EPILOGUE
Michaela
New York was a far stretch from the lazy, pampered life of Tranquil Falls. After arriving to our new apartment, following a drive that took several days, Holden and I both experienced a culture shock like no other. It didn’t feel like we’d simply left one town for another, or even one state for another. It felt like we’d left the country altogether and were trust into a life that was as foreign to us as switching planets would have been.
It took months to get used to the hustle and bustle, the constant sensory blast of a city that never slept. But as the weeks moved forward, and as we both settled into our new lives, we realized we’d missed out on the magnitude of experiences that New York had to offer.
Even now, I was attempting to navigate a packed sidewalk as I threw my arm out to call a cab. People swept around me like a school of fish, barely missing colliding against me as they passed. My feet were killing me in new heels, the chill of fall nipping at my skin where it was exposed by the strapless formal gown. But I wouldn’t have asked for it to be any different. I was too excited to care about the pain in my feet, too happy to care that I’d left my shawl in the apartment because I’d been a rush to get out the door.
I couldn’t be late to the event I was attending, and I was nervous that I would trip and fall, or say the wrong thing. But thankfully, I had a friend who would be waiting for me, a confidant that would stand at my side and cry with me when the tears finally began to fall.
Finally flagging down a taxi, I climbed into the backseat and gave the driver the address of the event. He pulled into traffic and my hand flew to my chest in fear of how recklessly he drove. Holden and I had considered using the car more to get around the city, but I didn’t think I would ever get used to the traffic or the way people drove. For now, I was happy to travel on foot, or use the subway when the destination was too far.
The drive took a little over twenty minutes, the taxi lurching to a stop outside the large glass and metal building that lifted six stories into the sky. I paid the driver and climbed out of the car, my heart in my throat by the time I spotted Angela waiting outside. Running up to her as fast as I could in my heels, I threw my arms around her and squeezed her tight.
“It’s so good to see you,” I blurted out. “Was your flight okay?”
“Well, if you call being stuffed in a shoebox and having to be a contortionist to fit in the seat they give, sure, it was great.” Her smile was in contrast to her words. From her expression, I could tell she was just as excited as me to be here. “Is Holden already inside?”
Nodding, I took her hand in mine. “He’s been working so hard over the past few weeks. He left early this morning to get here and make sure everything was perfect. I’m so nervous for him.”
Releasing my hand, Angela wrapped her arm through mine, the sequins of her gown brushing against my skin. I’d never seen her more beautiful than she was now with her hair swept up into a French twist, a crystal barrette holding fastened at the side. “You have nothing to be nervous about. The boy has more talent in his pinky toe than most people have in their entire bodies. The only thing I’m nervous about is whether we can make him proud as we’re blundering about.”
Pausing, she took a moment to look me up and down, her eyes widening slightly as she studied the body hugging bodice of my red gown and the long flowing skirt that swept over my legs down to my ankles. “Okay. Well, never mind. You look amazing. The only thing you have to be nervous about is whether I’ll embarrass him blundering about.”
Laughter blew over my lips. “Whatever. You look amazing, too.” Sighing, I stared at the entrance door and the line of people slowly moving inside now that the event had started. “Are you ready for this?”
“As ready as I can be. Let’s hurry and get inside before all the free champagne is gone. I need a drink or ten to stop worrying that I’ll make a show of myself crying.”
Nodding my head and rolling my shoulders back, I tugged her closer to my body and moved to get in line behind the people walking inside. Once we’d made it through the doors, I gasped to see the beauty of the interior. Ceilings rose twenty feet above our heads, lights shining down that highlighted the entryway where staff stood in black gowns and tuxedos to pass out flutes of champagne and small pamphlets that discussed the art exhibited inside. I knew several artists were here this evening, but from what Holden told me, his work took up the majority of the floor space, his exhibition so vast that it filled the main room, while the other artists were tucked away in smaller rooms on the left and right. To our side, a mahogany desk sat, the black haired woman behind it filling out papers for the purchases people would make throughout the event. I had to bite my tongue not to squeal like a little girl from my excitement.
Passing the drink tray, Angela slammed one flute, and took another to sip as we entered the main room. I giggled beneath my breath at the server’s expression in response to her brazen behavior. With champagne in hand, I kept one arm wrapped in hers, our steps slow as we meandered inside, our breath stolen as the exhibit came into view.
It was like the faces, lives and stories of Tranquil Falls had been transported to New York, the details so precise that if you didn’t know it was paint, you’d swear you were staring at photographs of the myriad of people that made up our former town.
“Oh, dear God,” Angela muttered, “He has a picture of me yelling at the cooks in the kitchen.” Angela’s cheeks flared red, but you couldn’t miss the pride in her eyes. Holden had captured every detail, down to the glint of silver of the cooking utensils, and the worry behind the staff’s eyes. Even though the scene looked like an angry employer, you could see the humor in the image he’d painted, the kindness in Angela’s gaze even as her finger pointed at one man who had burned several hamburger patties on the grill. I swear I could smell the food, could feel the grease on my face, could hear the low murmur of noise floating in from the dining room.
“And look,” she exclaimed. “There’s one of you strapping on some ballet slippers. You look gorgeous, Michaela. Look at the detail in your eyes.”
A smile stretched my lips, a tear slipping down my cheek as I stared at the painting, knowing what it meant for Holden to have paid as much attention as he did to the coquettish look in my gaze. It was a memory from before Delilah had died, a snapshot of the dance studio where we held practice. The fact that he’d remembered every small detail so clearly forced the breath from my lungs.
“Damn, your man is talented with paint and brush. You were right to bring him out here. He’s going to be somebody, Michaela, and he has you to thank for that.”
Passing painting after painting, their surfaces illuminated by track lighting that hung above them, we listened to the excited words spoken by the other attendees of the events. Several times, I’d heard the term ‘genius’ or ‘inspired’ as they discussed the artwork they’d come to see. Several people were already discussing bids they’d make on the paintings when it was time in the evening to buy them.
Trying in vain to keep my makeup from dripping down my face, I thanked the universe that I’d remembered to wear waterproof mascara. The room was filled with people, the crowd moving and swaying as we made our way toward the center of the room.
I lost the ability to hold my emotions inside me when the crowd finally opened enough for me to see Holden standing by his largest painting - an image of Delilah spinning in place, her smile stretching from ear to ear, her soul dancing above her.
But it wasn’t the painting that weakened my knees so much that Angela had to keep me from falling, it wasn’t the sorrow, or the love, or the devotion I knew he’d blended together with the paint, it was the man standing before it in a black tuxedo, his dark hair swept back, his blue eyes beaming as people passed to shake his hand, congratulate him, or remind him that his natural talent far exceeded so many other artists that came to this town to make their way.
Staring at a person who had endured abuse, who’d lived through heartache, and who’d crawled out from beneath the ashes to fly again, I realized in that moment that the gorgeous man smiling at me now could never be small...
Holden Bishop was a soul that would always be brilliant. He would always be striking and large.
THE END