Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (31 page)

He squeezes my hand snuggled tight in his. “Like I said, no demons.”

“If the demons you’re referring to take all the lustre out of life, I don’t want them. And if that hat represents your demons, you should ceremoniously toss it off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

He rubs his thumb along the Fedora’s brim. “I can’t now. It’s part of my look.”

“It’s part of your
act
, I know, but you’re allowed to revise it. Why hang on to something that reminds you of someone who caused you so much pain?”

“I’ve already nearly given up smoking. Isn’t that enough?”

“You really don’t like change, do you?”

Quietly, he says, “Sometimes an old familiar pain is easier to live with than sudden unfamiliar pleasure.”

When Logan talks like that I know he’s moved into his writing mind, and sure enough, he pulls out his pocket notebook.

We walk a few more blocks and then turn a corner and find ourselves across from a brightly lit gallery. Music thrums inside.

Despite the cold, gallery visitors spill out of the glass doors onto the sidewalk to chat and sip wine and light up an occasional cigarette. Logan moans when he sees that. “I might have to have one tonight.”

We cross the street. I’m surprised by the number of people here. We politely shove our way in the door and hand over our winter coats. I feel underdressed compared to most of the women, who, in addition to dresses and tailored pantsuits, wear perfectly applied make up and shoes to die for. I’m at an art opening in New York! I let my excitement outweigh my feelings of inadequacy. This is my sneak peek anyways. I don’t belong here yet, but one day I hope I will.

Logan steers me toward the middle of the room picking up two champagne glasses from a passing waiter with a tray.

“I want you to meet Lowell,” says Logan. We stop in front of a cluster of people. A man who could easily be mistaken for George Clooney’s brother smiles wide when his eyes land on Logan. “You made it,” he says, stepping forward to shake Logan’s hand. “And this must be Ava.” He turns to me and somehow manages to show a few more perfect teeth when he smiles my way.

“Logan tells me you’re a painter.”

“More like a student of painting.”

“She’s an artist who happens to still be trapped in college,” corrects Logan.

An elegant woman peels herself away from the social cluster and stands beside Lowell.

“Who pray tell is still in college?”

Lowell says, “This is my wife, Lisle. It’s her friend Hannah Doyle who owns the gallery. We thought you’d enjoy meeting the featured artist, Surika Lyn. She’s around here somewhere.”

I’m having trouble keeping up with all the new names coming at me but I nod as if I’m following everything.

Lisle shakes my hand. She has a firm grip. She looks me up and down. “You’re studying where Logan is teaching? Has he gotten himself into trouble yet? He has a bad habit of it. Runs from one pot of trouble into another.” She gives him rueful glance.

“No need to exaggerate, Lisle.” Logan slides a possessive arm around my waist.

“And when’s the last time you saw—”

Lowell interrupts. “—Hannah’s waving to you, Honey. I think she needs you.”

“Nice to meet you, Ava,” she says before excusing herself.

I’m introduced to a couple of Lowell’s agency associates and friends who are art buyers. I can’t keep track of anyone, but they seem friendly enough. They all seem to know who Logan is and say they’re waiting with anticipation for his next book.

“I think you’ll be happily surprised,” says Lowell. “I’ve only read the first few pages— I only got it yesterday— but it’s promising so far.”

Logan tries to hide his smile. The people listening to Logan nod and say a word or two amongst themselves. Lowell’s a good agent. He’s already creating buzz.

I excuse myself from the conversation, telling Logan I’m going to look at the paintings. I’ve only seen glimpses through the tightly packed groups of patrons and I want to really look at each canvas. I start at one edge of the gallery and move down the wall, painting by painting. I’m impressed with the color choices. While I’m not as familiar with abstract styles, I respond immediately and positively to the tones and textures. Halfway through the exhibit, I reach a corner of the room. Standing there, in a dress of yellow silk, is an Asian woman of indeterminate age and depth of beauty. She has just stepped away from a conversation group and turned her back to them to stare at a painting, or perhaps the wall corner, as I don’t see her eyes focused on a particular canvas. I’m about to pass her when she turns to me and says,

“So what do you think?”

Her dark eyes are penetrating and her berry-colored lips look like they are about to curve into a smile.

“I’m trying not to,” I say.

I’ve been immersed in the subtleties of color and texture, light and shadow. The experience has dropped me into a light artistic trance, the kind that allows my own painting process to flow or new ideas to form. It also pushes the details of reality— like the fact that I’m in a crowded gallery— to the background, so that my response does not quite fit the situation. It does, however, elicit a smile from the woman.

“The only honest answer I’ve heard all night. I’m Sukira Lyn.” She holds out her small hand.

“Oh, the artist.” I say.

Then, feeling a little embarrassed, I try to explain what I meant, and what I’d just been experiencing. We chat at length about the painting process and she tells me about how she works and what she strives for. What she has to say is even more inspiring than her work, and she invites me to her studio in Hell’s Kitchen next time I’m in New York. I’m thoroughly thrilled.

At one point, as we talk, I glance toward the front window of the gallery and see Logan smoking on the other side of the glass. Several people are out there doing the same thing. I see him talking to a tall brunette. He looks serious and she leans toward him, speaking intensely. I wonder who that is… I turn away and focus on Sukira. I’ve asked her what’s it’s like to be a painter in New York, to have her own show with so many people in attendance.

“It’s a lonely vocation, but sometimes these events feel lonelier. It’s not the number of people who warm the chill of loneliness, it’s the
presence
of their hearts in the room with you. The problem these days is that people don’t bring their hearts along for the ride very often anymore, especially in this city. Just heads and guts. And that makes for lonely crowds. That’s essentially what this exhibit is about, but I don’t think anyone here knows that.”

“Is there any point in telling them?”

“If you tell them then they’ll
know
it, but the point is that they
feel
it.” She taps her heart for emphasis.

“But if you don’t think they get it, does it mean the show’s not successful?”

“Success has many definitions. More than half the paintings have sold tonight. For many, that is successful.”

“To you?”

She shrugs. “An artist can only show the way. Art is my attempt. I succeeded in my intention. I’m not responsible for what happens beyond that. You see,
understanding
is subjective, too.”

A tall woman with short cropped blond hair beelines for Sukira and hands her a glass of champagne. She’s the woman that Lowell had pointed out earlier, Hannah Doyle, the gallery owner.

“Wonderful turnout, Sukira. You must feel so proud.”

Sukira shrugs again and takes a sip of her champagne. “Have you met Ava Nichols? She’s my new friend. An up and coming painter.”

I feel myself blush as Hannah gives me a more serious appraisal. “You’re a friend of Lowell’s and Lisle’s, right?”

“Actually, I’m here with Logan O’Shane.”

Sukira raises an eyebrow. “Don’t hold it against her, Hannah. She’ll be needing representation one day.”

As I’m wondering what that means, Hannah digs out a card from the clutch tucked under her arm. “Take this,” she says. “When you’re ready, bring me your portfolio. We’ll talk.”

Hannah moves away to talk to other guests.

I turn to Sukira. “Why did you say such nice things about me? You hardly know me. You haven’t even seen my work.”

Giving me an inscrutable look, she says, “What I know so far, I like. As for your work, it’s already better than it was ten minutes ago, simply because Hannah Doyle is now willing to look at it.”

“But you didn’t have to…”

“Make the most of the gifts you’ve been given and accept any blessings along the way. If I hadn’t done that myself, I wouldn’t be here today.” She graces me with a second smile.

A moment later, Logan is at my elbow. “Congratulations, Sukira.”

“Likewise,” she says. He arches an eyebrow and she flicks a glance at me.

“Don’t ruin this one,” she says.

He laughs. “Maybe she’s ruining me.”

“Impossible. You are beyond repair.”

“Where’s your faith in me, Ms. Lyn?”

“I believe redemption may be in reach, if you don’t mess it up. I’m looking forward to that new book, Mr. O’Shane.”

A small group of women approach Sukira to congratulate her.

Logan whispers to me, “Do you mind if we leave now?”

“I want to see the rest of the paintings,” I say, leading him along the gallery wall I haven’t perused yet.

“I didn’t realize you knew her,” I say as I examine each painting briefly, letting the colors sear into my memory, letting the images blend with my interesting encounter with Sukira Lyn.

“In some circles this big city can feel like a small town.”

"What did she mean by all that about ‘ruining’ me?”

“Nothing. It’s my reputation.”

“For seducing young muses?” I feel very insecure all of a sudden. I look around the room. Has he seduced other women here? Was that who he had been talking to outside?

“You know it’s just part of the act.”

“Some of it must be based on fact. It’s difficult to entirely fabricate a reputation.”

He shrugs. Rather than salting a wound that will end up being painful for me, I simply add,

“Like I said, maybe it’s time to revise the act.”

“I’m really not feeling well,” says Logan, rubbing his temple.

“We can go then.”

We get our coats and head outside to hail a cab back to the apartment.

Logan doesn’t seem happy.

“Maybe coming here was a mistake.”

“To New York?” My heart sinks. I thought we’d been having a good time.

“No. This opening. I wanted to come to New York so we could be alone together, and not have to hide from anyone.”

“We didn’t have to hide here.”

“But I knew too many people here tonight. I don’t want to see people I know right now.”

“Because of me?”

He stops hailing a cab and grabs both my hands in his and looks directly into my eyes.

“No, Ava. Not because of you. Because of
me
.” He drops my hands and looks down at the sidewalk.

“Let’s start walking.” He takes one of my hands in his and we walk a block to a busier street with more cabs.

“Who were you talking to outside while you were smoking?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “An old friend.”

“And old
girl
friend?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Not really.” Clearly, he doesn’t want to talk.

“It tasted terrible,” he says, pulling out his cigarette pack from his pocket. He tosses it into the next trash can we pass. “I’m done with it. It’s over.”

I want to say congratulations but he’s sullen and brooding. It seems as if more than the smoking is over, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for sharing.

“Do you regret bringing me here?” I say.

He lets go of my hand and slides his arm over my shoulder.

“No. I do regret some things, but not that.”

I’d like to cheer him up but I don’t know how. “Lowell seems excited about your new novel.”

I see a small smile. “He hasn’t read much yet. We’ll see.”

“But that will be good, won’t it? If he likes it?”

He nods. “It will be a relief.”

“I bet it’s good. I wish you’d let me read it.”

“Not yet,” he says. “We’ll see what Lowell says first.”

“When do you think he’ll get back to you?”

“Probably not until after the holidays.”

That makes me think of going away again, of being apart. Our time in New York is almost over. One more night. One more morning.

“Let’s do something fun,” I say, wanting to enjoy our fleeting time together.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Where’s the prettiest Christmas tree?”

He thinks for a minute. “Probably Rockefeller Center.”

“Let’s go there.”

“I’ve never done it before,” I admit.

“Never?”

“I was always too afraid.”

We’ve walked through the cold streets, passing Bryant Park and the mayhem of Times Square. Eventually, we find the massive Christmas tree towering over the plaza and ice rink where skaters frolic.

Logan frowns. “I always thought those people looked so foolish. So touristy.”

“You’ve never done it either?”

He shakes his head.

“Then we’re both skating
virgins
.” I give him a big grin and tug on his arm. “Come on.” I drag him toward the rink. “Let’s be foolish, touristy virgins together!”

We rent skates, slip them on, tie them up, and step out onto the ice. I land on my ass within ten seconds. Logan’s holding my hand so he goes down with me. We both start laughing.

“I don’t think I can do this standing up,” he says.

“Unlike some other things,” I joke.

Dozens of people skate around us as we do our best to help each other up. It takes about four tries and I’m giggling so hard I swear I’m going to pee my pants. Once standing, we hold on to the side rails and inch our away around the rink.

“I’m not sure this was such a good idea,” he says, his brow scrunched in concentration.

“Have you forgotten about the art show? About your manuscript?”

“What manuscript?” He bites his lip in fake consternation and then winks at me. “Okay, you’re right. It was a good, if
painful
, idea.”

He reaches for my hand. Tentatively, with knees wobbling, we hold hands and slide forward without help from the wall.