Chapter 10
Tim’s POV
Brielle sits silent, her gaze fixed but far away. The subtle shake of her shoulders, the vacancy in her expression-it’s all too familiar. It’s the same guarded posture I’ve seen countless times with my sisters, the telltale signs of someone quietly wrestling with their own demons, trying and failing to keep heavy thoughts at bay. I don’t know much about her, not yet, but the pull I feel toward her is undeniable. I want to hold her, tell her it won’t always hurt this way. But I know better than to push too hard; if I do, she might retreat completely, shutting me out before we ever truly start.
We step into my sister Cerelle’s studio, a warm and vibrant space filled with the buzz of art enthusiasts mingling and admiring her work. Cerelle has always been the artist of the family, somehow managing to carve a successful career out of her talent. Her pieces are highly sought after, attracting an impressive online following and regularly packed exhibitions. How she does it, I couldn’t say, but the quality of her work speaks for itself.
A waiter greets us upon arrival, offering glasses of champagne. A second server drifts by with an array of elegant canapés. It’s all polished sophistication, the kind of treatment reserved for high-end clientele. Most of the pieces here start at twenty thousand dollars, some climbing into far loftier price
ranges.
I spot Cerelle in a corner, her smile radiant as she answers questions about her art. Leading Brielle toward the main feature of the show, I pause in front of Cerelle’s standout piece, “A Day at the Races. It’s striking-a vivid depiction of a horse and jockey bursting through the finish line, flanked by rivals lagging behind. The oils lend the work a tactile, almost three-dimensional quality, every detail sharp and alive. The horse’s eye seems to follow you as you move, a hauntingly clever touch that makes the image linger long after you look away. I’ve admired it numerous times but haven’t purchased it. My home simply wouldn’t do it justice; a masterpiece like this deserves more than a hallway or spare
bedroom.
Brielle takes her time with the painting, quietly absorbed, though she says nothing. Eventually, she moves on, her silent intrigue leaving me wondering what she really thought. We stroll through the rooms at a steady pace, arriving at a space filled with wood carvings and sculptures. One piece catches her attention. She circles it, studying it intently, reading the placard, then scrutinizing it again. Her face remains unreadable, and I find myself baffled by her fascination. To me, the sculpture is bland, uninspired, something my niece could probably replicate. But what do I know? Art can be mystifying. I’ve seen canvases that resemble my splattered drop cloth after a paint job sell for exorbitant amounts.
Just then, Cerelle materializes, her energy magnetic as always. “Darling, so good of you to come,” she exclaims, pulling me into an extravagant hug and topping it off with air-kisses beside each cheek. She’s all pomp here, a far cry from how we naturally interact at home. I chuckle and return the gesture, brushing off the powder from her heavily made-up face.
“How could I not? I’m curious about what you’ve got on show this time. Maybe I’ll find something that speaks to me,” I reply, hoping to introduce Brielle, but Cerelle barely lets me get a word in before her assistant interrupts.
“Excuse me, Cerelle. You’re needed for a sale negotiation.” And just like that, Cerelle floats away, her usual grace leading her to a couple eyeing the main attraction-a sale in progress, though it’s not a
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piece I’d want in my home.
Turning to Brielle, I notice she’s wandered off again, stopping in front of another sculpture. This time, she smiles-a soft, fleeting expression-and the sight makes me glad we came. Whatever weighed on her earlier seems to have lightened, if only for now.
Joining her, I place a hand gently on her lower back, but the touch makes her flinch. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but at least it’s something. Leaning closer, I whisper, “Would you like another drink?” I’ve spotted waiters moving around with fresh trays, offering refills and more hors d’oeuvres.
She shakes her head. “No. When we’re done here, I’d like lunch-takeaway-and to sit in the park.”
“Sounds great. Any particular craving?”
“No. Surprise me.”
We continue exploring, wandering into rooms filled with pottery and then watercolors. It’s only now that I notice how Cerelle has grouped her displays-oils in one section, watercolors in another-with some charcoal pieces mixed into the latter. This may have been her usual method, but I’d never paid attention before. Brielle seems more drawn to the watercolors, her admiration prompting me to scrutinize the arrangement in a way I’d never bothered to before. She seems to have that effect on me, making me see things I’ve always overlooked. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Cerelle finds us again in what I’ve mentally dubbed “the watercolor room,” greeting me with more air k isses. “Tim, what are your plans later? Let’s catch up over dinner tonight,” she suggests, completely ig noring Brielle as she browses nearby.
“I have plans. Maybe another day,” I reply, offering Cerelle a quick hug before she drifts away toward another customer.
Brielle offers me a questioning look but keeps her thoughts to herself. I’d hoped she might ask, giving me the perfect opportunity to introduce her to Cerelle, but instead, she moves toward the final artwork -a charcoal rendering resembling a photo negative, cleverly manipulating the absence of color to transform daytime into an eerie nighttime illusion.
“Ready to go?” I finally ask, spurred by my grumbling stomach. While she’s been absorbed in the art, I’ve already ordered Chinese takeaway from my favorite spot. All that’s left is to pick it up.
“Sure. Do you want to say goodbye to the host?” she asks, glancing toward Cerelle, who’s engrossed in conversation with more potential buyers. I shake my head.
“I’ll catch up with her later. Right now, I’m starving. Those tiny bites didn’t stand a chance,” I joke, earning a soft giggle from Brielle, the sound like a reward after the morning’s tension.
Guiding her out, my hand settles on her lower back again, this time without protest. As we step outside, my driver pulls up, and I open the door for her. “The Chinese shop,” I tell him as I climb in behind her, buckling my seatbelt. He doesn’t ask which one. By now, he knows my go-to spot well.
