Page 1 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Chapter 1

Tara

The idea of a self-made person is absurd, a myth, yet that’s exactly how people described me. As I walked from my office to the contemporary art gallery of the museum, the muted click of my heels echoed in the silent hallways. This sound of broken stillness ruffled my already unsettled mind. No one could be truly self-made. There were forces supporting you, rooting for you. Of course, I had worked hard and tirelessly to get here, but nothing I had accomplished would’ve been possible without the support of people who loved me and believed in me. Parents, teachers, friends, lovers. A sibling now estranged. Sometimes, it was luck. Sometimes, a staunch mentor.

Dr. Hadden waited by my painting in the East Wing. The slight smile gracing her ageless face and the fleeting gleam of admiration in her eyes were high praise if you knew her.

“Thank you,” I said, sliding in beside her. It was all I needed to say.

She patted my shoulder. “This is momentous, Tara. I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she said, touching the plaque with my name on it in yet another validation of my achievement.

Very soon, the makeshift cardboard would be replaced with a metal plate, engraved with my name and the title of the work, Love and Loss, a title I now regretted. Almost as much as I regretted selling it the way I did: for a covetable five-figure sum, but to the one person who shouldn’t own it. The one person who actually knew what I had captured on the bold linen canvas. Own, such a crass word for an emotion so beautiful. I sighed silently, clutching my clammy hands into fists.

“Susan will bring him in.” I heard Dr. Hadden’s voice again. Susan was her executive assistant. “I hope you don’t mind. He insisted on meeting you here.”

Of course he had. He loved a grand entrance, and he never had trouble getting everyone and everything to bend to his will.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

She nodded. “He’s been a generous donor for the past few years. A well-connected man. A decent one, I’ve heard. His patronage can put you in the limelight, Tara.”

I knew that limelight. I had blinked in its glare once before. I managed a gracious nod, but Dr. Hadden read my face with the same quick, discerning eye that had made her the director of this art museum in Dallas, and of numerous others before that.

“Make good use of this connection.” She delivered the curt advice in her heavy voice, at once commanding and kind.

Her short hair was not completely silver yet, but she had always given me a fairy godmother vibe. Not that I would ever dare say it to her face. She’d swat off that moniker with haste. We had our generational differences when it came to ideas of femininity, but she’d had my back since she’d realized, years ago, that I was more than a brown, immigrant, pretty-face.

I was a brown, immigrant pretty-face who was talented, hardworking, and knew her shit. And I had continued to live up to her high standards. On the plus side, her headstrong feminism meant she didn’t mind my cursing in her presence, which I often did when I was happy, displeased, or neither. With another reassuring pat on my arm, she walked away, her slender frame carrying all its power in those firm shoulders and straight back.

I attempted to recreate the pride I had seen on Dr. Hadden’s face as I appraised my own work on the wall. My eyes drifted to the plaque. Tara Kadam. The name carried some weight in the art world. If you were inclined to believe Twitter and Instagram, I boasted of a small but fanatical following. Not as an artist but as a technical expert in oil paintings, consulted by galleries, museums, and private collectors alike. I had temporarily shelved the dream of having my own work displayed in galleries and museums while I authenticated and appraised masterpieces that sold for a fortune.

This job at the Dallas Museum was a rare chance, offering me the best of both worlds. The museum had hired me to appraise a collection of oil paintings bequeathed by the family of a local tycoon and curate a body of art for the new wing they had donated. But the cherry on top of this particular parfait was their invitation to showcase my work at an upcoming exhibition alongside other emerging artists. This break, in no small part, was on account of Dr. Hadden’s faith in me and the power she wielded in the art community.

The wooden door behind me closed with a faint thud, and I heard two distinct pairs of footwear treading in my direction. My heart began to race, ramming against my chest cavity. I should’ve turned, it was only polite, but I stood frozen. It had been thirteen years since I had last seen Sameer. Unlucky thirteen, my friend Sona would’ve reminded me, but thirteen had nothing on the pain and humiliation Sameer had dealt me. Thirteen needed to up its game if it wanted to compete with this man.

“Here she is!” Susan’s exuberant voice eventually compelled me to turn around.

It was easy to focus on her wide smile, but my eyes inevitably moved to Sameer, and the world around me came to a standstill. He was no longer the twenty-year-old I once knew. The boyish face had sculpted into tough, albeit familiar, features. He wore his hair shorter and sported a smart stubble on his strong jaw. He was more handsome now, more confident. In a formal suit but no tie, he looked every bit the rich, powerful man he probably was. The only thing that hadn’t changed were his soft brown eyes and the look of open adoration I found in them. My stomach dipped as he looked at me with blatant desire. I took a reluctant step forward as he strode toward me with Susan trotting beside him.

“Mr. Rehani, the inimitable Tara Kadam. I suppose she needs no introduction,” Susan gushed.

I smiled at her, grateful that she had pronounced my name with the dental T like I do, not Tay-Raa but Taa-Raa.

“Tara, this is Mr. Sameer Rehani. He just told me he’s your biggest fan.”

Despite the professional setting, Susan allowed herself a chuckle. And despite my resentment for Sameer, I couldn’t help but respond with a pleased smile.

Quickly dabbing my palm on my pants, I extended it and spotted a tiny smirk at the corners of his mouth.

“We were briefly acquainted.” He directed the comment toward Susan, and an errant spark zipped through my body as he shook my hand. “She was just as brilliant then. I’ve been a fan ever since.”

I retracted my hand and scoffed silently. Briefly acquainted? He’d had his dick inside me every night for almost a year. But sure, briefly acquainted, let’s go with that.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Rehani,” I said, trying to put distance between us while nerves and anger pumped blood into my ears.

“Nice to see you, Tara.” He swatted off the distance promptly. His penchant for power games was alive and kicking.

Susan’s face had frozen into a smile at our awkward exchange, her golden bob rocking against her perfectly contoured cheeks as she looked between us. The tension in the room was heavy and palpable.

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