Park Avenue Prince(40)

Sam laughed. Why hadn’t I noticed the smile lines around his eyes before? Perhaps because I didn’t see him laugh that often. But a smile suited him. I could imagine Sam as a kid, tumbling about with his friends in the backyard, young and carefree. When had he become so serious?

We wandered from room to room, stopping at various paintings. Sometimes, I talked about what I liked about the works. Sam seemed content just to listen, squeezing my hand at various intervals.

“Is that Degas?” he asked, nodding toward a picture of ballerinas. “You said he liked to paint dancers.”

A rush of pride surged within me. He’d been listening, interested in what I was saying. “Yes. Degas. This is very typical of him.

Sam leaned forward to read the title of the picture on the plaque. “The Rehearsal.”

“Degas liked to paint what he saw as real life, rather than posed models, so it follows that theme.” Sam stayed silent, studying the painting. “Almost half his work depicts dancers as they sold so well.”

He straightened up and turned to me. “Ahhh, he was a businessman about his art. How do you feel about that, Grace Astor? You don’t like people who just want to make money from art.”

I laughed. It was a fair challenge. “I think it was a combination of head and heart for Degas. At least I like to think so.”

We wandered into the West Gallery.

“I think this one is my favorite,” I said as we stood in front of Turner’s Harbor of Dieppe. “The way he can make the surface of the water look like glass like he does.” I shook my head. “It gets me every time.”

“Where do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the canvas.

“Look where the sun hits the water. You have to concentrate without looking too hard at the components of the painting. Look at the scene as a whole—”

“Oh wow, yes,” he said. “I see it. And the light. It’s beautiful.”

His enjoyment seemed real and as much as I loved these paintings, seeing him love them gave me an additional level of pleasure.

“Some people criticized it as being too unrealistic because the light in his pictures is so beautiful,” I said.

“People always find a reason to complain.”

The man who had served us champagne interrupted us. “Sir, dinner is ready whenever you are.”

“Are you hungry?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” I said, though honestly, I wasn’t. I felt full up with life, happiness. With the evening. With Sam.

“These paintings are just so romantic,” I said as we entered the dining room. “Can you imagine what it must have been like to wear these outfits in eighteenth century Britain?”

Sam glanced around at the portraits of wealthy British land owners and their wives. “Don’t you all dress like that in England now?” he asked, waiting for me to take a seat at the dining table set just for two in the middle of the room. “It must be part of your DNA.”

I laughed. “Whenever we go back to visit family, I make sure I pack my silk gowns and powdered wigs.”

“When did you move to the US?” he asked as two waiters filled our water and wine glasses.

“We came to New York when I was five. I don’t remember much about England—I just swear in British, but that’s because my dad’s great at it. Where did you grow up?”

Sam’s smile disappeared and his face went blank. “Jersey.”

“Are your parents still there?” I asked.

There was a beat of silence between us, as if he were thinking about an answer to an almost impossible question.

“No. They died when I was twelve. I don’t have any family.”

It was as if he’d punched me in the stomach. A million words whooshed through my brain and then left before I could cling to any of them. I wanted to say the right thing so badly. In the end, I said, “God, I’m so sorry,” and reached across the table. He moved his hand before I could touch him.

“It was a long time ago,” he said as he put his napkin in his lap.

“You grew up in my apartment building?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted him to know how sorry I was for his loss, to find a way to make it better. Despite his prickly exterior, Sam was a kind and generous man who deserved good things in his life.

“Sam, your parents . . .”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t talk about it. Let’s enjoy dinner. I thought if I got to look at you all evening, you should have something beautiful to look at, too.” His words brought me back to our date.

“You’re very sweet. But my view isn’t so bad, even without all this art.”

Sam smiled, a big boyish grin. “You totally want me.”

I giggled. “You totally want me.”

He shrugged. “Of course.”

Dinner arrived and we didn’t speak until we were alone again. We were content just to watch each other, our eyes joined as if we worried if either of us looked away, the other would disappear.

I didn’t want to ruin tonight by pushing him to talk to me about his past. It seemed every encounter with him told me something more compelling, more heartbreaking, more loveable about him. I wasn’t having dinner with another spoiled rich guy—Sam Shaw had known loss and overcome it. Nothing had been handed to him.