Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, London made her way down the sidewalk through the Saturday crowd with lead feet and a heavy heart. She hadn’t been able to sleep with their disaster of a dinner playing on repeat in her head. She couldn’t stay another second inside the hotel room, either—or she wouldn’t leave it until it was time to step on her plane.
In the past few days, she’d mastered authentic Spanish dishes, drank herself into a vermouth oblivion, made mud pies on a romantic family orchard, and had nude pictures taken on the streets of Barcelona, but she couldn’t get one damn man to admit that he, too, had been wrong.
After he’d disappeared last night, she’d sat alone in the restaurant, playing back every moment, every word. And cursed herself for every time she’d been a fool and started believing the lies he wove so beautifully.
His eyes had told her he’d felt something, his touch had told her he’d felt something, but his continued deceit as an orchard worker instead of a CEO told her the truth loud and clear.
Why then did her damned heart keep hoping something would change?
She shifted toward the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding a group of college students, when her cell rang. “Hey, Mom. How’re you feeling?” She’d been released from the hospital, and London crossed her fingers that her respiratory infection wouldn’t trigger an MS flare-up.
“I’m good, baby.” A muffled cough followed the words.
“Mom?”
“No, really. I am. This is just a lingering irritation, nothing more. How’s Barcelona and that millionaire?” The tone of her voice was a combination of teasing and misguided maternal hope.
London forced her voice to be light and upbeat as her throat thickened. “Barcelona is gorgeous. Have you been taking your medication?”
“Yes, even though every pill stresses me out.”
“Well, that’s not going to help at all, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I took the job while I’m here. I’ll be able to cover the medication at least for the next few months. Then when I get home I’ll figure out what we’ll do after that.” Her stomach turned at the impossibility of it all. “But no matter what, you are staying on that medication. Though nothing’s going to come of my millionaire Catalan, maybe something will with a billionaire Spaniard. I still have a couple days. Anything is possible.” The joke sat heavy in her chest.
“London.” It was good to hear her mother laugh. Her voice came across the line in a curious whisper. “Is there really a difference?”
“Well, I can’t speak for any Spaniards, but let me say that I have a whole new respect for the Catalans.” The thought of Mateu caused the heavy beating of her heart to pick up its pace. Why did a broken heart actually have to feel so broken? “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay? I love you.”
She lifted her chin and forced the tight vise on her neck to relax. After last night, all she wanted to do was go home, but changing her flight had a price she couldn’t afford to pay. How ironic. She couldn’t afford her vacation, but she couldn’t afford to go home even more. The insult of it all bubbled up in her chest.
She still had three more days, and though the idea of spending them in her hotel room with a bottle of wine and eighties love ballads sounded like the perfect plan, she had to honor her mother by doing the rest of the once-in-a-lifetime experiences on her list. Well, as many as she could, anyway. It would be a long time before she ever went on another vacation, and even though it felt like an industrial-size rubber band was crushing her chest, she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other until it was time to go home.
She almost had her documentation completed for the review. Huntington Place Barcelona was one of the most beautifully run hotels she’d ever visited. The staff was attentive and intuitive, a winning combination hands down. What had happened between her and Mateu would have no bearing on the outcome. Once she pressed send, she could close the door on that particular Catalan and figure out how to move forward.
But today would be all about Picasso and a tour of the museum. It wouldn’t be a private tour, but she couldn’t go home without seeing it. She’d always been fascinated by the man and his art. And he’d been no stranger to breaking hearts, so it seemed fitting.
She walked through the large stone archways leading to the museum entrance and was greeted by the tour guide. A small group had gathered, but London kept to herself on the edge of the crowd. It was a weird sensation to be so alone in a room full of people.
A beautiful woman with ebony hair swept back in a low chignon and the highest cheekbones London had ever seen stepped to the front of the group.
“Welcome, my name is Maria Espasa. Please, follow me.”
The conversation she’d had with Mateu the first day they’d met surfaced with a swift kick to her stomach. “My cousin Maria works at the Picasso Museum. I’ll have to tell her to look for you.”
The woman’s striking good looks boasted the relation; she looked a lot like his mother Agueda. Heat rose in London’s cheeks. She could only hope Maria hadn’t heard about last night.
The group followed the statuesque woman along a pristine hallway. The museum itself was incredibly interesting. The original building was full of wide stone archways the color of a gently roasted marshmallow. Then an annex was introduced with clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched two stories and overlooked some sort of courtyard. As much as she wanted to see the art, the building was impressive, too.
“Wow.” London’s breathy whisper was magnified in the big open space as she trailed the woman into a large white room made with the sole purpose of showing off the art. And did it ever.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to take it all in. Let me know if you have questions.”
Most of the group lingered together, but London stayed back, needing the time alone.
She stood in front of the first painting and froze with her hands in a tight I-can’t-believe-this-is-real grip at her waist. It was from Picasso’s Rose Period, and she’d always loved the red flower in the model’s hair. It was Profile of a Young Girl, the very same print Mateu had left her after the night they’d made love.
She couldn’t even get away from him when she was trying to get away from him. Emotion clogged her throat as the night washed over her in a bittersweet deluge of memories. The anger and betrayal in his eyes when she’d told him the truth had been real, but couldn’t the care she’d felt in his arms, the thoughtfulness of such a gift be real, too? Her heart wanted it to be true, but her mind reminded her that he was used to wining and dining. Making people feel special was a part of his job.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled in a breath.
She was in Barcelona at the Picasso Museum. All she had to do was reach out, and she’d practically be touching Picasso himself.
Keeping her hands behind her back, she tilted her head to the side in consideration.
“Beautiful painting, isn’t it?”
London turned toward the soft voice of the museum tour guide. “One of my favorites.”
“You’re American?”
London smiled. “I am. Here on vacation. For another couple days, anyway. I leave on Tuesday.”
“So what do you think of our fine city, Miss…?”
“Montgomery. But please call me London.”
Recognition lit in Maria’s eyes. “You are London Montgomery.” She clasped London’s hands in a warm grip. “I’ve been expecting you, but I thought you’d be coming with my cousin Mateu Espasa. He called me about a private tour earlier in the week.”
“He’s been very helpful, but our plans changed.”
Maria gave London a conspiratorial wink. “I have to admit, I haven’t heard him so excited about a woman before, and he took you out to Espasa Orchards? None of us ever thought we’d see the day.”
Surprise kept London mute. Apparently, word spread fast but not overnight. At least she could breathe a sigh of relief that Maria didn’t yet know about their argument.
She moved toward the next painting, and his cousin remained in step. She was trying to be helpful, but help always came at a price. Help with her mother meant not seeing her as often when she was home, and help from Mateu had meant falling in love with a man who could never love her back. In this instance, it meant an intrusion when all London wanted was to be alone with the paintings.
“How did you become such a fan of Picasso?” Maria asked.
“Art appreciation in high school,” London forced herself to answer. “We studied his work, and I was intrigued by the way he portrayed emotion whether it was humor or pain or sensuality. And it doesn’t matter if it is during his Cubism Period or his Rose Period. It’s all there. Every time.”
Memories of Mateu’s fresh heady scent made her wish she could turn in to his arms and have him kiss her as she imagined Picasso would one of his many mistresses. But he wasn’t with her, and wouldn’t be. She broke away from studying Picasso’s self-portrait. He, too, had a penchant for using people to get what he wanted.
Maria smoothed her hair along her temple, giving London a thoughtful once-over. “Ah, yes. You were introduced to Picasso during a very impressionable time in your life. I’m not surprised that he has stuck with you.”
She nodded toward the strangers amongst them and continued, “Certain people do, you know. They stick with you. Sometimes it is the way they look at life, sometimes it is the way they go after life. None of them will be perfect.” She chuckled in a charming way that made London suddenly happy to have her near. “Picasso certainly wasn’t. But he was a dreamer, and he was never satisfied with himself first. Sometimes understanding what motivates a person helps us accept the decisions they’ve made.”
“Do you think that is why so many of his mistresses still longed for him even after they’d been treated so badly?”
Her perfectly lined lips pulled up at the corners. “I do. I think those who loved him the most, knew him the best, and wanted him…flaws and all.”
London crossed her arms at her waist as they continued exploring the grounds. Is that why she hurt so much? Because maybe she did know Mateu. If the man he’d let her see was at all real, his motivation to be there for his family would certainly hold a lot of weight toward understanding why he’d been so horrible to her.
And that was the truth of it all. He’d been an awful ass.
His words hadn’t just hurt, they’d struck too close to home. The idea of him thinking she’d used him for his money was abhorrent. She’d been a very hard worker her whole life, taking pride in every penny earned. But he hadn’t been wrong, either. She’d happily allowed Huntington, him, to foot the bill for all her activities, even outside of the hotel.
Considering what happened between him and his ex-fiancée, she was beginning to see just how much of a blow her admission had been.
Maria caught her attention with another group of paintings. They discussed the intricacies of neo-Expressionism and sighed over the romanticism and the differences found in both Picasso’s Blue and Rose Periods.
“You are so well-read on Picasso; you might have missed your calling.”
London stared at the woman for a moment, allowing herself to dream. It hadn’t occurred to her when she was young to make a living off her passion. What an intriguing thought. Kind of like regular vacations. “Maybe I have.”
Mateu’s cousin trailed her fingers along the wall next to Picasso’s painting, The Old Guitarist, from his blue period. “That is a shame.”
As they stepped back through the stone archways to the still-busy streets outside, London turned back with a sigh. “This has been a dream come true. Thank you.”
Maria smiled. “It’s never too late for joy.”
London was left to stare at the empty doorway, the woman’s words echoing in her head with steady persistence.
She wanted to believe the saying was true, but with what had happened between her and Mateu, she was afraid she’d found the one instance in which it wasn’t.