Legacy (24 page)

Corinne simply nodded, not needing words in her dream.

But then Michael stepped close to the portrait and stared into Wes’s eyes.

“This one’s not finished,” Michael told her, frowning. “Why would you hang it up before it was finished?”

“It is finished,” Corinne insisted, looking at it again and seeing Wes’s intense gaze.

But Michael just smiled at her, infusing her with warmth and comfort, filling in the cavity of fear inside her with peace.

“So stubborn. You never did listen,” Michael said, love shining in his eyes. “That’s why I had to give you to him.”

Corinne woke after 10 a.m. to Buck growling petulantly in her doorway.

“You are aware that it’s Saturday, right?” she asked, peeling back the covers. Buck tilted his head at her words, hearing nothing that sounded like the promise of food.

The essence of the dream still clung to her as she fed Buck and let him out. The feeling of comfort was still there, even if the dream didn’t make much sense.

But comfort was all she felt. Gone was the wish to dive back into her dream and seek him out again. That bitter sense of loss that used to torment her after she dreamed of Michael didn’t grip her anymore and hadn’t in some time.

She was free to look forward to her day, and this one filled her with an almost giddy sense of anticipation. The green door at The Green Door would open to guests at 6 p.m., and Ann expected that they would welcome at least 150 patrons that night.

Corinne had bought a new outfit for the occasion, a sleeveless column dress with black and white splicing. The round neckline was professional, but the short length still made her feel fashionable and feminine. Her nude platform pumps should be comfortable enough for a few hours, but Corinne planned to wear sandals in the gallery until just before they opened. She and Ann would both be wearing some of her boss’s pieces, and Corinne could not wait to sport those.

After she made herself a veggie omelet and toast (which only made her think of Wes), Corinne showered and left for the salon. She had planned to get her hair and nails done, and as excited as she was about the opening, she was glad for the soothing distraction of having her hair shampooed, cut, and styled.

She and Ann texted each other all afternoon, making sure that each remembered all the last-minute details: ice for the bottled water, change for the cash drawer, the flower arrangements.

Bearing a bag from Taco Sisters (Ann had sent a desperate text saying she hadn’t eaten all day) and carrying in her dress, shoes, and make-up bag, Corinne returned to The Green Door at 3:30 that afternoon, practically vibrating with excitement.

Wes’s eyes, larger than life and a kaleidoscope of mocha, bronze, gold, and azure, seemed to track her from the portrait, evoking Michael’s strange words. Every time she thought about Wes, her heart gave a little drop, plummeting as she remembered that he would not come tonight.
Why
he would not come.

I can’t be around you right now.

She was grateful for the bustle of the afternoon as she and Ann arranged flowers and tweaked the lighting; otherwise, her longing to see Wes would have sacked her.

As soon as the staff from Tsunami set out their trays of avocado, Philadelphia, and lava rolls, Ann and Corinne took turns changing in the gallery’s small bathroom. Even the tiny space testified to Ann’s aesthetics, the apple green vessel sink commanding the eye and playing against the greens, blues, and browns in the glass tile backsplash.

At 5:30, Ann dumped the A/C’s thermostat in advance of the first guests to combat the July evening’s heat and humidity, and they greeted the first smiling visitors minutes later. The five featured artists—representing a range of ages and styles—arrived almost simultaneously, and Corinne and Ann lost themselves to the job at hand of making introductions, giving cursory tours, and pouring wine.

They sold their first piece—a watercolor by a local artist—at 6:20, about the time that Morgan, Greg, and Corinne’s father arrived.

“You look beautiful!” Morgan sang while wrapping her in a hug. “I still can’t fit into any of my old clothes!”

“Thank you all for coming,” Corinne told them, moving to her father’s embrace and then kissing her brother-in-law on the cheek. “Where’s Clementine?”

Morgan rolled her eyes.

“Aren’t we good enough?” she asked wryly. “Just kidding. She’s at home with a sitter. This is our first night out, but we are on the clock. Gallery. Dinner. Home.”

“I gave Clementine her first bottle this week,” Greg boasted, proudly. “She should be good for a few hours, but we don’t want to press our luck.”

The new parents could have gone on like this all evening, but at that moment, Morgan spotted Wes’s portrait.

“
Oh my!”
she gasped, walking away from Corinne and the others, clutching her heart with drama that only Morgan could achieve. “Corinne, what haven’t you been telling me?”

Corinne colored. She’d told her sister nothing. Nothing about their earth-shattering kiss at the Clarkson’s party, or her ill-fated night at City Bar, or Wes’s departure. The portrait didn’t reveal all of that, but it revealed enough.

“That’s hardly the look of a roommate,” Morgan muttered when Corinne drew up to her, her father and Greg following.

“I suppose not,” she said, evasively.

Morgan cut her eyes at her sister, sizing her up.

“I guess you’re not going to spill anything
now
, are you?” she asked, archly.

“You’re damn right,” Corinne mumbled.

Greg chuckled at this, but Corinne’s father narrowed his eyes, catching, Corinne was sure, the mask she’d donned to hide the ache that had set in again.

The gallery door opened, more guests filed in, and Corinne took her chance to escape.

“Guys, please stay and enjoy some food and wine. I need to get back to work,” she said, hoping to hide her relief.

Corinne handled two more sales, both of these for the rising star of a photographer whose work commanded the south wall. As soon as the second of these transactions was completed, Mrs. Betsie and Mr. Dan approached her, smiling.

Corinne was sure she’d paled. She didn’t think she could face them after the way she’d left their kitchen weeks before, but they didn’t give her long to berate herself.

“Corinne, you look so lovely!” Mrs. Betsie gushed. “And look at this place! You’ve done such a beautiful job.”

“It’s Ann’s vision,” she demured. “I’m lucky to be a part of it. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better job.”

“It’s good to see your work on display, too,” Mr. Dan said, nodding to the space behind the counter. Corinne was glad that neither of them commented on the portrait, but it was clear that both studied it intently.

Somehow, Corinne found a little courage, wanting to put that Sunday behind them.

“I’m so sorry for the way I left things the other day,” she said, genuinely. “There are so many things about that afternoon I regret.”

Mrs. Betsie’s brows drew together in a disapproving frown, and she shook her head.

“You, my dear, have nothing to be sorry about,” she said, sternly. “Claire should be the one asking forgiveness.”

Mr. Dan seemed a little more diplomatic.

“She’s grieving. Just like all of us,” he said. “I don’t excuse the way she behaved, but, Corinne, please try not to take it personally—although it was very personal.”

Michael’s father looked both sad and ashamed.

“I think she may understand how wrong she was, but she has her pride, too,” he said, shrugging. “Still, I wouldn’t be too surprised if she calls you soon with an apology of her own.”

As far as Corinne was concerned, she was the worst offender, denying Wes at every turn. She’d gladly forgive Claire if Wes could find his way to forgiving her.

“I understand,” she said, simply. “None of this has been easy.”

But that wasn’t really true. Some things had been surprisingly easy, like Wes making her feel safe. Getting her to take better care of herself. Making her want him.

She shook these thoughts from her mind.

“Let me get you both a glass of wine, and then I’ll show you the exhibits.”

By 7:30, the small gallery was bursting with people. Corinne spotted a few of her own patrons and made a point to greet them personally, and many of the guests she recognized as members of the arts community, artists as well as avid supporters.

After opening several more bottles of wine, Corinne decided to take the empties to the bin outside behind the back of the gallery. It was hot and sticky outside, and the brief errand had her sweating. She came back in and was about to duck into the restroom to freshen up when she saw him.

Wes had come in with Heather and Chad, and all three were staring at his portrait.

He looked so beautiful.

The glossy, ebony flame of his hair. The muscularity of his neck and shoulders, not quite hidden by the cut of his dress shirt. The dark curling of his eyelashes that didn’t once blink as he beheld himself.

Corinne watched him in profile, and she let herself feel the throes of longing and regret. But before she’d had her fill, he turned, his gaze landing on her with precision, as if he’d felt her there the whole time.

His expression was unreadable, and she nearly quailed, wondering if she’d be better off chasing after a customer. But she’d waited too long to see him, so she put one foot in front of the other until he was just an arm’s reach away.

“You came,” she said, lamely. Corinne swallowed and tried again. “I’m so glad you came.”

Chapter 28

H
is plan was a total failure.

Three weeks away from Corinne had done absolutely nothing to mute Wes’s feelings for her. One look was all he needed to make this clear. He still wanted her. He still needed her. He was still so fucking in love with her it threatened to eat him whole.

Chad had talked him into going to the gallery opening, saying that it couldn’t make his mood any worse. Wes knew that he’d been an ass the three weeks Chad had let him room with him—for free. His friend deserved better. When Wes had agreed to go, he decided that he wouldn’t be a killjoy the whole time, especially since Heather and Chad were going together.

The last thing he expected, though, was to come face to face with a painting that told the whole world how he felt. When he first laid eyes on it, he couldn’t look away. It captured everything he felt about Corinne. His aching desire. His utter despair. The man in the portrait lived in heaven and hell, looking at everything he wanted in life, never being able to have it.

But the painting meant that this was how she saw him—irrevocably hung up on her.

“I know Wes might think he has feelings for me, but I haven’t encouraged them.”

The words still burned him from the inside out. One look at that painting, and it was clear he’d never needed any encouragement. He had jumped in with both feet.

It was fucking embarrassing.

Wes had used Chad’s prodding as an excuse because, of course, he’d wanted to come. He wanted to see her. And he wanted to congratulate her on the work she’d done—both at the gallery and within her own life. Getting back to work had been a huge step for her, one that he understood better than anyone, and he wanted her to know how proud he was.

And she’d asked him.

When she’d texted to see if he was still going, he’d told her no. Corinne had thought he was upset, and she kept apologizing for what she’d said at Mrs. Betsie and Mr. Dan’s house.

He needed her to understand that he wasn’t angry about that.

“I am
not
in love with him!...I
can’t
love him!”

As much as it hurt to hear her say it—with so much vehemence—he couldn’t and wouldn’t blame her for how she felt. He understood perfectly. She was attracted to him—as she’d confessed in his truck that night—but she couldn’t act on it because it wasn’t enough. Corinne had said it wasn’t enough for him, but who was she kidding? It wasn’t enough for her.
He
wasn’t enough.

Hearing her talk about him when she thought he wasn’t listening had cleared up any question. His feelings were a problem. His presence was a problem.

So he had left. Staying with Chad for free meant that he could keep his promise to Corinne and continue paying her rent for three more months. And then they could go their separate ways. Wes didn’t think he could conjure a thought that disgusted him more, but it was the best he could give her.

He continued to stare at the picture of his own passion as these thoughts ran through his mind—until he felt her.

There was no other way to describe it. The gallery was packed with people, and the drone of conversation buzzed at an almost uncomfortable level. But he became aware that she was watching him, and he turned at once.

God, she’s so beautiful.

So many things he treasured about her were clear in just one look. The strength that carried her announced itself in the set of her shoulders. The vulnerability that softened her peered out of her eyes. The brilliance that was her art surrounded her and set her apart in this space she had helped to create.

The urge to go to her was stronger than the desire to draw breath, but Wes didn’t want to be the man in the painting, obsessed and in pursuit. He held himself still for the impossible seconds it took her to cross to him.

“You came,” she said, sounding surprised and looking somehow relieved. “I’m so glad you came.”

Her hazel eyes glittered under the gallery lighting. Had they always been this big?

“I wanted to,” he admitted. “You’ve worked so hard on this...It’s pretty amazing.”

A smile that he felt all the way down to his navel lit her face at his praise, and seeing it made every ounce of agony he’d have now or later absolutely worth it. Now that she was in front of him, all he could think about was how much he’d missed her. It was a relief—a huge relief—just to see her again.

“How have you been?” she asked, carefully, a slight frown crimping her brow.

“Okay,” he shrugged, not wanting to touch on how miserable he was. Wes blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve been training a lot...I have a half next weekend.”

“Oh, yeah,” Corinne nodded, her frown deepening. “Where is it again?”

“New Roads,” he said, watching her carefully. “Case and I are going to drive up together.”

“Oh,” she said, seeming to force a smile. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said, awkwardly. Corinne had never been into racing. Even if she’d gone to some of Michael’s, at best, she had tolerated it. He steered their talk back to the gallery. “This place looks awesome, Corinne.”

Her frown disappeared.

“Can I show you around?” she asked, and the look of tentative hope she gave him almost broke his heart. Of course, she could show him around. He’d have to pull himself away sometime tonight—sooner than he wanted—but now he’d go wherever she led him.

“Please,” he said, letting go of his heartbreak and allowing himself to feel happy for her.

To his surprise, she held out her hand to him, and he took it without hesitation. It shouldn’t have surprised him. They’d held hands a few times. Still, her touch made his stomach quiver. The sensation blotted out everything else as she guided him through the crowd.

“The exhibits are wonderful, and we’ll get to those,” she said leaning into him and dropping her voice to a whisper. “But I want to show you some of things that I did.”

She steered him to a partition in the middle of the gallery that featured almost a dozen small watercolors.

“You see that wall?” she asked, smiling. “I built that.”

“You built it?” he echoed, beaming, studying the sleek panel that seemed to float above the ground. “That’s frickin’ cool!”

“Yeah, I drew up a design, and I built it myself,” she said, clearly proud and almost surprised by it. “It’s mobile. You can roll it around.”

Wes knew that it was just one of the many things she’d done to make the gallery a success, and the fact that she wanted to share her pride with him set him apart from everyone else there.

“You’re so damn talented,” he told her, truthfully.

She pointed up to a series of lights on the ceiling.

“I installed those, too,” she said, beaming. “Can you picture me up on a ladder like a handyman?”

Wes could picture it vividly, and the thought of her falling or electrocuting herself took a year off his life.

She told him about all of the artists, pointing them out across the gallery, but she didn’t make any introductions. Wes noticed that several eyes tracked from the portrait on the front wall to him and back. He’d even caught people whispering with knowing looks. He should have felt exposed. In a way, he
did
feel exposed, but he also felt blameless.

Yes, that’s me on the wall. Yes, I really can’t help myself.

As they made the circuit around the gallery, Corinne still held his hand. She tugged him toward the back door and looked at him shyly.

“Could we step outside and just talk for a minute?” she asked.

Wes hesitated. He didn’t know what good could come of it, and he didn’t want things to turn awkward between them when they’d come safely this far.

“Please…” she added, an anguished look coming to her eyes.

He didn’t want to go, fearing that she’d actually put into words what he already knew—that she thought they were better off as friends. But he nodded anyway.

Wes followed her out the heavy steel door and into the sudden quiet of the July night. After the flood of voices inside, the song of cicadas and the murmur of traffic on Jefferson Street was almost soothing. Corinne closed the gallery door behind them, and they stood alone in the back lot.

He was aware that his hand entwined with hers felt clammy and knew it would only grow more so in the blanket of humidity that the night provided. He looked down at their hands because it was easier than waiting for what she had to say.

“I’ve really missed you,” she said, softly.

At first, the words startled him, as unexpected as they were. He’d missed her unbelievably, but Wes had not considered that she’d been missing
him
.

But, of course, it made sense. For three months, he’d been her safety net. Her security blanket. Her friend. Just because their feelings for each other didn’t match didn’t mean that she felt
nothing
for him. Of course, she cared about him in that friend way. In the grand scheme of things, that made him almost lucky. The woman he loved at least knew he existed.

He looked at her then, reminding himself to make the most of the time he had with her. To savor it. To allow himself to store up some memories.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted, though it couldn’t be much of a surprise to her.

But she did look a little more relieved. Still, he saw that the anguished look, one that tucked a hint of worry between her brows, hadn’t vanished.

“Does that mean you’ll come home, then?” Corinne asked in a rush before biting the corner of her lip.

Aww, fuck.

“I-I can’t, Corinne,” he stammered. He loved her—so much—but they couldn’t go back to the way things were. Not now. The tension for both of them would be so awful, especially knowing how she saw him. Wes refused to cling to her, cling to hope.

But at his words, her frown deepened, and her mouth shrunk.

“Are you...Are you doing this to punish me, Wes?” she asked, trembling now, looking chilled even in the summer heat.

“What? God, no!” He gripped her elbow and gave her arm a little shake. “Why in the hell would I want to punish you?”

“Because I hurt you,” Corinne’s shoulders sagged as she said this, and to his horror, Wes thought she looked like she would cry. “I hurt and denied you. Wes, how could I have done that? I’m so disgusted with myself.”

“Stop,” he whispered, moving his hands to her shoulders. “I’m not punishing you, baby.
You
are.”

Corinne eyed him doubtfully and ground her lip between her teeth, but she at least seemed to keep any tears at bay. He didn’t want her crying tonight. Tonight was about her success. Her progress.

“You think I’m angry with you,” he said, softly. “But I’m not...It’s okay.”

She shook her head.

“It’s not o—”

“Shh. I say it’s okay,” he insisted, gripping her shoulders again.

She shook her head a second time, frowning down at her feet. Then she brought her eyes to meet his.

“Do you know what you mean to me, Wes?” she asked, her eyes as big as river stones.

Wes’s mouth kicked up in a smile in spite of himself. When she said his name and looked at him like that, he could almost trick himself into hoping. He raised his hand and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

She was so beautiful, so alive and complex that he felt more alive just being with her. Building a life with Corinne would be—

“Do you...?” she demanded, searching his eyes.

He pushed his fantasy aside and gave her his answer.

“That night...
that
night,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of City Bar just down the street. “You told me that I saved you.”

Relief took her face, and she brought her palm to his cheek.

“You did,” she said. “You did.”

And before he knew what she was about, Corinne had closed the distance between them. She was kissing him. Again. Again, he could taste, and touch, and savor everything he wanted. Her kiss was a drug, beckoning him to dive in, headlong, threatening to shred the last of his self-control.

No.

It killed him. It decimated him. But Wes closed his fingers around those shoulders and pushed her away.

“I can’t, Corinne,” he gasped. “I can’t go down this road again.”