Chasing Stars (28 page)

My fingers swiftly press the delete button. Two e-mails and three text messages from Portia, but I will not bother to read them. My heart leaps and contracts, all at the same time. It infuriates me. How can I still react this way? It’s been over a week since my world tumbled down like square pieces of Jenga game.

Again, I consider switching my cell phone number, banishing any remaining ties with Portia. We have different lives, different values. Our worlds collided and, for a while, I tried to reach farther than I am capable. I realize this truth now, though it kills me.

Staying occupied with the final preparations to the exhibition has helped immensely in preventing me from answering or replying to her calls. In all honesty, my fingers prickle with the urge to press the green button when her damn picture flashes on the screen. I know is a shitty way of responding, but I desperately miss her.

I park across from Timeless Art Gallery and send Pam a text informing her that I am waiting. At the dashboard is the brochure sent along with the reception invitation. Reading it, I cringe at the description of me. Dan told me once that I must accept my God-given talent “gift” as it is. Simple, I know. Perhaps I will someday.

Growing up without a family, I hate to admit, has made me somewhat insecure. Interestingly, it is easier for me to accept criticisms to my flaws instead of compliments about my skills. Not that I rejoice on disapproval, I don’t, but it is familiar. Teachers, cops, caseworkers, foster parents, and peers reminded me constantly of how lousy I was. I grew up absorbed in self-loathing and that shaped how I viewed myself until I met Dan. Love has being the single and most effective antidote to my self-esteem issues. I have—since learning to accept my skills and my flaws—learned to a certain degree to tolerate praise.

And at this sort of event, one is praised. It is paradise for the egocentric. I really wish I could bypass this awful process. However, the buzz sells my work, and for an astronomical amount of money. In this exhibit alone, twenty-seven canvases will be on display. The estimated value of this collection is three million dollars.

It humbles me that people are willing to pay that kind of money for my work. Now, I keep this to myself, but I would pay someone to take my work home. To be paid for it? Unbelievable.

Pam’s father, who owns this preeminent fine arts gallery, has a clinical eye for the vast world of arts. In his gallery, he hosts famous and aspiring artists from around the globe. I met Pam back on college. We had a painting class together, even though she is the worst painter I have ever seen. I only say that, because she readily admits to her ineptitude with a paintbrush. What she lacks in artistic talent, she makes up for in her shrewdness in business. She also has a critical eye for art, a trait she inherited from her father. Needless to say, she studied business
and
fine arts.

She opens the opulent gallery door and beckons to me. Pam is beautiful in her own smart way. Her hair, sleek and raven black, is always pulled into a perfect knot. Her big and round eyes have a pale gray hue. She has an adorable dimple when she smiles, which I love to see, so I make her smile often.

We dated for almost two years and after the relationship ended, we remained friends. I really cared for Pam. But she confessed that she felt second to my art, which I can’t blame her for since painting is my obsession. Well, until Portia entered my life. I force away any other thoughts of Portia.

Stretching across, I push open the passenger door for Pam.

“Hello, Will.” She grins, and her dimple appears. “Thank you for the lift.”

“Hi, Pam. Not a problem.” I lower the volume of the radio.

Pam’s parents live in New Canaan, Connecticut, which is on my way to my family’s home. Throughout college, we rode the train together on our way to spend weekends with our families.

“God, I can’t believe we are done with school. It’s taking some adjustment.” She looks at me. Her face has strong features that contrast with the heart-shaped lips.

“I find it hard to believe you are having trouble adapting. You’ve always worked nonstop for your family’s business.” Smiling, I take off on the busy road.

“True, maybe that’s the reason I miss school. It was my break from my father, the slave driver.” She laughs, and I know she loves what she does. “By the way, are you nervous? The big day, is coming up.” She knows how I feel about the whole ordeal.

“Yep, as ready as I will ever be.” I scowl.

“Guess what? Most of the guests have confirmed, including the biggest collectors and museum curators on the list. And the reporters at some major magazines and papers. Will, it is going to be a huge success.” She touches my arm the way she always did during our conversations. However, this time it feels wrong, but I don’t say anything.

“Yay,” I mumble.

“Jeez, hold your enthusiasm, Will.” She flashes me a flirty smile.

“Sorry, I am thrilled for the exhibition. But God, I hate this process.”

“No joke,” she says. “Will, people are crazy about your paintings. This is your third solo exhibit with us and it’s been some time since your second one. Collectors know you’ve matured and are curious to see how. Dad believes this will be the greatest reception we’ve held to date.”

“Whoa, that makes me feel so much better; I mean no pressure, huh?” I force a lopsided smile.

“Really, Will, you are sort of a phenomenon. Let it sink in, and enjoy the ride. People would give their first born for your talent.”

“Again, thanks for taking away the pressure,” I say, my sarcasm masking my insecurity.

This time, Pam reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You are going to kick ass, and I will be with you, every step of the way,” she reassures me.

I glance at her and smile, thinking of the day we met. Our conversation had been somewhat similar. Fate united us during our first year in college. I was on the train, going to spend the weekend at home, when she approached me.

“Hi, Will,” she said.

“Sorry, do I know you?” I asked, embarrassed for not remembering her, especially since she was so pretty.

“No, but I know you. I mean, everybody on campus does,” she said, sliding in the empty seat next to me.

“What?” I asked.

“Homework?” She pointed to my sketchpad.

“No.” I glanced down at my stained fingers and the sketch of the pole next to my seat.

“You’re drawing a pole, for fun?” Her brows shot up as she studied the lines.

“It is not just a pole.” My fingers resumed the familiar strokes that always soothe me.

“Huh?” She studied the illustration further.

“See, at the bottom?” I point my pencil to the pole. “That’s a piece of gum that contains someone’s DNA. Maybe, it will be here for longer than we will be. This pole hosts a living organism.”

“Kind of make sense.” She shrugged. “Anyway, you’ve become the object of jealousy, admiration, and curiosity among your fellow students.”

“What you mean?”

“Your talent with your painting, y’know.” She nodded to my sketchpad.

No I don’t. “Oh,” I said.

“Even my father has heard of you. He asked me if I had seen your work. And this is only the second week of school.”

Dazzled, I went along. “Yeah, I kind of enjoy painting.”

“You can say that again. I am Pamela, by the way. We are in intro to painting together.”

“Will.” I shook her outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I know. In my dorm, the girls call you, ‘The Cinderella Man.’”

“And why is that?” I frowned.

“My gosh, Will, where have you been for the last two weeks.” She grinned and I thought her dimples were the cutest things I had ever seen.

“You isolate yourself to paint like a madman. You are an orphan, which is tragic and adds an element of mystery. In addition, you earned a scholarship and you are hot as hell. Will, there is a line of girls crazy to meet you.” She brushed her bangs from her eyes.

“And you know all these info, about me because…” I raised my brow.

“Oh, don’t be modest. Which part of the conversation didn’t you get? You are the celeb of campus.”

In disbelief, I laughed. Pam, thinking I was enjoying the whole story, laughed with me.

“So, do you want to stay?” she repeats, bringing me back to the present. I pull over in front of her family’s sumptuous Victorian house.

“No, sorry, tell your parents I appreciate the invite, but Maritza and Dan are expecting me for dinner,” I say.

“Well, I’ll text you. Maybe, we can go to the movies.” She kisses me on the cheek.

“Sure, that’d be cool.” While I consider her invitation, I wait for her to enter the house before I take off. Yeah, maybe going out with Pam will help me forget about Portia.

Standing in front of the mirror, I brush my hair, which is back to its natural blonde shade. I let it fall over my shoulders. I am wearing a Versace golden strapless cocktail dress that hugs my curves in all the right places. After I dab on red lipstick, I grab my clutch and jacket, and slide into my stilettos.

I stride to the living room, pour myself a glass of cognac, and wait for Priscilla and Dad. Though the reception is not until eight, I am ready. I am anxious to see Will, and I want to be prompt. On one of the few occasions, Priscilla and I happened to be in this house at the same time, I heard her bitching,
“I hate being tardy.”
I don’t want to upset her.

A week ago, when I asked Priscilla to take me along to this exclusive reception, she refused. She claimed she had already sent the RSVP. I begged. Yes, I did. But she remained firm with her decision. I called Dad and asked him to intervene on my behalf. Finally, Priscilla agreed to call the gallery manager and requested that my name be added to the guest list. I suspect the manager is the hateful Pamela Lee.

I wonder if Will knows I am coming, and how he will react to see me. I don’t mind the humiliation of getting to him like this. I can deal with that. However, it shreds me to pieces to think he will be unhappy with me at his exhibition.

With a slight tremor, I bring the glass with cognac to my lips and gulp it down. It burns my throat, making me grimace. If I am going into this blind, I need to take off the edge.

I need to face Will. I have kept my distance and respected his need to cool off, but I can’t stay away any longer. Before I get up for a refill, Priscilla makes her appearance, followed by my father. I study her. She is blonde, tall, and elegant. She wears a black silk Dolce and Gabbana dress, completed with pearls. God, she is refined. The epitome of elegance.

Feeling inept I mumble, “Hi Priscilla, thank you for arranging for me to go along with you.”

“Oh, nonsense. I am one of their best clients. It is natural and I expected they would bend rules for me.” She waves her hand, to emphasize her point.

The sight of Dad brings a smile to my lips. In his early fifties, his dirty blonde hair is receding slightly, but he is athletic and slender. He is astonishingly handsome and wears a simple black suit. Putting the glass on the table, I stand up and I think I see a sparkle in Dad’s blue eyes when he sees me.

I admire Priscilla and Dad. They are every bit as beautiful as they appear in the hundreds of magazine pictures I have seen. I realize this is the first time we will attend a social event together. Yep, I am serious. I have invited them to all my award ceremonies, including when I won the Oscar. But each time Priscilla politely and formally declines saying, “Sorry, dear, but we are previously engaged with another social event.”