Kaleidoscope Hearts (13 page)

“It’s beautiful,” she says, and she walks to stand before it. “It reminds me of a rebirth of some sort.”

I nod and swallow, hoping to stay put together enough to get through a conversation. “It’s very much a rebirth.” It’s a rebirth of my heart, of my hopes of love, of my love life, and the birth of our relationship.

“It doesn’t have a price tag,” she says.

“Some things don’t have a price.”

She turns to me and tilts her head. “Nothing tangible is priceless.”

“Maybe not, but the memories behind them are.”

My response makes her nod in understanding. Her eyes dart away from mine and look back to the painting. “So you’re not willing to let go of the memories it holds?”

I stare at the painting in silence. I know that no price will ever be enough to cover those memories, but they’ll forever be embedded in my brain, so maybe I should stop thinking about his paintings in terms of that. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve managed to turn over a new leaf. I feel like I’m headed in the right direction, yet when I’m faced with something like this—the reality of letting go,
really letting go,
of the past three years of my life—I stall like a car switching gears. I take a long breath, inhaling the ever-present smell of wood and paint, and when I let it out, I have my mind made up.

“I’m ready to let go of it,” I say, my voice steady and determined.

Priscilla turns around and claps her hands in front of her with a happy squeal—the exact opposite of everything she looks like—with her fine pearls and perfect bob. It makes me smile a little, and I feel less sad about selling the painting.

“I can deliver it to your house,” I say, knowing it’s sold, because when somebody with money sets their eyes on something, they don’t walk out without it.

“I live in New York,” she responds. “I wouldn’t expect you to fly all the way over there to deliver something.”

“We do it all the time. I wouldn’t feel right shipping it to you. Not this one.”

She offers me a small smile. “I’ll be taking it myself. We own a jet, so it wouldn’t even fly in a closet. It will be well taken care of.”

The way she speaks about it—as if it was a child—makes me feel slightly better about the sale.

“I’ll draw up the paperwork for you.”

“Do I have time to run across the street? I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend for lunch,” she says, looking at her watch.

“Of course. I just need some information from you. I’ll have it ready and packed up by the time you finish.”

“Perfect. I can’t wait to hang this on top of my fireplace and show off my new painting,” she says.

Her painting.
I try not to let the words puncture me, but they do anyway. When she leaves and I finish the paperwork, I take down the painting, gripping the edges of the canvas as I set it down on the floor. I fold my legs beneath me and let my fingertips graze each shattered heart, colorful and beautiful, and the wings that lift them up. Tears slide down my face as I touch each one and say my goodbyes. I begin to cover it, one layer, two layers, three . . . stopping to wipe my face with each wraparound I make. I think about the serious look on Wyatt’s face as he’d mixed the watercolors . . . the look of elation as he’d gotten to the ivory wings when his vision came together on the canvas.

“Do you like it?” he’d asked. His face had beamed when it became clear that I loved it.

“I never want to sell it,” I said, as he laughed and wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me into him.

“One day we will. When we get sick of looking at it.”

I hope he doesn’t think I got tired of looking at it, because I’m not. I don’t think I will ever tire of staring at his paintings, but this isn’t about that. This is my goodbye, I say to myself as I stand up and, with a heavy heart, hand a piece of my past over to somebody else. She will never know the history behind it, but she will appreciate it nonetheless.

ON DAY FOUR of Mia-hiatus, I call her, and after we’ve had a long conversation about things, I drive over to her studio. I push the door open when I get there and take a moment to admire the photographs she has hanging on the wall. She’s changed them all since my last visit. To the right, there’s a black and white photo of a woman lying in bed. She’s facing away from the camera, and the white bed sheets are bunched up at her bottom, so all you see is the curve of her naked back and lush black hair covering half of her shoulder. The lighting and the pose create a photo that is absolutely stunning. The wall facing the door features a family: The dad is wearing brown corduroy pants, a navy blue, button-down shirt, and, on his head, a Chewbacca mask that covers his face. The small boy beside him is dressed similarly and wears a storm trooper mask. Mom stands on the other side of their son and wears tight brown pants, a white shirt, and has styled her brown hair like Princess Leia. As I laugh at how adorable it is, I startle when Mia rounds the corner to greet me.

I glance down and notice she’s wearing a red wrap dress and no shoes, which is funny because I’m wearing the same dress in black. We give each other a quick onceover and laugh.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly.

“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you sold that painting,” she replies, repeating what she said in our phone call.

“It’s okay. I was fine. I’m sorry I said what I said—it wasn’t my place.”

We both let out a breath and walk forward with our arms held out, wrapping the other in a tight hug.

“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” she says against my neck.

“It’s why we’re friends.” We pull away from each other, and I look back at the wall in front of us. “I really love this picture.”

Mia smiles. “Isn’t it awesome? It’s their Halloween card this year.”

“That one is stunning,” I say, nodding at the one of the woman’s back.

“Yeah, boudoir shoot for her soon-to-be husband. Lovely girl.” She turns her blue eyes to me. “When are you going to let me shoot one of those for you? You’d be perfect.”

I make a noise. “I would suck at that. I don’t know how to look sexy on purpose.”

Mia laughs. “That’s what makes sexy, sexy! If you try too hard, you end up looking like an idiot. I’ll help you though—you know I know how to work my magic.”

“Yeah, clearly,” I say, waving around her studio.

“Hey, do you want to be in a shoot for me this weekend?”

“A shoot? I came to take you out to lunch and grovel for forgiveness, not schedule a sexy shoot!”

“I know, but I have this model I’m shooting, and the girl just canceled on us because she’s too sick to do it, and to top it off, this is a major shoot for a local magazine, and I’m supposed to have these pictures to them by next week. This is huge, Elle. This could be my moment.”

“Shit,” I say, letting out a slow breath.

“Yeah, shit. Every model I’ve worked with has given me a ‘maybe,’ and I can’t deal with maybe right now.”

She looks like she’s about to cry, and I hate to see her this stressed over a job.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” I say. I mean, I’ve done this for her before. How bad can it be?

“Ah! Thank you!” she says, giving a little jump and hugging me again.

“Is this . . . okay, remember that time you made me take pictures with a guy on the beach? Is this like that?” That wasn’t so bad until Wyatt showed up. We’d been frolicking in the water and doing our best not to look at the camera and pretend we had chemistry—which is hard to do with a guy you don’t know, no matter how cute he is.

By the time we got comfortable with each other—comfortable enough to go in for the make-believe “we’re about to kiss” shot—Wyatt showed up. He made me so nervous, I couldn’t get back to feeling natural with the guy. Needless to say, that was strike one for him in Mia’s book. It was terrible.

Mia’s laugh snaps me back from my thoughts. “No, this will be indoors and much more intimate, so it’s a good thing you haven’t found a boyfriend yet.”

“Yeah, thank God for that,” I say halfheartedly, before I let her get back to work and head to my own studio. I make a mental note to grab a sandwich along the way.

Later, as I’m setting up for the kids to arrive, I get a text message from Oliver that makes me frown.

Rule #1- no short dresses.

I stare at it for a long moment, look down at myself, then outside to see if he’s stalking me.

Are you stalking me?

??

Are you watching me from somewhere right now?

The phone starts to vibrate with his name on the screen.

“Does that mean you’re wearing a short dress right now?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yes, and from the sound of your voice, I’m guessing you’re in the hospital.”

“How short?” he asks, ignoring my statement.

“Friends, Oliver,” I remind him.

“Just tell me how short it is, for the love of God. I need a visual.”

“Just above my knees.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

I hear a door open and close before his breath is back on my ear. I shiver as if he’s standing behind me.

“Is it tight?”

I laugh. “Are you going to try to have phone sex with me at three o’clock in the afternoon? From work?”

He exhales. “I sent you a text message to tell you not to wear a short dress to our friend date, and you’re telling me you’re wearing one right now, in plain sight, for everyone to see.”

“And? You act like I’m wearing lingerie.”

“No, but every male in Santa Barbara is going to be looking at those legs of yours and wishing they were wrapped around their waist, and seeing the tops of your tits and wishing they could pull the dress down to get a better look . . .”

“Oliver!” I interrupt, completely flustered. I’m starting to get hot flashes and breathe heavily, and he’s not even there to do any of those things to me. “Friends!” I shout. “Friends! I’m not going out with you if you keep saying these things to me.”

He doesn’t speak for so long that I actually look at my screen to make sure he’s still there.

“What does me saying these things do to you, Estelle?” he asks, his voice grating over me, making me shiver involuntarily.

“Nothing,” I whisper.

“Nothing?” I close my eyes at the challenge in his voice, knowing I should have just ignored the question altogether. “It doesn’t make you wish we were alone somewhere?”

“Why would I wish that?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds steadier than it feels.

“Because if we were, I’d slip my hand under your dress . . .” he pauses and drops his voice even lower. “Into your panties.”

“Who says I’m wearing any?” I ask in a breath.

“Are you not wearing panties, naughty Elle?” The smile in his voice makes a blush creep over my face.

“Maybe.”

“If I slip my hand under your dress and find that you’re not, I wouldn’t be able to resist. I’d have to pull the dress over your head and find out if you’re completely naked beneath it.”

“And what if I am?” I ask quietly.
Why am I playing this game? Why, why, why am I entertaining this? Why am I enjoying it?

“You’d be in a lot of trouble,” he says with a rough growl that makes my heart skip.

“Oh yeah? What kind of trouble?” I tease.

“First I’d want to taste you,” he starts.

“No kissing on friend dates,” I taunt with a smile.

“I wouldn’t be kissing your mouth,” he says in a voice that makes my heart lurch, before he continues, “I’d take my time, kissing my way down your body until I reach your ankles, and then I’d move back up slowly, my tongue tracing the inside of your thighs . . . tasting every inch of you . . .” His words are a purr, and I’m panting at the vivid picture he’s painting for me as if I can feel his hot tongue on my sensitive skin. “I’ll savor you until you beg for my lips and mouth to fuck that—”

“Oliver!” I snap, a moan escaping my lips. I totally asked for that—I know I did—but hearing the actual words from him make me feel too hot, too bothered, too . . . much. I take a breath and manage to squeak out, “Don’t you have lives to save?”

“I’m on break,” he responds nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just said all those things to me. “I do eat lunch, you know.”

“You’re phone-sexing on your lunch break?” My eyes pop open and blink rapidly to adjust to the light in my studio.

He chuckles. “I’m skilled like that.”

“Okay . . . I’m going to let you go now so you can finish enjoying your lunch break.”

“You don’t have to. I have a raging hard-on right now, and I have to hide in this dark closet until I figure out what to do about it before I can go about my day.”

I sigh, sagging down to the seat behind me. Images of him flirting with all the nurses flash through my mind before I can stop them. “I’m sure there are many willing nurses . . . and hospital execs willing to help you out with that.”

Silence again, followed by a harsh exhale. “I wish you wouldn’t think so poorly of me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t have put those thoughts there to begin with, but that’s life, Bean.”

“I hate it when you call me Bean,” he whispers, his voice suddenly morphing into something deeper, something sadder.

“Why?” I whisper back, even though I’m completely alone.

“I have my reasons,” he says, before clearing his throat. “Anyway, the problem is gone, so no need to call for backup. Not that I would have.”