Authors: Rachelle Vaughn
Dillon and I returned from
Bel
Ange
happy, tan (minus the tan lines!) and content. It was quite possibly the best week of my life and definitely
the
most satisfying.
In Las Vegas, my driver dropped Dillon off at his house as he had a meeting with Mike about the new gym location. As for me, I had one little stop to make before going home to the hotel.
At Davenport Imports of Las Vegas, Mr. D came around the front of his desk with a smile the size of the Grand Canyon.
“Olivia, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi, Howard
,” I said. “
I’m here to buy a car.”
It was strange coming home to the hotel after a week in paradise. Everything was different in the desert.
The climate, obviously, but also the architecture, the view, the sounds and smells.
In the lobby, instead of birds chirping, the nearby sound of slot machines being mined for their jackpots rang in the air. There was plenty of dry heat instead of a cool tropical breeze. And rather than the aroma of gardenia’s and the salty ocean air, the hotel smelled of money and indulgence.
Inside my suite, it was eerily quiet. I was alone.
I set my purse and new keys down on the table by the door and sat down on the sofa. I leaned my head back and sighed.
I had bought a car.
And a fancy
smancy
one at that.
That afternoon, Mr. D had enthusiastically helped me pick out my very own piece of freedom on wheels. I chose a silver metallic Porsche Cayman. It was cute and sporty and small enough to where I didn’t feel like I was maneuvering a behemoth boat around the city. Sure, it was a slightly nerve-wracking experience, but I trusted Mr. D to give me a good deal and not take advantage of me.
I’d only driven it once, from the lot to the hotel, but I was told it had 320 horsepower. It had leather seats and a Bose surround sound system and that’s all I cared about.
It was a big step, but it shouldn’t have been quite so surprising. After all, I’d been fairly independent in college before Derrick had come along and screwed everything up. Sure, I had a shortage of self-esteem after years of bullying, but I knew how to survive on my own.
Like the year I’d spent at
Bel
Ange
.
I’d been self-sufficient. When the generator when out during a storm, I’d figured out how to fix it. I’d been strong.
Independent.
Now I was ready to be strong again. And reclaim my freedom. I could do it because I had faith in myself. It had been there all along, it’d just been buried under my issues for a while.
All my life bullies had convinced me I wasn’t good enough. What made them the experts? Why did I have to be the one to suffer because a handful of brats chose me to pick on? I was good enough. I was worthy.
Of love, of success, of a fulfilled life.
I wouldn’t let them hold it over me for the rest of my life.
Something else was about me was worthy too.
My art.
I was talented. I poured my heart, mind and soul into my paintings and they deserved to see the light of day. Not everyone would like them or understand their message or feel their emotion but that was just the way life was.
I remembered something Dillon had told me. “Sometimes you just have to take a chance.” Well, this was mine and I was grabbing it by the balls.
Before I unpacked, I had a very important phone call to make.
“Olivia, it’s so wonderful to hear from you.” Elaine’s voice was crisp and cheerful in my ear. “We were just talking about you.”
My stomach knotted and I quickly shook away that old feeling. “Oh?
Who?”
“Your father and I.
In fact, I’m at his office as we speak. Cornelia’s been yapping my ear off about your golf painting so I had to see it for myself. It’s just beautiful.”
“Oh, well thank you.”
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into painting me a piece for the gallery.”
“Well, actually that’s what I’m calling you about.” I took a deep breath and went for it. “I’d like to take you up on your offer to show my work at the gallery. That is, if it still stands.”
“Oh, most definitely, Olivia.”
“Great,” I said on a sigh. “I have some pieces ready if you’d like to come by and look at them sometime when you
’
re back in town.”
“As it turns out, I’ll be in Las Vegas all week visiting Cornelia.”
The coincidence was eerie and that’s how I knew it was meant to be.
“I can come over this afternoon. Does that work for you?”
“Yes, that would be perfect.”
Less than five minutes after I got off the phone with Elaine, my phone rang. I smiled, thinking it was Dillon, but it wasn’t him. A woman’s voice was on the other end of the line.
“Miss Sharpe?”
“Yes, this is Olivia.”
“Hello, this is Beverly from the Sharpe Gallery.”
“Yes, Beverly?”
“I’m calling to inform you that your painting
Submersed
was purchased this morning.”
“Oh, it was?” Myriad feelings swirled around in my blood.
Sadness.
Relief.
Disappointment.
“By who?”
“Well, uh, he paid in cash and didn’t quite leave us his entire name.”
“Oh, well what name did he leave?” I had a feeling I knew before she even answered.
“A Mr. Bigelow.
D. Bigelow.”
Quickly I did the math. The price paid for Submersed was roughly the amount I
had given
Dillon for the week in
Bel
Ange
.
“Thank you, Beverly
,
”
I said and
hung up the phone.
D. Bigelow.
Deuce Bigelow.
A smirk turned into a smile that turned into a full-blown attack of the giggles. It took me twenty minutes before I stopped laughing out loud.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elaine was the complete opposite of her sister Cornelia. Where Cornelia oozed money and wore flashy clothes and jewelry to remind everyone she was wealthy just in case they forgot, Elaine showed up on my doorstep wearing a
plain,
dark tailored suit with simple jewelry. She was prim and neat and professional.
Needless to say, I liked her very much.
“Would you like something to drink?” I offered.
“No, thank you. I just came from lunch with
Cornie
.”
I enjoyed an inner chuckle at the way Elaine easily referred to the high and mighty Cornelia Davenport as simply “
Cornie
“. Family always had a way of taking each other down a notch.
“I stopped in at the gallery on my way up and noticed your underwater piece was gone.”
“Yes.” I pushed back the urge to chuckle. “I’m told it was sold
just
this morning.”
“I’m sure it was difficult for you to part with it, but I’m sure the buyer will enjoy it.”
‘Yes,” I said with a secret smile. “I’m sure they will.”
“Your father tells me you just got back from Tahiti.”
“Yes. I got
back
this morning.”
“It must be an artists’ dream to paint there.”
“It is. It’s also a bit frustrating to try and recreate the landscape there. Some of the colors found in nature are too beautiful to recreate on canvas.”
“I could imagine. Well, as I said on the phone, I stopped in at your father’s office. He was just thrilled to show me the golf painting you gave him. It’s beautiful. Your use of color is brilliant.”
“Thank you. I’ll do anything to make my father happy, but I think it’s time I do something for myself.” I’d thought locking myself away from the world was for me, but it turned out I hadn’t done
myself
any favors in doing so. “I’m afraid the pieces I have to show you today are quite different from the one I did for my father. They are from my…Dark Period, if you will.”
“I’m intrigued.”
When I led Elaine into my studio, I held my head high and pushed down the anxiety until I could deal with it after she left.
It may have been my sanctuary, but it was high time I felt comfortable enough with it to let
other
people inside.
Elaine looked around and seemed pleased. “You have a great space here, Olivia.
Lots of light.”
“Yes. My father designed it for me. It’s nice having room to spread out.”
Some of the paintings I was about to show her I hadn’t looked at in years. They stood facing the wall like faceless soldiers.
In a way, they were like strangers to me, but I also knew them better than anyone else.
Without giving myself time to think about it, I pulled the sheet away that had been draped over them for the past five years.
Slowly, I turned the first one around. It was a swirl of gray and lavender, light on color and heavy on the despair.
Elaine studied it and began blinking rapidly. “Oh, it’s so deep.
Almost sad in a way.”
“I’m sorry.” I reached to turn it back around and she stopped me.
“No, it’s beautiful. That’s what I’m looking for.
Pieces that invoke emotion.”
She studied it some more and nodded. “I like it. I like it a lot.”
Although my hands shook a little, I forced myself to spread out the other pieces for her to see.
One by one, I turned the paintings around. As Elaine looked at them for the first time, I looked at them with brand new eyes as well. It
’
d been so long since I
’
d looked at them that it almost seemed like someone else had painted them. I guess in some ways someone else did. That grief would always be a part of me, but I was happy to know I could let it go. It didn’t define me anymore.
Each painting represented all the feelings I’d experienced after Derrick.
Humiliation
.
A
nger
.
D
epression
.
I
solation.
“This one is called
Anger
,” I said, turning around a maroon and black semi-self portrait of a woman screaming. It had a grainy, haunting texture and it made me uneasy.
“Oh.” Elaine clutched her starched shirt collar with a trembling hand. “It’s definitely angry, all right.
But passionate almost as well.”
The next piece was of a woman crying in dreary blue and black.
Elaine
’
s brows drew together. “Let me guess,” she offered. “This one is
S
adness
.”