Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4)(95)

The Guggenheim Museum

New York City



Fifteen years later…



This shit never got any easier.

As I stood behind the scenes of my exhibition, hearing the hundreds of voices on the other side of the wall, my heart raced.

The Museum Director was out there now, giving the crowd his talk to introduce my show. Years of doing this hadn’t taken away my opening-night nerves, my apprehension about how the show would be received. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath.

Just then, that familiar hand ran down my back, the scent of jasmine filling the space around me. My shoulders immediately lost their tension and I exhaled in relief.

“Ally,” I breathed out on a sigh.

As I opened my eyes, I saw that my beautiful wife had moved to stand before me, dressed in her long fitted red dress, her long hair falling over her shoulder.

She placed her hands on my face. “Breathe, querido. The people love it. Most are too blinded by their tears to even speak.”

Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pulled her to my chest and pressed my lips against hers. Ally melted into my arms and her fingers raked through my long hair.

Pulling back, her dark gaze met mine and tears filled her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered and gently pressed her forehead to mine. “A permanent exhibition at the Guggenheim. Axel. It’s what every contemporary artist dreams of. There’s no greater honor.”

I nodded and blew out a long breath. “I know,” I said and nudged my chin to the direction of the gallery. “Is it full? Did they get the turnout they wanted?”

“Packed,” Ally replied, excitedly.

Just then, the door opened behind us. I turned to see my two beautiful daughters entering my hideout. Their faces lit up with ear splitting grins as they ran toward me, nearly tackling me to the ground.

Unable to hold back a laugh, I wrapped them in my arms. When I looked up, Ally was staring at us with a watery smile on her face. After all these years she was still my biggest cheerleader... and this, my own little family, surrounding me... they were my everything... my light, my world and my hope all brought to life.

With one final squeeze, Chiara, my fifteen-year-old daughter pulled back; Violeta, my youngest, followed suit. At age twelve she did everything her big sister did. It seemed to be a Carillo trait.

“Papa,” Chiara said breathlessly with glossy dark eyes, “It’s beautiful. The people are all going crazy for the sculptures…” her face became flushed as tears began to run down her cheeks, “your sculptures, Papa,” she proudly announced.

Feeling my throat close at seeing her show of emotion, I lifted my hands and wiped her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs.

Hearing a sniff from my right, I glanced down to see Violeta staring up at her big sister, also shedding tears.

Leaning down, I asked, “Hey, not you too, mia cara. What’s all this?” My voice cracked, my throat tight at seeing my daughters’ reactions.

Violeta, who was every inch the image of her mother, looked at me and pursed her lips, deep dimples popping in her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath. “We’re just so proud of you, Papa. All these people… they’re here for you. Mama told us how special they think you are. And you’re our papa… it… it makes me feel so proud,” she managed to say and completely destroyed any hope I had of not breaking down.

Water blurred my eyes, and wrapping my hands around the back of my daughters’ heads, I pulled them to me, tears now pouring down my face. “Grazie,” I rasped, “I’m so proud to be your papa.”

Immediately, I felt Ally ghost to my side.

Glancing up, I shook my head at my wife who was looking down at me and my girls, her expression full of love. “I can’t see them cry, carina, it f*cking breaks me.”

Ally smiled as I pulled back to look at our daughters. Their huge eyes never left mine. “It’s all for you, you do know that, don't you? All this, you’re what inspires me. You two and your mama. Everything I do is for you.”

Both my daughters nodded their heads at my words and wiped their cheeks. “Ti voglio bene,” I said, and kissed each of them on their heads.

“Ti voglio bene, Papa,” they replied in unison.

My heart melted just that little bit more.

Ally leaned over me and kissed Chiara then Violeta on their dark-haired heads. Wrapping her arms around their shoulders, her Spanish gaze met mine. “Have you heard enough? Are you ready to go?” she asked, knowing that my tradition was to listen to the reactions of the opening night crowd as I hid away behind the gallery. I couldn’t stay at the galleries for more than about thirty minutes without nerves shredding me. And I still had no f*cking desire for the art world to know who I was. I liked that I’d managed to keep my anonymity even after all these years.

Eager to get the hell out of the museum and away from all the craziness, I nodded my head. Catching Ally’s gaze again, I asked, “Have our friends all left?”

“They left about ten minutes ago. I gave them a personal pre-show tour without the crowds,” Ally informed.

Glancing at the floor, a tidal wave of nerves spread through my stomach and, looking back at Ally, I asked, “What did they think?”

Ally tilted her head to the side. Then that damn stunning look she always beamed at me when I needed her to calm me down drifted across her face. “They adored it, querido. Your brothers… they were blown away by your talent, as always.” I closed my eyes as Ally added, “They are so proud of you.”