Park Avenue Prince(68)

“Look, I believe in the fairytale. I really do. Look at my husband, for crying out loud. But, you’re my best friend and I can’t bear to see you hurting like this. Whether or not he loves you, he’s not with you, showing his love. And if you can’t see it, can’t feel it, then I’m not sure it matters what he feels deep down.”

I didn’t like the fact that her words made sense. I didn’t want to believe what she was saying was exactly what I’d say to her if she were sitting in the passenger seat.

“You don’t know him like I do.” The words sounded weak even as I said them. Had I become one of those women who excused the behavior of their boyfriends and husbands by explaining other people just didn’t know the real him? How pathetic.

“Of course I don’t, but I know what I see—a man who abandoned you when you needed him most. That rejected you when you gave him the benefit of the doubt and went to his office to tell him you loved him.” She sighed. “And that’s the only side of him I need to see.”

I sat, silent and defeated.

“We should make a plan,” she said, forcing some cheer into her voice. “Let’s have a fire in the pit tonight and make s’mores. We’ll put the patio heaters on and wrap up in blankets. What do you say?”

“Does this plan involve wine?”

Harper turned and smiled. “Wouldn’t be a party without the wine.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Have you spoken to Natalie?” Harper asked, blatantly trying to shift my focus from my past to my future, to the gallery and my temporary assistant.

My gut churned. “I messaged her this morning. Everything’s fine. I think she likes being left to her own devices. I’ll probably go back and she won’t let me in.”

Harper laughed but it was a little forced. “Maybe while you’re in Connecticut you should think some more about your plan for the place. I know some of the work you love most you don’t really sell. You know, the more traditional stuff. Have you thought about splitting the gallery in two and doing both?”

I didn’t have head space for this conversation. Seeing Sam but not being able to touch him, the thought of never seeing him again—it was all so exhausting. “It won’t work. I don’t have the right contacts to get the traditional art in the gallery. Or the money.”

“Remember you said you could never have a gallery of your own without your father’s money and look how that turned out.”

“But I had to sell my Renoir.” I started to cry again at the thought of losing that painting to some unknown buyer in the Middle East.

“You sold that painting to get Grace Astor Fine Art. Don’t take your foot off the gas now. If you let it, the gallery could be a great focus.”

She was talking as if what I was experiencing was a normal breakup, as if I just needed to take my mind off things, channel my energy, and I’d bounce back in no time. Didn’t she understand that I’d always love Sam?

“Don’t you think?” she asked.

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Maybe Max can introduce you to some of his rich clients. In fact, why don’t you start running parties in your gallery? Maybe Max can host something there?”

I shrugged. I understood Harper had my best interests at heart, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than what I’d lost.

I wasn’t ready to move on and I didn’t think I ever would be.





“Yes, bring it in this side,” I said to the two men who were delivering new pieces I’d bought from a couple of Max’s clients. He was happy for me to sell them on his behalf, taking a commission. Being as determined and stubborn as she was, Harper’s idea about Max throwing a client party at Grace Astor Fine Art had come to fruition three weeks after she’d first mentioned it. She’d been right to push me to focus on work. I’d made a ton of contacts and booked three more parties since.

It was keeping me busy, but despite it being seven weeks since I’d seen Sam, I still thought about him every moment.

We had our third business event tonight and I wanted this new work on the wall before people started to arrive. The aim of the parties wasn’t about the art at all. It was just a backdrop for a networking evening combined with a speech by a high-profile person in business or sports. Max had given me some suggested names and with what I was making on the venue hire, I used it all to pay the right person. Tonight it was some baseball player.

I waved at Scarlett as I saw her cross the street toward me, her almost-black hair so dramatic with her red coat. “Hey,” I said. “How are you? You look beautiful.”

“Stop it. You invented beautiful.” She glanced behind me. “I brought you lunch—I figured if I didn’t you wouldn’t eat.” She held up a paper bag.

“You’re good to me,” I said. “But I need to finish up with this delivery first.”

“No problem.”

“Hey, do I look cool?”

Scarlett frowned. “Cool?”

“You know, like it’s just another day and I’m not going to explode with excitement.” I grinned at her.

She laughed. “Yeah, babe, you always look cool. Are you excited?”

“Hell yes.” I nodded toward the delivery truck. “There’s a freaking Gauguin in this lot. Can you believe that?” All the incoming pieces were beautiful and a step up from the work I could normally stock, but a Gauguin? I was going to pee my pants. Art like this would put me on the map.