Rachel had considered telling Faith the truth a dozen times. She’d rehearsed the conversation like a script, parsing the best way to explain that while she and Matt were over, nothing else would change. She would have a home. A life that her mother had cemented into place. So even as Faith made her way in the world, Rachel would always be her anchor.
That’s what she would have been for the rest of her life. A constant. A fixed point on a compass. But Nathan had found her. And he said she was the sun.
CHAPTER TWENTY
By the time Rachel arrived at the National Portrait Gallery, its courtyard had almost been completely transformed by the crew setting up for the gala. Slender walls with donated art had been erected throughout the space. Round tables covered with white linens were positioned to make room for dancing. A section of chairs near the front had been set up for a jazz ensemble.
Rachel was still working up the courage to open the wrapped canvases that had been delivered that morning. She’d decided it was safer to open them here, mere hours before the gala, when she’d be too busy to be tormented by Nathan’s work. She’d imagined seeing the pieces for the first time in a room bustling with harried catering staff and florists. But she’d underestimated the efficiency of the people working for Sofia—aside from Nathan’s collection, everything was done. Instead of being surrounded by strangers, she was alone with the covered paintings and Hailey Dearwood, who smiled while gripping her clipboard hard enough to turn her pale knuckles even whiter.
Matt had probably sent her to spy. She hovered close and deemed everything “interesting.” It was interesting that the media couldn’t take pictures before the gala. Rachel’s decision to keep Nathan’s work hidden until the auction closed was also an interesting choice. “I wonder if such an unusual approach is a good idea.”
“These people don’t need art,” Rachel said. “Some of them don’t even want it. But they will pay millions to screw over someone else, regardless of what the paintings look like.” She pointed to Nathan’s covered art. “The minute someone sees it and decides it’s not for them, we lose leverage. I want to max out the bidding before that happens.”
Rachel ran a finger along the edge of the canvas. Her nail snagged the paper and caused a small rip. Hailey stared and asked, “Can I see it? I can’t afford to bid anyway.”
Rachel had thought she wanted an audience when she did this. Now, in the moment, she wanted to gather up the paintings and find a dark, empty room to hide in. But the clock was ticking. And the longer she waited, the more suspicious Hailey became. Rachel ripped away the wrapping and stepped back to take it in.
It was a charcoal drawing of a young woman with brown skin and large eyes with wisps of black hair floating around her shoulders. A lace veil covered half her face. Rachel crouched to look more closely and saw that the veil was made of pressed white flowers that he’d crushed and twisted to create an intricate pattern. Abuelita was written in light script at the bottom.
“This is lovely,” Hailey whispered, awestruck.
It was more than lovely. On the way to New York, Nathan told her how devastating it was to lose his grandmother, how she’d always been his fiercest champion. It was a heartbreaking tribute. Rachel hid the tears clouding her eyes by pretending to study his signature. “It’s brilliant.”
She opened the next one more quickly. But when she pulled the paper away, her heart bottomed into her stomach. It was a self-portrait. Nathan’s head was bowed and most of his face was hidden behind a harsh shadow, but the charcoal drawing was unmistakably him. It was black and white except for his tattoos, which he’d re-created in vivid color. The phoenix on his arm had been formed with red and yellow pressed leaves, layered to create the illusion of real feathers. He’d burned the bottom right half of the canvas, forming a jagged black void that encroached upward, threatening to consume him.
Rachel glanced at Hailey. “What do you think?”
“Me?” Her face was flushed. “That’s him, isn’t it? Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful.” Her face reddened even more. “It’s beautiful, I mean. He’s very talented.” She opened her mouth, closed it, and then spoke in a breathless rush. “What is he doing?”
Rachel studied his figure, the clenched muscles along his neck and shoulders, the bulging biceps, the intense expression that could be pain, pleasure, frustration—the euphoric torture of being pulled to the edge of release, but not allowed to reach it. She’d made him beg for it at the lake house, a gradual destruction with his heart thundering beneath her hand.