The Art of Romance (36 page)

“Okay. I’ll meet you under the sign at six fifteen on Saturday.”

“See you then.” She said good-bye and got off the phone quickly, which he appreciated.

Cleaning up his paints and supplies, Dylan paused a moment to review the work he’d accomplished. There, in the center of the four-by three-foot canvas was the pencil sketch of Caylor. And beside and below her, an artist at a rustic easel, ready to paint the beautiful woman—a Renaissance artist with the profile of twenty-first-century Dylan Bradley.

He could never let anyone see this painting. Except maybe Caylor. But then only once he knew for certain she felt the same for him as he felt for her.

Caylor gladly closed her notebook and stuffed it in her bag as the black car rolled to a stop before the Plaza Hotel. She reached for the door handle, but someone opened it before she could. She stepped out and thanked the uniformed doorman, then turned to take her suitcase from the driver.

He looked at her as if snakes had sprouted from her scalp. The uniformed man—maybe a bellhop and not a doorman?—took the suitcase and, almost bowing and scraping, ushered her into the hotel lobby.

She tried not to gawk at the opulence surrounding her. Once she’d learned Zarah’s mother-in-law-to-be had booked them into the landmark hotel, Caylor had looked up images online, trying to prepare herself. But nothing could have prepared her for the real marble, chandeliers, and gilded, ornate ceiling. And this was just the lobby.

The hotel clerk handed Caylor a note to read while she got checked in. She instantly recognized Zarah’s handwriting:

Caylor smiled and tucked the note into her blazer pocket. Zarah and her grandmother, along with Bobby’s mother and grandmother, had flown in last night. She was already overwhelmed, and they hadn’t even gotten to the bridal salon yet. Sage had watched a program on cable that showed women going into the store at which Beth had made the appointment to buy the wedding dress. Caylor had stopped and watched a few minutes of the show with her last weekend. She had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very emotionally trying day for Zarah, whose only reason for agreeing to this trip was to please Beth Patterson.

“This way, please, ma’am.” The bellhop led her toward the elevators. As unobtrusively as she could, Caylor pulled money out for a tip, which she gave to the man as soon as he set her suitcase on the luggage rack in the closet.

At first she thought his affronted expression was because she hadn’t tipped him enough. “Do you not want assistance in unpacking, ma’am?”

“What—no, thank you very much. I believe I can handle it.” Um, no, she didn’t want a stranger—man or woman—going through her personal items.

“Very good, ma’am. The butler service is available anytime you need anything.”

Butler service? At a hotel? Good grief, she was really out of her element now. “Thank you.”

He finally left, and Caylor dropped into the armchair at the end of the luxurious, king-size bed. A glance at the clock informed her she had more than six hours to kill before meeting everyone else for dinner. Flannery would be tied up all day, too—she’d flown up earlier this week to meet with authors and agents and vendors in the area, and today was her day to wrap everything up.

The New York Public Library was a place that any English professor worth her salt should visit. But if they were all going together on Saturday, why go by herself today?

She stood and crossed to the window—out of which she had a view of a very busy street lined with piles of dirty snow, tons of buildings, and a gray sky above it all. She wished her room overlooked Central Park—but couldn’t imagine how expensive that view was.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art wasn’t too far away—at least not from what she’d seen on the map online. Dylan had mentioned a few times how much he enjoyed visiting the art museum when he lived here, even though it had taken him almost an hour to get to it from his apartment in Brooklyn.

She leaned her head against the cool glass. What would it have been like to have her first experience visiting New York with someone who’d lived here—someone who’d experienced the city as a college student, as someone who couldn’t afford the Plaza and a car on call and designer wedding dresses at a boutique so famous it had its own TV show? What a different experience seeing New York through Dylan’s eyes would have been. She had a feeling she probably would have enjoyed it more.

Once she figured out she’d have to pay for Internet service, she pulled her phone out and used her rarely accessed web connection to look up information about the art museum.

If she couldn’t see New York with Dylan, she’d at least make sure she saw a part of the city he loved. It might be one of the last threads of contact she had with him, given his reaction to her revelation on Sunday.

The same black luxury car picked her up outside the hotel and drove her straight to the Eighty-Second Street entrance of the art museum. She arranged with the driver to be picked up at five o’clock and then entered the enormous museum.

Once she paid her admission fee and entered the great hall, the magnificence of the place made her consider running all the way back to the hills of Tennessee from whence she came—the same feeling that had struck her the first time she’d toured Buckingham Palace in London. Drawing a deep breath, she looked down at the map they’d given her and saw European Paintings marked in several wings of the gallery on the second floor.

She needed to see Titian’s paintings, but she didn’t know how to go about finding them. Or if the museum actually had any.

Entering the European gallery, Caylor started out going from painting to painting, more interested in reading the placards beside each framed masterpiece than in the paintings themselves.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

She turned at the masculine voice. A young man—who looked every inch the artist, from his long hair to his full beard to the paint stains on his hands—stood a few steps from her.

“Do you work here?” She turned her back on the painting by someone named El Greco.

“No, but I’m here often enough they should hire me. I’m pretty familiar with what they have here.” He hooked his thumbs in the frayed pockets of his jeans.

“Okay—I’m looking for paintings by the Italian painter Titian.”

His grayish eyes lit up. “I know exactly where those are. Follow me.” He led her to a room with red walls. “These are the Italian masters. And there is
Venus and the Lute Player
.”

Caylor glanced at the painting he indicated—and nearly choked. “Did…did Titian paint a lot of nudes?”

“Yes—as did most of the Italian masters of the Renaissance—though he created plenty of history paintings, some religious scenes, and portraits in which everyone is clothed. Why the interest in Titian?” The guy moved around until he stood almost between Caylor and the painting.

“I know…someone, an art professor at the university where I teach, who studied Titian in school. He’s talked quite a bit about how Titian is one of his greatest influences, so I thought while I was in New York I’d take the time to see Titian’s work for myself.” She averted her eyes from the painting. “Now I’m not quite so sure I wanted to know that much about Dylan.”

“Dylan…not Dylan Bradley?” He looked around sheepishly at the way his raised voice echoed in the almost empty chamber.

“Yes. How do you know him?”

He scrubbed his fingers in his beard. “We shared a flat when we were undergrads at Steinhardt. I’m Wyatt Oakes.”

Out of however many million people lived in New York, she had to run into someone connected to the man who currently served as the biggest complication in her life. “Caylor Evans. You don’t happen to own an Irish wolfhound, do you?”

Wyatt threw back his head and laughed. “He told you about the

dog?”

“I’ve seen it in his paintings.” She rubbed her forehead.

“Of all days for me to visit the museum to get inspiration. When did you last see Dylan?” He led her to the bench in the middle of the room.

“I just saw him Sunday.”

“Really? Wow—that woman must really have eased up on his restrictions. For a while there, she was keeping him on a very short leash. Last time I tried calling him—about four or five months ago—she answered his phone and told me to stop calling him, that he needed to concentrate on his art.” Wyatt dropped onto the bench beside her. “So if you teach with Dylan, I guess you know Rhonda, too.”

If Caylor hadn’t been sitting, she might have fallen down. All the strength left her body. “N–no. I’ve never met Rhonda. Dylan is teaching at James Robertson University in Nashville now. That’s where I know him from.” There and from the mental image she’d built of him from his self-portraits and the person he’d presented himself to be over the past couple of months.

“Oh. Dylan’s back in Nashville? Well, he must have finally seen the light and broken up with that b—that woman. Since he’d just moved in with her last time I talked to him, I assumed this was going to be a long-term thing. Of course, I did warn him about getting involved with someone he worked with that closely.” Wyatt’s pocket buzzed. He pulled out a cell phone. “Oops, that’s my alarm to remind me I’ve got to run. It was nice to meet you, Caylor Evans.”

“You, too.” But that was a lie. She managed to hold her smile until Wyatt disappeared into the next gallery. Then she doubled over, arms wrapped around her stomach.

Dylan had been living with a woman—apparently one he’d worked with at the art school in Philadelphia—as recently as four or five months ago. A woman who, it seemed, did a fair job of controlling everything he did.

And he was upset at the fact Caylor had written six steamy romance novels more than five years ago?

Sassy was right. He wasn’t the man she thought he was.

A
sharp pain in Caylor’s shoulder made her blink—and realize the limo had stopped in front of the bridal boutique. She’d have a bruise in the shape of Flannery’s fist on her arm tomorrow.

The frigid mid-February air bit her nose and cheeks, and she hurried into the store, not caring how far behind her any of the others were—and not wanting Flannery to question her again about why she couldn’t focus today. The excuse that she just hadn’t slept well would only work for so long.

She waited inside the lobby area in the enormous store until the others joined her. Beth Patterson marched past her to the front counter. “We have an eleven o’clock appointment with Jessica. Bride’s name is Zarah Mitchell.”

“Please have a seat right over there, and your sales consultant will be right with you.”

The area looked like a hotel lobby with clusters of sofas and chairs, though here, each grouping was gathered in a semicircle around a dais—no doubt where the bride showed off her dress. And even though it was a Friday, every section seemed to be full of customers.

A young woman dressed all in black came over and welcomed them to the store. “I’m Jessica. Who’s my bride?”

They all looked at Zarah, who stood. “Zarah Mitchell.”

“Congratulations.” The sales consultant smiled a too-perfect smile and looked around at the other five women. “And who did you bring with you today?”

Zarah turned and motioned to each in turn. “My fiancé’s mother, Beth Patterson; his grandmother, Lindy Patterson; my grandmother, Trina Breitinger; and my best friends and maids of honor, Flannery McNeill and Caylor Evans.”

“So nice to meet all of you.”Jessica turned to Zarah again. “When’s your wedding?”

“Memorial Day weekend. So we’re on kind of a tight turnaround.”