Chapter 9

Blair

I stared at the ceiling overhead and listened to his breathing, deep and steady beside me.

Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three.

The man who’d taken my virginity, who just happened to be the hooker I’d hired for a weekend, slept peacefully while I mulled over what’d happened here in this bed.

I’d kept sex off the cards for so long, I’d forgotten it was still a possibility. Samson had come along and blown my expectations out of the water. Scratch that, he’d blown my mind.

And now I couldn’t sleep.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The sheets fell to my waist, and my skin prickled with goosebumps. It was still damn cold in the house without power, and our candle had burned almost down to the wick.

I scuffled over to my bag, unzipped it, and dressed quickly and quietly. A double layer – long-sleeved shirt and a sweater, matched with jeans, and woolly socks did the trick.

Samson rolled over in his sleep but his breathing remained steady.

I hurried to the bedside table and brought out another candle, then lit it and placed it in the little holder. I lifted the whole thing, shielded it with my hand and tiptoed from the room, out into the hall.

The grandfather clock downstairs click-clocked away but the rest of the house was dark and eerily silent. The winds outside had died down. Doubtless, the snow had, too. I moved along the hall, wincing at every creak of the floorboard beneath my socks.

Every great moment in my life, or every negative one, had ended in one thing. Art.

Painting helped me sort through my thoughts and emotions. Talking didn’t help, thinking it through didn’t either, only the brush and canvas.

I reached the stairs at the far corner that led to the third floor and took them two at a time. On the landing, I spun to my left and hurried toward the door at the far end of the corridor – the one my mother never entered.

I turned the golden knob and entered my old room.

Flickering light cast shadows on my old bedspread – images of an anime egg Gudetama decorated it, in various states of depression. The bookshelf in the corner creaked under the weight of books I’d been unable to take with me to Harvard, all covered in dust now. There on the far right, next to the window, now shuttered against the storm, stood my easel.

It was just as I’d left it, with an empty canvas attached.

I walked to the desk and put down my candle, nostrils filling with the scent of home. My old room. My safe haven from Mom’s countless escapades, whether they were parties with people I didn’t want to meet, or dates with men who she’d undoubtedly leave in the lurch.

“My place,” I muttered, and my voice didn’t travel far in the quiet.

And now, my place to express my feelings about Samson and what’d happened between us.

“First thing’s first.” I shut the door, though I couldn’t lock it since Mom had refused to get one installed, then made for the window. I opened it, then threw up the storm shutters. Icy air blasted into the room, accompanied by a swirl of snowflakes.

Outside, the sun peered over the horizon. Everything glittered under a blanket of snow. Trees with their branches coated in white, cars were no more than a series of lumps, and the road itself was hidden from view. Gray light filtered between the trees in Mom’s backyard.

And the power was still out.

That wouldn’t stop me from painting, though.

I let the coldness seep into the room, to wake me up, then closed the window. I left the shutters up for the view.

All right. Let’s do this.

I fetched my paints out of the desk and placed them and my palette on the small stool beside the easel. I squeezed out the colors from the tubes, mixed those I needed with the end of my brush, then studied the blank canvas.

This was the best part of a project.

The possibility for what could be, rather than the finished product. The end of the journey paled in comparison to the beginning.

I started, drawing the outline of my picture, layering yellows and whites together. My brush swept across the canvas, transmuting my thoughts into tangible color. I slashed up, swept down, pressed the sleeves of my sweater back.

The sun rose higher and sparkled on the whiteness outside. Silence but for the distance tick-tock of that clock. The snow hadn’t just covered the roads and houses physically, it’d brought its own special muteness, as it always did this time of year.

No doubt, the Christmas tree out front would look festive without the lights and trimmings, carrying its burden of snow.

The painting in front of me took form.

Thoughts raced across the surface of my mind, images, too – all of last night and the first time I’d been with a man.

A man you’re paying.

“God,” I muttered. “Isn’t that perfect?”

I’d already started falling for him and the way he spoke, carried himself. His presence filled the house, not just a room, and sat in the center of me – a knot of Samson Barnes.

I stepped back and admired my work in progress, heart thumping along in my chest.

It wasn’t perfect but it was close enough. A good start.

Samson’s chocolate-brown eyes challenged me from the canvas, and I’d captured the beard, the jaw line, and the thickness of his neck. His hair wasn’t right, though. I tapped the end of my paintbrush against my lips.

The door creaked open behind me, and I jumped, let out a yelp.

“Sweetheart?” Mom’s voice scattered the reverent silence.

“Mom.” I spun on the spot and stepped in front of the canvas but it was too late to hide what I’d painted there. Not that it mattered – she already knew we were ‘engaged.’

Regina stood with her hands tucked into the fur-lined pockets of her robe. “Oh, you’re painting again,” she said.

“Yes. I needed some quiet time.”

“Oh.”

The silence crept back but this time it was awkward. Mom’s insistence that my painting was just a hobby stood between us, the ugly monster in the room.

“I thought we should talk,” she said and padded in. She clicked the door shut behind her.

“What? Why?”

“Because that’s what families do, Blair. They talk.”

“We’re not a conventional family,” I replied.

Mom lowered her head and heaved a sigh. “I’ll take that, fine. We’re not conventional, but we still need to discuss what’s happening here.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you came up here for Christmas and sprang this fiancé of yours on me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you, I just think it’s a little soon for you to be getting married.” She sniffed, fiddled around in her pockets. “You’ve known him how long, now? A year, you said?”

“Should we ignore your spectacular hypocrisy?” I asked. “Mom, you’ve had more relationships than I’ve had Frappuccino, and you’ve literally married men you’ve only known a month.”

“Yes, and I’m single now.”

“Don’t worry,” I snapped. “I don’t plan on winding up like you.”

“Happy? Rich?”

“Bitter,” I replied.

Mom’s nostrils flared, and she squeezed her eyes closed for a second. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, Blair.”

I didn’t have shit figured out, and I surely wasn’t harboring the illusion that I did. But I’d spent enough time at University to know that this was the only recourse left to me. This fake fiancé, this strange feeling that’d taken priority after last night.

Regina opened her eyes and speared me with a crystal-blue gaze. “You’re not seriously going to throw away your education for this man, are you?”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” I replied.

“Good, so you’ll stay in school and become a lawyer.”

“No. I’m getting married,” I lied. “And after that, I’m going to pursue whatever career or passion I see fit.” I gripped the paintbrush in my hand and the wooden cylinder bit into my palm. “It’s my choice to make.”

“Because you’ve got some rich guy to look after you,” she said, and the sharp features softened slightly. She ran a finger down her nose, long and curved, not anything like mine. “Sweetheart, love isn’t a guarantee, and neither is marriage. What will happen when he leaves you high and dry? What then? You’ll have nothing to your name.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said. “Who says he’s going to leave me high and dry? Or at all?”

“Oh, come on,” she whispered and glanced over her shoulder. “You’ve seen the man. He’s powerful and rich and handsome. He can have anyone he wants. I know that type of man, and they’re usually the ones who are never satisfied. They’re bored with life, and they’d much rather prefer to screw around than settle down. It’s only a matter of time before –”

“That’s enough,” I said and jabbed the end of the brush at her. “Enough. I don’t want to hear it, Mom. I’m engaged. It’s Christmas. I thought you would be happy for me.”

“I am happy.” She didn’t sound it, and the corners of her mouth drooped downward. “I just want what’s best for you, that’s all.”

No. She wants what’s best for her. “Mom, you had a chance to become a lawyer, remember?”

“Don’t start with me,” she said. “Now, I didn’t come up here just to talk about the future. I came up here because the power is still out, and I’m absolutely craving a cup of coffee.”

And just like that, Regina Scott, the master of changing the subject when it suited her, ended our conversation. No more mother-daughter talk. Back to the pithy crap and nicknames from before.

Back to passive-aggression. Yay!

I stared at her and didn’t speak.

“I need help getting the generator running, darling. I know you’re good with that type of thing. Do you think you could help out? I’d be eternally grateful,” she said and pressed her palms together in front of her chest.

I didn’t say a word.

“Blair, I’m asking you to help me. You can’t stay up here painting in the cold all day.”

“Fine,” I said and put the brush on my easel. “But please, don’t disturb me while I’m painting in the future. Especially not to tell me that my fiancé’s going to leave me and that my passion is bullshit.”

“You always take things to the extreme. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said and stuck out her bottom lip. “For heaven’s sake, darling, I’m just looking out for you.”

“Right,” I said and adjusted my sweater. “I’ll get the generator started.” But only because it would get me away from her and the awful truth that she couldn’t be closer to the truth about Samson.

After this weekend, it’d be over.