The Good Twin(46)

I’m ecstatic! Dad got into a trial program. He kept telling me that it doesn’t mean the trial will work, that it could make it worse, but at least now, there’s something to hold on to. I needed this. I’ve been working myself ragged each day getting ready for tonight’s opening of the new exhibition, and then spending each night by Dad’s bedside. My grandfather has been a godsend. Even though Tatiana, Dad’s longtime live-in housekeeper, is there to prepare his meals and help him out, she’s not family. Poppy talks to me three or four times each day, keeping me apprised of what’s going on, until I’m finally with them.

“Fifteen-minute warning,” Sandy said as she popped into my office.

“Thanks.” Tonight’s guests would start arriving soon. I went into the bathroom and changed into a black Zac Posen sheath dress, with short sleeves and cutouts in both the front and back. Next, I slipped on a pair of black suede Louis Vuitton low boots, embellished with silver-and-pink baubles. I love shoes. I have ever since I was a child. My closet at home contained at least eighty pairs of every type of footwear. Ben often made fun of me, but I didn’t care. It was my one concession to being wealthy. I mean, I admit I spent lavish amounts of money on clothes. Being fashionably dressed was important in the art world. So, I had my Céline bags and designer dresses, but the only thing I bought excessively was shoes.

Tonight, I was displaying the work of three artists: Conrad Jefferson; Emily Wilson, a young phenom from LA; and Baruti Nkosi, a South African artist I’d discovered in London. Each was a contemporary painter with a unique style. Nkosi wasn’t able to attend, but the other two artists were expected to arrive at any moment.

I’d just finished refreshing my makeup when my two artists arrived, followed soon after by the first of my invited clients. I expected there would be many walk-ins to the show, but it was my clients who would receive the focus of my attention. The gallery had become successful in less than three years because I’d tapped every connection my father and I had, and I’d developed a roster of wealthy art collectors who relied on my advice. I’d sent invitations to almost one hundred people and hoped that at least one-third of them would show up. The one person I knew wouldn’t be here was Ben. He’d come to my first two shows, then begged off after that, complaining that he just didn’t fit in. At first, I was hurt, but now, Ben was the last person I wanted here.

An hour after the doors opened, I’d already exceeded my expectations. Sandy had made sure the wine was flowing, more than sixty patrons filled the space, and “sold” red dots had been placed on more than half of the paintings. I was feeling giddy with success. I’d been circulating among the guests all evening, but now I made my way over to Ezra, who had arrived earlier with his father.

“Pleased?” I asked Conrad.

“Very.”

I turned to Ezra. “I could do this for you, too.”

He smiled, a radiant smile that made his deep brown eyes shine, and dimples appear in his cheeks. “I know you could. But I’m happy where I am.”

“Sometimes change is good.”

“I need more convincing. Maybe over dinner?”

I hesitated only a moment. It would mean staying away from my father’s bedside another evening. I knew he wouldn’t mind, but that wasn’t what held me back. I couldn’t deny the heat I felt standing next to Ezra. Part of me wanted to act on that attraction, to get back at Ben for betraying me. Part of me knew that would be wrong.

“Whenever you want,” I answered. “Just name the night.”





CHAPTER 33

I’m finding it hard to control my anger toward Ben. Once the private investigator I’d hired had handed me the evidence of Ben’s affair, I’d told him I’d no longer require his services. I had no need for proof that he continued to see Lisa. It was obvious, each night when I returned from my father’s apartment, that he’d been with her. He pretended that he’d been home all night, watching television, but I saw the self-satisfied look on his face. I wanted to scream at him, to slap his face as hard as I could, to throttle him as I asked how he could have done this to us. I wanted to take the Glock 19 that I kept in my desk at the gallery and shoot that smile off his face, then gloat as I stood over his dying body. Instead, I came into our townhouse each night, feigned exhaustion, then headed to our bedroom. If I wasn’t already asleep when Ben turned in for the night, I pretended to be.

The only thing that’s gotten me through these weeks has been Ezra. I’ve met him four times for dinner. So far, it’s just been playful flirting, although I know he’d be amenable to more.

Tonight is Thanksgiving. Ben and I always spent it volunteering at a soup kitchen. This year, I asked Ben to join me at my father’s apartment instead, where Tatiana was preparing a traditional dinner. He demurred. Said he’d be more useful serving the homeless. Frankly, I was relieved.

I arrived at Dad’s apartment with two pies I’d baked myself, one apple and one pecan, and a bowl of turkey stuffing, also made by me with a recipe I’d created. I didn’t cook often—my gallery took most of my energy—but I enjoyed it when I could. Something about the aroma of food while it was cooking was terribly comforting.

I let myself in with my key and headed to the kitchen, where Tatiana was busy preparing our meal. I gave her my contributions, then joined Dad and Poppy in the living room. I gave them each a hug, then sat down on the couch next to Dad.