The Stillwater Girls(6)

She was always loud. And she name-dropped in nearly every conversation I ever had with her. Brant was never about status and social climbing—that’s what I loved about him when we first met. He genuinely had no idea who my parents were, and that placed him a notch above every other man I’d ever met.

Standing in a room of recognizable strangers, a veritable who’s who of the Manhattan art scene, I watch as every eye manages to land on my husband, who steps out of his introverted shell and dons the charismatic suit of a larger-than-life artistic visionary. People circle around him, clinging to his every word as if he’s sharing the most fascinating things they’ve ever heard.

He gifts them with warm smiles and the occasional handshake, and he leads a group of them around, elaborating on his inspiration behind his “Lost in Nature” series—the passion project he’s been working on since we moved away from the city.

This is his life’s work, and it’s inventive and breathtaking.

I just didn’t think it was going to be almost a decade in the making.

Scanning the room, I find a portrait he took of me, standing barefoot in a brook, the sunrise kissing the top of my head as I gather my sheer dress in my hand. A woman in a slinky black number saunters up to it, alone, a glass of red wine in her hand and a diamond tennis bracelet hanging from her left wrist.

She studies my photo.

I study her.

The woman lingers in front of the picture a little longer before strutting toward the next one—an eerie photo of a forest clearing at dawn—but she doesn’t stay there long before moving to the next and the next. But after a few minutes, she returns to the one of me.

I’m glued. I couldn’t look away from her if I tried.

Is she the one?

Is this the woman my husband was seeing? The woman he might have fathered a child with?

Is she scoping me out the way a mistress would compare herself to her lover’s wife?

Her onyx hair creates a shiny curtain, hiding part of her face, the ends cut blunt. She’s stunning in a serious, intelligent, upper-class New York kind of way, oozing elegance and grace from every angle.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been watching her study my photograph, but my heart slams on the floor and my blood runs cold when I spot my husband approaching her.

She smiles the second they lock eyes, and he leans in, kissing the space between her mouth and cheek—not just the air beside it. He touches her bare arm as they speak, and his eyes are wide and expressive with every word. It’s as if no one exists but her.

He’s absolutely besotted.

And I recognize the look she’s giving him—it’s the very same look I gave him when I was a young butterfly thrilled to be caught in his net.

A couple of guests squeeze past them, forcing Brant to step closer to the woman to let them pass.

He doesn’t move back, though.

He just stays, comfortable in her personal space like he knows her well.

The champagne bubbles in my stomach become unsettled, and I glance around for the nearest ladies’ room in case I’m going to be sick.

Brant is charming, I’ll give him that. And he’s warm and personable. But of all the exhibits and gallery openings and book signings we’ve attended, I’ve never seen him behave with anyone the way he’s behaving with this woman.

I swear his dimples grow deeper by the second, and there’s a distinct twinkle in his sea-green eyes so noticeable I can see it from all the way over here.

“You okay?” A warm palm finds my shoulder, and I glance over to see Marin standing next to me. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

I force a smile and shake my head. “This champagne. I don’t think it’s agreeing with me.”

Her brows rise, and she laughs through her nose. “Sweetie, it’s Cristal. Cristal agrees with everyone. Sure you’re okay?”

Brant and the woman are still lost in their little conversation, though at this point they might as well be lost in their own little world.

My blood, which was ice-cold a moment ago, is now hot, burning beneath the surface of my skin. If I wasn’t a proper lady, I’d have half a mind to capture his attention and ask him what the hell is going on.

But I won’t do that here. I won’t make a scene in front of the people who could make or break the future of the career he’s worked for his entire life.

Marin follows my gaze, quickly piecing together the thing I refuse to say out loud.

“That woman with the dark hair?” Marin nods in their direction. “She’s a photographer. Her style is pretty similar to Brant’s. I think she’s just a huge fan. Comes into Berkshire all the time trying to get us to broker her work.”

“What’s her name?” This might be my one and only chance to find out.

“Clara Briese,” she says.

I burn the name into my mind, silently reciting it dozens of times in case I ever need to know it in the future.

“She was staring at my picture earlier,” I say, though I’m not sure why I’m admitting this to Marin or if it even means anything. Breathing life into that observation makes it seem like a silly thing to get worked up about.

Marin chuckles. “She probably thinks you’re beautiful.”

In the quiet of my mind, I write off her explanation as too simplistic and optimistic to quell my concern.