Someone Else's Husband(109)
After I sold that first painting, I moved on from Saint-Rémy to Berlin, then Copenhagen, then Milan (never one place more than six months, a new name every time). It’s been surprisingly effective. So was leaving the country only hours after what happened, while they still believed I was dead—long before they realized it was Brooks who had been killed. I bought a plane ticket to Amsterdam and then disappeared. It’s not hard to do in the borderless EU.
Guy eventually convinced me to let him represent my work, which I agreed to on the condition of my continued anonymity. It was necessary for my personal safety, I explained, feeling a little guilty that it made me sound like a victim of abuse rather than a murderer. But I have come to realize that the boundary between victim and perpetrator can be porous.
The painting Guy’s pointing at now is a reinterpretation of the one I was working on when Brooks appeared in my apartment that night. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to revisit it, but the work felt like a breakthrough. A new beginning. According to Guy, it represents a bold new take on modernist, feminist Cubism—transformed into something boldly and confrontationally representative. A fractured image rebuilt whole. So far it seems he was right about the market for it. The price point for my sales has been twice what it was at Pearson. I told Guy I wouldn’t be coming to the show, even after he insisted that I reconsider. I deserved to enjoy my moment, he said. And so here I am at the Venice Biennale, hiding in the shadows in a room full of strangers.
To say that I feel happy would be an overstatement. That night—what I did—will stay with me forever. Even now, standing in the twinkling lights of Venice, amid the party buzz, I can feel how much danger I was in. Brooks killed Van. He would have killed me, too. I am sure of it. Still, I must live with the blood that remains no matter how often I wash my hands.
This is not a life I ever expected to live, running from a crime I committed, but of which I am also not guilty. I do have this moment right now, though. I have my work being seen and understood, my art in this celebrated show. But not under my real name. And so I have some things, but not all. I have a strange but not insubstantial kind of freedom. I have deep laughter with new friends, and I am surrounded by unimaginable beauty. As I watch Guy talking animatedly on the other side of the room, his lovely hands dancing in the air near my favorite painting, I can imagine possibility, hope, and joy on this new horizon. I need only to be brave like I was on that mountain in Africa. As I will surely need to be brave again in different ways, for different reasons. Because that is life, always and forever.
And so, at long last, I push off the wall and step out of the shadows and into the light.
Acknowledgments
Several years ago, I traveled to Tanzania and climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. Like Frankie, I was unexpectedly the only woman on what turned out to be an otherwise all-male expedition. But that climb is not the climb depicted in these pages, nor are the characters in this book reflective of anyone on that expedition. The staff, other climbers, and guides on my trip were consistently respectful and kind, and the entire journey was profoundly spectacular. I’m deeply grateful I had the opportunity to experience it.
However, this novel is, in its entirety, a work of fiction.
Deepest thanks to my longtime editor, Jennifer Barth, who allows me to live in a literary world that time forgot—a place of high tea and hours-long in-person brainstorming sessions and a true creative partner who often knows my books better than I do and who cares just as much. As always, this book wouldn’t exist without your wisdom. Thank you also to my equally incredible and supportive literary agent, Dorian Karchmar, for joining all those editorial meetings, for your incredible brilliance on the page, and for always seeing my characters, my work, and me just as I intended. I am so deeply grateful to have you both on my team and in my life.
So much gratitude to my incredible marketing and publicity team at Knopf, especially the amazing dynamic duo of Sara Eagle and Micah Kelsey. Thanks also to the passionate and dedicated Erinn Hartman and Laura Keefe. My deepest respect and admiration to the very gifted art department and fabulous production editorial department, especially Kathleen Cook. Thank you to Jimmy Iacobelli for my beautiful cover, and to John Gall for all his help. Thanks also to the wonderful and tenacious Lena Little. And to Brian Etling for your support and sharp editorial insights.
I am so grateful to the fantastic publishing team at Knopf and Vintage, especially Jordan Pavlin, Gabrielle Brooks, and Beth Lamb.
Deepest thanks to generous early readers Nicole Kear and Tara Pometti—your thoughts as well as your enthusiasm meant the world to me. Thank you to my beloved ride or die, in writing and life, Megan Crane, who is always there, in every way—and this time it was in giving me the best last-minute note ever! Thank you, Victoria Cook—early reader, world’s hottest (okay, and also best) entertainment lawyer, and most valued font of warmth.
Thank you to the insightful and tireless Julie Mosow for jumping in on a moment’s notice with your sleeves rolled up, and to my assistant, the incredibly talented (and patient) Katherine Faw. Thanks also to the amazing Christina Cerio, and my dedicated, talented, and hilarious publishing lawyer, Mark Merriman, and the insightful Melissa George. Thank you to my team at WME, especially Hilary Zaitz Michael, Lucy Balfour, and James Munro, for all your tireless efforts on my behalf. And thank you extra to the always patient and helpful Sophia Bark. Thanks also to Peyton Hulsey, Joanne Spence-Thomas, and Gabriel Jotischky. Thank you to the incredibly wise and very warm Bob Bookman.