Princess and the Player (Strangers in Love)

I’ve browsed the gallery for about two hours, taking photos and notes for my client. I’m considering a blue-and-orange abstract landscape when my cell pings with a voice mail. I pull my phone out of my clutch. Donny. Scanning it, I notice a few texts from Brogan but put those on hold. Why is Donny calling me?

My head circles back to the last time I saw him in his office. Yes, we’ve spoken on the phone once to clarify some details, but that’s been the extent of it. A long exhale comes from me. Leaving East Coast Ink & Gallery feels like a million years ago, but it still stings. It’s not so much about Edward’s betrayal but that Donny severed our longtime connection.

I looked up to him. Admired him. Worked with him for years.

And then rejection.

I play his message. “Francesca, um, hi. I put your paintings in the storage facility upstairs like you asked the last time we spoke. Brogan came to the shop to pick them up today.” He pauses. “I’d actually forgotten about them, and when I went to look, they were gone. Harlee said someone bought them a couple of weeks after you left, and she forgot to tell me. Call me back.”

The voice mail ends, and my anger stirs. My commission is 80 percent of the price of the paintings, and with four of them, that’s a large sum of money. She didn’t tell him because she didn’t care. Maybe she was truly miffed about the painting of her and Edward in the closet.

I sigh as I scan Brogan’s texts, and it’s him repeating what Donny said. He’d told me earlier this week that he and some friends were borrowing someone’s van to pick up my paintings and then put them in a warehouse co-op I share with other artists. I send him a text and tell him that I didn’t know they’d sold and I’m sorry that he and his buddies went to so much trouble for me. He replies back that it’s cool and that he’ll see me later. I put my phone away. The truth is I shouldn’t have waited this long to get them, but Donny said he’d make sure they were safe.

Ducking into a quiet hallway, I call Donny, and he answers on the first ring.

“They all sold?” I ask. “And she didn’t think to call me or let you know?”

He sighs heavily. “She said she meant to, but you know how busy she is . . .”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” I can see her now, prancing around in her dress and heels.

“I heard you got a job,” Donny murmurs. “I’m glad.”

“Brogan told you?”

“Yes. With glee. Your clients miss you. We get at least one a week who walks in and asks for you.” I hear the clink of ice and picture him in his office with a whiskey.

“I’m loving my new career.” It’s not like owning a gallery, but it’s close, considering I get to visit them and spend other people’s money.

He clears his throat. “So I hear congratulations are in order.”

I stiffen. “Oh? For what?”

There’s a pause. “Um, well, Edward said you were pregnant. I hope it’s happy news?”

My hands clench. Good grief! How many people in Manhattan know my personal business? At this rate, the entire world will know.

“Also, Edward doesn’t work here anymore. He quit. Long story. I won’t bore you.”

I don’t care. “Let’s talk about the paintings,” I snap. “There were four left after the dollhouse painting sold. One of a little girl in the back seat of a car, one of a boathouse, one of a girl on a Greyhound bus, and the one of Harlee and Edward. I want receipts.”

“I remember them.”

“Who bought them?”

“I don’t know. They paid in cash, and there’s no signature on the receipt.”

Cash is odd. My head circles to Darden. He cares about me, knew I’d lost my job, and thought he’d help by purchasing the paintings. Or perhaps Cece. It sounds like something she’d do in secret, like she bought the baby bed. Obviously, it’s not Brogan. He went to pick them up today.

I tap my fingers against my leg. “Did Harlee tell you anything about the buyer?”

“She doesn’t recall. She does have memory issues.”

“She’s a liar.”

Donny exhales.

I lean against a wall, stumped. I can’t see Darden going inside the parlor. He’d rather die. But he has people who handle his affairs. Perhaps they bought them.

I smirk. Cece could have popped in to buy them, but Harlee knows her. Besides, where did she put them?

“You know my address. Send the commission check there.” I click off, then turn and bump into a hard chest. His drink spills on my skirt, and I rear back.

“Edward!” I say when I look up.

He gives space even as his hands try to steady me. “Sorry there, Francesca. I didn’t know it was you. Is your dress ruined?”

“No, I whipped around. It was my fault. It’s not terrible. At least I’m wearing black.” I grimace.

He smiles tentatively. “I wondered if we’d run into each other soon. We used to go to all openings, remember?”

I stiffen. I don’t need reminders of our time together. “I’m here for work. I have a new job. Why are you here?”

“Ah, well, my date wanted to come . . .”

“Edward!” comes a female voice, and I steel myself to face Harlee, only it isn’t. It’s a cute girl in a black minidress that highlights her tiny waist. She’s coming from the restroom area and slides in next to Edward and wraps an arm around his waist, a smile on her lips. Younger than me, maybe twenty or so, she has an oval face and short blonde hair cut in a pixie style.

He gives me a lopsided smile. “Surprise. I ended it with Harlee.”

Wow. So that’s why he quit.

“This is Vivien,” he tells me, then gazes adoringly down at the girl. “We met when she came in for a tattoo.”

“Karma at its best,” I murmur under my breath. My lips twitch as I picture Harlee broken up with jealousy over the pretty blonde as she sat in Edward’s tattoo chair.

“What?” Edward asks.

“Nothing,” I say as his date pumps my hand, and we chitchat about the gallery. It’s the oddest thing. I feel nothing. Oh, I’ll never forget his betrayal—he’s a dick—but at least there’s no ache in my heart. Life has given me other things to focus on, and he seems so small.

I’m looking for a way to excuse myself when I hear a shrill, excited voice.

“Darling! I didn’t know you’d be here!” comes from Gianna. Wearing a pink sheath and a diamond choker around her throat, she strides toward me with confidence. She flicks a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder.

I glance at Edward and his date. “Excuse me.” I rush to her, and we hug.

“God, finally, a fun person in a gallery. I hate these things . . .” She dips her wrist, giving me an eyeful of the rock on her finger. “How are you?” She sees Edward, and her eyes narrow as she swishes me away. “Your ex is here—oh my God. And he’s with a silly-looking girl. What is she, fifteen? Are you in despair?”

I laugh. “Not at all.”

She takes me in from head to toe. “Look at you! You’re positively glowing! What kind of foundation are you using? God, I adore your dress. I almost didn’t recognize you. And you have bangs now, but I saw your face and knew it was you. Those eyes are unmistakable . . .”

“Thank you.”

She flashes a smile. “Is there a man in your life? Who is he? Where is he? I want to meet him.”

“There might be a man . . .” Maybe.

“Is he hot? Tell me he’s better than that awful Edward!”

Tuck is a thousand times the man Edward is.

He’s honest and up front. Authentic.

“I don’t give away details,” I say.

“You’re a secretive one.” She looks at my locket, her eyes widening. “Oh, your necklace looks fabulous with your dress. I noticed you wore it at the shop. Do you always wear it?”

My fingers brush over it. “I guess. It’s not your typical heart or oval locket.”

“Hmm. So why are you here? Tell me all the things.”

I tell her about my new job and the client I’m here for, a Wall Street couple who don’t have time to shop for their new apartment. She tells me about her fiancé, who’s currently out of town, and how she’s looking forward to her wedding next year. She hooks her arm through mine as we walk through one of the hallways in the gallery.

She grabs a glass of champagne, and I pick up a club soda with lime from one of the bars.

“I’m actually here with my sister. She needed a plus-one, so I came along.” She leans her head down conspiratorially. “You must meet her. She’s not nearly as fun as me, but try to like her. There she is!”

She pulls me toward a petite woman in a floor-length red flared dress. It’s the kind of dress that makes you gasp when you see it—over the top for a gallery, yet she wears it like a princess. Her hair is brown and cascades down her back. Something about her is familiar, making me rack my brain, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“Valentina, this is the tattoo artist I was telling you about,” Gianna says as she introduces us.

Valentina’s flawless face is expressionless as she looks me up and down. Her eyes are the same color as Gianna’s, blue, and her face is similar to her sister’s, rather square with high cheekbones, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She looks around my age.

“I’ve heard about you.”

“Good, I hope?” I ask with my brow raised.

She shrugs, then points to the piece she was looking at before we arrived, a bronze of two little girls on a bench. “You’re a tattoo artist. What do you think of this?”

“I’m an artist,” I say smoothly. “Not just tattoos.”

“Of course,” Valentina replies with narrowed eyes as she waves her hand at the statue. “Your thoughts?”

Gianna huffs at her sister. “Can we at least chitchat before you ask for her opinion?”

“Oh, it’s cool. I love to talk about art.” I study it. About the size of a watermelon, it reminds me of something you’d put in a garden, perhaps at a school or library at the entrance—only it would be a shame to leave it outside. I tell her this, then: “You can see the work the artist put into it, how the older girl’s leg is crossed, the stitching on her socks, the bow of her tennis shoes, the ruffles of her dress, how they lean toward each other, the small bird on the bench. One of the girls is taller, so older, and I’d guess they’re sisters.”

I back up and eye the two ladies, and it dawns on me. I recall Gianna’s comment at the parlor about her sister being an artist. “It’s yours,” I say, pointing at Valentina. “I see the resemblance of the little girls. The smaller one is Gianna, and you’re the older one holding her hand. Yes?”

She nods.

“Amazing,” I say. “Making a bronze is an intricate process. It’s beautiful.”

Gianna claps. “Isn’t Francesca awesome?”

Valentina crooks her arm with Gianna’s as she nods. “Thank you. I made it as a memorial for our parents. They passed away last year. It’s not for sale, of course. A friend owns the gallery; otherwise it wouldn’t be here.”

She glances at my locket, a gleam I can’t decipher in her eyes. “That’s a pretty piece. There’s a bird engraved on the front?”

“A wren, yes.” A wren symbolizes peace and rebirth. I’ve done my research on my locket. “I believe it belonged to my mother or was in her family. I’ve had it cleaned a few times, although it rarely tarnishes.”

“Interesting. Have you had it appraised?” Valentina asks. “It looks expensive.”

“It’s nineteen karat gold, the chain and locket.” I had its value checked at three different jewelers, and they all said it was worth several thousand. I’m lucky I never lost it or had it stolen.

Gianna takes a sip of her champagne. “You believe it belonged to your mother. There must be a story there.”

I shift around, fidgeting. A story? Ha. It’s the only link to my mother. I picture her placing it in my car seat.

“As a baby, I was left at a police station. All I had was this locket. My name is engraved on the back,” I say lightly with a slight smirk, not wanting pity or even for this discussion to continue. “Have you seen the marble sculptures upstairs? They’re beautiful.”

Valentina ignores my cue. “The locket must be very important to you. Gianna and I grew up in a large Italian family. I can’t imagine how hard it was not to have family.”

“I have family now,” I say coolly. “Besides, it’s all about how you define yourself, yes? To not let the past rule your future? Life picked my path, and I’m just a traveler.”

“How poetic,” Valentina murmurs, but I’m not sure I hear sincerity.

“Maybe I should put that on a tattoo . . .” I smile back with the same level of earnestness she showed. I didn’t live in seven different foster homes without becoming a tough girl. I know how to punch back with a socialite and her artist sister. Tit for tat. Show them you’re made of sterner stuff.

Because I am. The fact that I’m in a dress doesn’t make me sweet.

I glance away from them, pretending interest in another piece. When I was little, I used to tell myself that my parents would find me, that I was a princess sent from the fairies to live among the humans until it was safe to retrieve me. Another was that I was kidnapped and my parents would pay the ransom and get me.

Pipe dreams. Parents who leave their kids in the snow don’t come back.

“Francesca?” Gianna says. “We must do coffee soon. Text me.”

Ah, a cue to leave.

I nod at them, but inwardly my heart twists. It’s been a strange, tumultuous day. Cece is leaving, I got a necklace from a man who wants to get to know me, too many people know I’m pregnant, a random stranger bought my paintings, I saw Edward, and now these two.

“It was nice to meet you,” Valentina says, her tone flat as she stares at my locket.

I murmur the appropriate niceties and head for the exit on the bottom level. As I walk down the steps, I glance back up, and they’re still at the bronze with their heads together as they whisper.

I try to suss out the root of what’s pricking at me and come up with one thing. Talking to the Russo sisters brought back memories of my past, of how it felt to be truly alone. They had each other and parents; I had a locket.

Guilt flares to the surface. Even with the childhood I had, I’m still planning on not telling Tuck about his baby.

Cece’s words circle in my head. Maybe it’s better to know and be sad than know nothing at all.

My child won’t be lonely with me—I know this—but a father figure means something. I place my hand over my stomach. She kicked today, and maybe that’s part of my turmoil. She’s real. She’ll be in this world soon. Is it fair to deprive her of her father?

Maybe I should tell him.

Family is the compass that guides us, a light that leads us, the most important aspect of a child’s life. It is unconditional and loves you no matter your shortcomings. It brings hope, courage, and protection, a port in the storm of life, all things I hungered, prayed, wept, begged, and trembled for as a child.

I wanted anyone, someone, to just pick me.

I want him to pick our child. Would he?

Tears threaten, and my breath quickens as I picture disbelief, then anger on his face.

Shouldn’t I at least give him a chance? Give our child an opportunity to have a father in her life—if he wants?

A clammy feeling hits me as that awful fear of rejection hits. It’s a cloak around me, a cloud that never disappears, no matter how tough I may act. Taking a deep breath, I fist my hands and try to squash it, to gather the strength I need to tell him. I should, right?

The sisters send a wave, and I blink, coming back to the present.

I don’t reciprocate their goodbye. I step outside to the cold December air.

There’s another pair of eyes on me as I exit—and a camera—but I’m too lost in thought to notice. I catch a cab and pull out my phone.

Text me the code, I send to Tuck.

His reply is immediate with the numbers, then, I’m waiting for you, princess.

Impulsively, I ask the cabbie to stop at a late-night market. I tell him to wait and walk briskly through the stalls, find what I want, purchase it, and then get back in.

When Tuck opens the door, he’s wearing gym shorts and no shirt.

We stare at each other.

“This. I want this,” I hear myself say. I’m not thinking rationally.

Maybe.

I don’t know.

But I want to know who he is and what this harmony we share is about. I want him to want our child.

I run into his arms, and he picks me up.