“Really? Where?” What she really wanted to say was,
Take me with you
.
Free me from this mess.
Except Max was the biggest tangle of all, and a trip together wouldn’t change that. Sitting across from him on this strained date, she understood it now. Without some kind of help—counseling, a shared, truthful dialogue—soon they would have nothing left, and Max didn’t seem to recognize the danger whatsoever.
“San Francisco,” he was saying, “Chicago.” He paused and smiled. “You look so wistful. You weren’t thinking about coming with me, were you? You’ve only just started working with Colm.”
“And I’m anxious to keep working,” she said flatly. “This is a challenge, remember?”
But God, she was confused. It didn’t bother Max one bit to leave her alone with a strange man—a devastatingly attractive one. Max hadn’t always been so free with her. Until recently, he’d been mildly possessive, even though she’d figured it had more to do with their agent/artist relationship than their romance. Why was this time so different? What lay in California or Chicago that would tug harder at him than his usual need to guard what he felt was his?
“Max—?”
Before she could finish her question, he withdrew a blue velvet box from inside his suit pocket, laid it on the table, and flipped it open. Pearls. A single strand. Luscious and priceless. “These might encourage you to finish what you’ve started. You can wear them to your next opening.”
Shock flooded Sydney’s face with warmth. He occasionally gave her gifts for no reason, but this was different. She touched a fingertip to one of the pearls. “They’re lovely . . .”
“Would you like to try them on?”
No.
No.
It was the last thing she wanted, pearls, gifts, shells of proclamations rather than the spoken sentiments and communication she so craved.
But the moment held an odd intimacy, so she gave a short nod. He wheeled around to her side of the table and drew the strand around her neck, fastened it, then dropped a kiss on her shoulder bared by her spaghetti-strap dress.
“You are the lovely one,” he murmured. Sydney pulled back to meet his eyes. In the candlelight they shone the color of gunmetal. In the candlelight she might believe he desired her still, that the old love between them still existed. She couldn’t ask herself if she felt the same. Not with Max’s pearls hanging on her neck.
“Thank you, Max. I’m so surprised.”
He wheeled closer and bumped the table, jostling the glasses so that Merlot splashed crimson onto the linen cloth. “Can’t you see it, Sydney? Can’t you see how much I love you?” His voice was low and nearly grim, the words clenched with a strange determination she’d never seen before. “Everything I do is for you, for us. You are my world. You must know that.”
Her pulse pounded beneath the strand of pearls as she stared into his eyes. “But you don’t have to buy me gifts to show me. Just talk to me. Come with me to counseling. We could start there.”
He wheeled back. “It brings me pleasure to dress you, to give you pretty things. How does that merit counseling? Oblige me tonight with . . . this.”
So she did; there was nothing left to say.
They rode home in the limousine without speaking and went their separate ways with the usual brief kiss goodnight. Sydney methodically undressed, sat down at her vanity to brush her hair . . . and burst into tears. But a part of her she’d never accessed had awakened and didn’t join in the grieving. Her world was crumbling to expose something new and not altogether unwanted, although she couldn’t yet read its abstract composition.
* * *
S he slept until just before dawn, then went to the studio, where she stared at the beginning drawing she’d done of Colm. It was obvious she hadn’t been concentrating yesterday. The static lines also told her she’d been frustrated. She ought to dismiss him, let him go back to his
Take me with you
.
Free me from this mess.
Except Max was the biggest tangle of all, and a trip together wouldn’t change that. Sitting across from him on this strained date, she understood it now. Without some kind of help—counseling, a shared, truthful dialogue—soon they would have nothing left, and Max didn’t seem to recognize the danger whatsoever.
“San Francisco,” he was saying, “Chicago.” He paused and smiled. “You look so wistful. You weren’t thinking about coming with me, were you? You’ve only just started working with Colm.”
“And I’m anxious to keep working,” she said flatly. “This is a challenge, remember?”
But God, she was confused. It didn’t bother Max one bit to leave her alone with a strange man—a devastatingly attractive one. Max hadn’t always been so free with her. Until recently, he’d been mildly possessive, even though she’d figured it had more to do with their agent/artist relationship than their romance. Why was this time so different? What lay in California or Chicago that would tug harder at him than his usual need to guard what he felt was his?
“Max—?”
Before she could finish her question, he withdrew a blue velvet box from inside his suit pocket, laid it on the table, and flipped it open. Pearls. A single strand. Luscious and priceless. “These might encourage you to finish what you’ve started. You can wear them to your next opening.”
Shock flooded Sydney’s face with warmth. He occasionally gave her gifts for no reason, but this was different. She touched a fingertip to one of the pearls. “They’re lovely . . .”
“Would you like to try them on?”
No.
No.
It was the last thing she wanted, pearls, gifts, shells of proclamations rather than the spoken sentiments and communication she so craved.
But the moment held an odd intimacy, so she gave a short nod. He wheeled around to her side of the table and drew the strand around her neck, fastened it, then dropped a kiss on her shoulder bared by her spaghetti-strap dress.
“You are the lovely one,” he murmured. Sydney pulled back to meet his eyes. In the candlelight they shone the color of gunmetal. In the candlelight she might believe he desired her still, that the old love between them still existed. She couldn’t ask herself if she felt the same. Not with Max’s pearls hanging on her neck.
“Thank you, Max. I’m so surprised.”
He wheeled closer and bumped the table, jostling the glasses so that Merlot splashed crimson onto the linen cloth. “Can’t you see it, Sydney? Can’t you see how much I love you?” His voice was low and nearly grim, the words clenched with a strange determination she’d never seen before. “Everything I do is for you, for us. You are my world. You must know that.”
Her pulse pounded beneath the strand of pearls as she stared into his eyes. “But you don’t have to buy me gifts to show me. Just talk to me. Come with me to counseling. We could start there.”
He wheeled back. “It brings me pleasure to dress you, to give you pretty things. How does that merit counseling? Oblige me tonight with . . . this.”
So she did; there was nothing left to say.
They rode home in the limousine without speaking and went their separate ways with the usual brief kiss goodnight. Sydney methodically undressed, sat down at her vanity to brush her hair . . . and burst into tears. But a part of her she’d never accessed had awakened and didn’t join in the grieving. Her world was crumbling to expose something new and not altogether unwanted, although she couldn’t yet read its abstract composition.
* * *
S he slept until just before dawn, then went to the studio, where she stared at the beginning drawing she’d done of Colm. It was obvious she hadn’t been concentrating yesterday. The static lines also told her she’d been frustrated. She ought to dismiss him, let him go back to his
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