses a bit of color to capture fall. And the moon in each piece. A touch there as well. But the majority of it is just charcoal. I didn’t even realize he worked with charcoal, much less that he does some of the best work any of us have seen since Seurat.”
I have no idea who Seurat is, and really don’t care.
“I did. I knew,” I say quietly. “Though he never let me see his work.”
“Well, maybe now you can see why. You are his work. You’re Archer’s muse, Miranda.”
I don’t know anything about art. Or muses. But on this, I know she’s right.
Archer’s new series is twelve pieces. Each featuring the night sky. Each with its own zodiac sign. Each with a woman in motion. Watering plants in Aries. Feeding a goldfish in Pisces. Writing. Laughing.
A Capricorn kiss.
The woman. Me.
“All of this,” I say, wiping my nose. “And I wasn’t here. He invited me, and it was important, and I said no. I chose work.”
“Admittedly, the guy is hard to read,” Daphne says slowly. “But if I had to guess, I don’t think he would have wanted you to give up your work for his. I think he wants you to be happy. He didn’t want to distract you from what you wanted.”
I look at my best friend. “I want him.”
“I know.” She grins. “So get him.”
I’m already shaking my head. “It’s late. Really late.”
Daphne gives me a gently chiding look. “Sweetie, not a single one of these drawings doesn’t feature the night. Late night is sort of what you two do.”
I feel a little flare of hope, because she’s right.
And I know exactly where he’ll be.
TAURUS SEASON
The thirty-minute drive from SoHo to Hudson Heights feels a million times longer than the six-hour flight to the Bay Area that I never got on. I try to use the time to figure out what to say. How to say it. Even as I make the familiar climb up the narrow steps to my rooftop, I don’t have a clue.
But when I open the door and see Archer standing on my roof, words don’t seem to matter as much as the fact that he’s there.
With his beloved Michter’s whiskey on the table.
And two mason jars. Two.
As though he’s waiting for me.
As though he’s always been waiting for me.
I quietly close the door behind me, and Archer glances my way, his eyes flashing something unreadable in the dim light.
“I thought we were done,” I say quietly, repeating his parting words to me the last time we were up here.
Without a word, he pours some of the whiskey into a mason jar. He hands it to me.
“You knew that I’d come?”
“Hoped,” is all he says. Gruffly.
My heart gives a happy flutter, but I tamp it down. I know there are things that need to be said. Most of them by me.
“I saw your art,” I say softly. “Heard that it all sold.”
He looks down at me in surprise, blue eyes reflecting confusion. “Who told you that?”
“Daphne. I thought she said—”
“None of it sold. Because none of it’s for sale.”
“Oh. Ohh. Weren’t people upset they couldn’t buy anything?” A distressing thought occurs. “Or did they not want to buy anything?”