Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) (41 page)

She was still considering poverty.

A large, yellow flyer flapped beneath Mel’s windshield wiper. Jolie hated those things.
Lose ninety pounds in ninety days
, or
Earn fifteen hundred bucks in fifteen minutes
. Yeah, right. If life were that easy, everyone would be thin, rich, and Paris Hilton. Talk about a shame.

But this flyer, however, wasn’t about any of that stuff. It was—

Oh
.

An art-show benefit for St. Gabriel’s Church and the main contributor was going to be—

Todd Best.

Todd was doing a show.

In public. Tomorrow night.

She glanced between the two pieces of paper in her hands. One Todd needed to sign and the other showed her where he was going to be—in public so there didn’t need to be any gut-wrenching explanations or confrontations. Just a simple, “Hello, Todd, would you mind signing this so I can get on with my life as you obviously have with yours?” That shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

One could hope.

Though she hadn’t really been having such great luck in the hope department lately.

Or ever.

***

“
I’m not going.” Jolie held the dress against her chest and studied her image in the mirror.

Yes, you are.

Great. Naughty Girl was back from vacation.

You definitely should go.

Jolie checked out the dress again. Conservative black. Simple.

Safe
.

“
Go away.” The dress had been a post-Todd-days pick-me-up. She’d just never thought she’d wear it to see him.

Todd.

Oh, God. She had to go.

That’s my girl.

Jolie tried to ignore Naughty Girl, because, really, this had nothing to do with Naughty Girl and everything to do with Jolie and who she was. Who she’d always wanted to be.

From the moment she was old enough to realize her mother was calling the shots and they were all near-misses, she’d known she’d wanted to make her own decisions, wanted the chance to forge her own trail through life.

Well, she’d had that chance and look where it’d gotten her. She hadn’t made the best (no pun intended, but somehow it fit) decision with the manuscript. Yeah, her mom’s loser genes had shone through, but she couldn’t blame everything on her mother. She’d known what it’d do to him if he ever found out, even if the story wasn’t supposed to be for anyone but her.

Damn it! He needed to know that. Then, if he still opted out of what they’d had, it was on him. But she wasn’t going to try to sell that manuscript and he had to know that. She needed to explain it to him.

She’d
make
him let her explain it to him.

Just like those Regency heroines, it was time for her to take her fate into her own two hands.

And make that lemonade she was so fond of.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Normally, Jolie wasn’t a stand-in-line kinda girl. She had too many other things to do than wait for things when they’d be on eBay soon enough. But for Todd, for him, she would stand in line.

Many people had come out to see Todd’s work. She would have hoped the buzz in line would have been for St. Gabe’s, but it was all about him. A few young ladies even had the audacity to question if he had a new woman in his life.

If only
.

Finally, it was her turn to enter the church hall. White fabric hung from the ceiling—perfect backdrops to showcase Todd’s use of vibrant colors. It was one of the things he’d been known for. If the colors on his palette—and then on her and the drop cloth—were anything to go by, he was still using them.

She caught snippets as she wound her way through the maze of tables set up to take donations. She’d write a check later because she was too close and too curious to stop.

Simply beautiful
,
elegant and winsome
,
great depth
, and
elemental
were the descriptors being bandied about. He’d probably had a slew of models traipsing through his studio to earn those kinds of accolades. Though, really, he could’ve painted a sack of potatoes and made it look elegant and winsome.

Or grapes. Sour ones.

Someone offered her a glass of champagne and she took it, needing the fortification with the paper from Domestic Gods & Goddesses burning a hole in her black clutch—except it brought to mind the bottle she’d left with the groceries that last day.

She set the glass down.

“
Have you seen him yet, Marsha?” One of society’s matrons giggled in a girlish stage-whisper to her equally matron-ish friend.

“
No, Babette, I haven’t. There’s quite a crush around him. And who can blame all those young women? The man has returned to the land of the living looking vibrantly alive and well. If I were thirty years younger I’d be in that pack of she-wolves myself.”

Words Jolie did not need to hear.

Finally the corridor opened into the hall. Canvases hung in front of the white fabric, some on easels sprinkled throughout the crowd. He must’ve been painting non-stop since she’d last seen him. There had to be more than a dozen, each with a group of people ringing it.

The throng in the center of the hall told her all she needed to know. Todd was holding court center stage. Her heart sped up and she had to catch her breath.

He was here. She was here. Oh, lord.

She couldn’t face him. Not yet. She patted her upswept hair. Maybe she’d coast near the pictures and see who, or rather,
what
he painted, then work her way in from the edges to talk to him. Build her nerve up.

And to plan what she was going to say. “Hi Todd, I love you and never meant to hurt you” was kind of a big left hook to hit someone with.

A pianist tickled the ivories in the corner; champagne flutes clinked amid the little tinkling of artificial laughter as someone said something so
witty and droll
(insert heavy English accent.) All very
chi-chi
and hip. Upper Crust all the way.

“
So vulnerable,” one lady murmured as she sipped her champagne, turning from the closest picture. “Quite lovely, really,” her date added.

Jolie stood on her tiptoes to see over everyone’s head. Nothing but frame.

“
A wealth of feeling.”

“
Better than he was before.”

“
Who is his model?”

Well, the guy was back with a buzz. He was going to have a hard time keeping Mike off his case if the crowd’s reaction was anything to go by.

Jolie had no luck whatsoever getting close to the picture and the one little sip of champagne she’d had was bubbling in her stomach, making the butterflies there a little tipsy. She needed to get this over with. She’d catch the portraits on her way out.

She wormed her way into the groupies around Todd, her knees threatening to go on strike when she heard his chuckle. God, she’d forgotten how it vibrated through every nerve she possessed, lodging directly in the middle of her heart.

She reached into her clutch with shaky fingers and pulled out the crinkled Domestic Gods & Goddesses form, needing the tangible reminder of why she was putting herself through this pleasure/pain.

“
The model’s lovely, Best,” an older man said with a whiskey-deepened voice. “Anyone I might know?”

“
Now Jefferson, that’s part of the mystique. You know I never explain the nuances to my work.”

Except to her, but Jolie didn’t say it.

“
She’s not real,” a woman by her elbow said. “That’s why, right, Todd? She’s your ideal woman, the one you’re searching for?”

Way to be sensitive, lady.

There was a curt silence. Jolie was hoping Ms. Foot-In-Mouth recognized her enormous
faux pas
.

“
I could tell you, Margaret, but then I’d have to kill you.” Chuckles all around saved Todd’s heartache from becoming public and Margaret’s gaffe from dampening the mood. “But yes, she’s real.”

“
So tell us, Todd.” That female voice was laced with way too many innuendos and husky come-ons than Jolie cared to count. “How do you capture that feeling? It’s intangible, yet you make her vulnerability a physical presence in the painting.”

Honestly, it sounded like she was sliding her phone number into his pocket as she spoke.

“
Unfortunately, Buffy, I can’t answer that.”

Oh puh-leaze. The name sooooo fit Miss Come-On.

“
I have no idea how I do it. One minute I’m trying to capture something about the subject, and the next, it’s there. I’ve simply got it.”

Why did this conversation sound familiar?

Jolie had no time to consider this as, all of a sudden, the crowd shifted and she was there, face to face with Todd.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black, and, oh how it made his green eyes shine like beacons from his face, calling her in. He’d lost some of his tan, probably from painting like a fiend to get these ready, but those shoulders were still as broad as ever and his hair had finally had a date with a pair of scissors. She was rather partial to the earlier “do,” though.

Everyone else was carrying on their conversations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but Jolie, she felt like she was Alice down the proverbial rabbit hole.

“
Jolie.” Apparently Todd felt the same way. He took a step back, blocking the picture near him.

“
Uh, hi, Todd.” She started The Big Apology, then was jostled by some overweight, over-champagned, be-ringed, art connoisseur wannabe. Todd reached out to catch her elbow, stepping away from the canvas.

Oh.

My.

God.

It was her.

She
was the woman in the portrait.

“
Jolie.”

He was talking to her, but she couldn’t pull her gaze from the painting. There was a strange buzzing in her head as it registered that it was
her
back to the artist,
her
long dark tendrils of hair clinging damply to her spine, the swell of
her
hip peeking out from a white cloth covered in different colored slashes of paint, the curve of
her
breast visible beneath her arm. A swath of hair covered her face, but she’d recognize the tip of her nose anywhere. Pink rose petals covered her fingers.

He’d painted her and now he was showing that painting to everyone.

Just as he’d said he wouldn’t do.

Just as he’d
promised
he wouldn’t do.

“
Jolie,” he whispered in her ear urgently as, suddenly, she was next to Todd and he had a vice grip on her wrist. “I can explain.”

Nothing. Not a single word escaped. Could be because she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head and pulled her hand to her mouth—the hand holding the form. It slashed her cheek and she welcomed the pain. It cut through the haze, making her realize she had to get out of there fast.

“
Jolie, please. You’ve got to—”

“
No!” Luckily, her breath was still AWOL or she was pretty sure she would’ve screamed it.

As it was, her voice came out raspy and stage-whisper-y. “Here.” She thrust the DG&G form at him and when he reached out to take it, she yanked her wrist back, turned, and pushed through the crowd.

She heard one “Jolie!” before she broke free.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

She ran. Again.

Out the opposite end of the exhibition hall and through a set of dark wood double doors, yanking on the old ornate brass handles with all her strength.

How could he have done that? How could he have put her out there for everyone to see?

The door closed behind her with a soft
whoosh
and she found herself in a moonlit courtyard ringed by a wrought-iron fence dressed in tiny white lights. A fountain gurgled to her left, an ornamental bamboo garden behind it. Two stone benches curved in front of the stone basin where a cherub poured fountain water. A café set of wrought-iron table and chairs filled the far side, another bench to her right. Across the courtyard, a set of stained glass doors led into St. Gabriel’s Church and next to it, a wall of ivy, honeysuckle and climbing roses, also draped in tiny lights. The gate was just visible beneath years’ worth of growth.

She headed that way, wanting the quickest way out. Of so many things.

She was almost there when she realized what she was doing. Again.

Running. Hiding. Pretending it would go away.

It wouldn’t. And therefore, she couldn’t. If she didn’t face him now, end this, she’d always be the one who ducked and ran. The one who’d be asking what-if questions for the rest of her life. She couldn’t do that anymore.

She was in charge of her life. Her. Not a social worker, not Mommie Dearest, not Naughty Girl, and most certainly not Todd Best.

She’d wanted him to be
in
her life, not
in charge
of it and he owed her an explanation every bit as much as she owed him.