Page 2 of Nico
The latest housekeeper his mother had sent over had given up in defeat and Nico could not blame the poor woman. She had tried. He could give her that. But had not been up to the task. She had at least made a dent in the pile of laundry that had been mostly ignored by him for close to a month. He rarely had a change of clothing anyway, until recently.
He grinned as his mind drifted to the woman who had unexpectedly entered his life just three months ago. A stroll into the gallery that morning had been spur of the moment. He had his sister to thank for that eventful moment. If Natalie hadn't browbeaten him into accompanying her because her husband had called off at the last minute, he wouldn't have stepped into the gallery and changed his life. For the better.
Now he was trying to be more organized. He had someone coming over for the first time in what was it? He picked up ahalf-eaten sandwich and tossed it into the trash can. Two years? Christ! Had it been that long since he had a serious relationship? Shaking his head, he started to pick out some of the clothing the housekeeper had left to dry.
The house smelled faintly of turpentine and violets, a scent that clung to the air no matter how many windows Nico cracked open. He found a clean-enough shirt, shook out the creases, and wondered if Sadie would notice the paint smudge on his cuff. Maybe she'd laugh, the way she had that first morning, when he'd shown up at the gallery. Hair wild, sleeve streaked with ultramarine, and she'd greeted him as if he were royalty rather than a disheveled artist.
Tonight, he'd see her outside the soft, forgiving glow of studio lamps, beneath the bright gaze of an expectant crowd. For weeks, he'd painted behind closed doors, his work a secret even from his own reflection. The piece he'd finished last night was more than a painting. It was an admission, a risk, a quiet hope he carried in his chest like an ember.
He shrugged on a blazer, checked his watch, and for one reckless moment considered calling Sadie, just to hear her voice before plunging into the tide of faces and champagne flutes. But no. He wanted to see her reaction in person, to watch her eyes as she saw the new painting unveiled. It had been two years since he'dlet someone this close, and his heart beat a nervous tattoo as he headed for the door, the anticipation prickling warm and electric under his skin.
He was foraging for his keys in desperation when he heard the sound of his front door opening. Grabbing the keys, how the hell did they get behind the dryer? He wondered and sighed when he heard the familiar footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. His mother. Which meant that he would be late.
"Darling." Linda Coulter was a well-preserved sixty-five-year-old woman with sculpted cheekbones she had passed to both of her children as well as the long and beautifully sharp bottle green eyes. Her hair was a soft sable brown streaked through with burnished blonde, which she wore in an elegant coif at the nape of her neck. "There you are." Her eagle eyes took in the detritus in the living room and had to bite her tongue to stop the comment. She had promised she would keep her opinion to herself for the time being. Besides, it did not seem to make a world of difference to her very indifferent son.
His hair, the exact shade of hers, was unkempt and desperately needed trimming. His shirt was missing a button and was wrinkled. At least the jacket covered most of it.
"Off to the gallery?"
"And I'm running late." Crossing to her, he kissed one smooth cheek and inhaled her scent of lavender and something exotic. Sometimes he found himself wondering if this elegant woman was his mother. Standing next to her always managed to show up all of his failings.
She touched his face gently and let her touch linger.
"Your dad asked me to come over and remind you of the board meeting first thing in the morning."
His mood plummeted, and he had to take a step back and inhale sharply.
"I have the sculpture I've been working on." His voice stuttered to a stop at the icy look on her face. He hated to disappoint her and put her on the spot, but God! He hated those stuffy board meetings. He was heir to the Coulter fortune and had no interest whatsoever in the pharmaceutical company. He was constantlyreminded that it had been in his family for several hundred years as if that should mean something to him.
Sitting in an office and making life-altering decisions about controlled substances and medications was not something he would ever see himself doing. And putting on a suit and tie and sitting in an office would drive him crazy in the space of a week. His sister was a doctor and very involved in the company.
But that was not enough for his parents. He was their only son and would inherit the burden of the company one day. Hopefully, they would live very long, so he was free to do what he loved. He was a damn artist and proud of it.
"What time?" He mumbled, avoiding her eyes that seemed to see into his very soul.
"Nine sharp. And please wear a suit. Do you even own a tie?"
"Mother..."
"We ask so little of you."
He almost laughed at that. So little, as if the weight of legacy was a trinket lightly handed from one palm to the next. He tamped down the urge to say so, instead tracing the worn edge of his keys with his thumb, grounding himself. "I'll find one," he said, though he was thinking of paint-stained jeans and the restless urge in his hands that only left when he held a brush.
Linda pursed her lips, but the bite in her gaze softened, just slightly. "Your father worries, you know. Not just about the company." She glanced around the flat, at the canvases leaned against the wall, at the clutter of empty mugs and tubes of burnt umber, and then back to him. "He doesn't want to lose you."
He let out a breath, unsure if it was relief or resignation. "I'm not going anywhere, Mother. Not tonight. And not tomorrow either, even if I have to sit through hours of quarterly projections and talk of market shares."
That coaxed the barest smile from her, and she smoothed his collar with deft, practiced fingers. "Good. Now remember to eat something before you leave. I don't want you fainting in front of your admirers."
He grinned, almost boyish. "I'll manage." He started for the door, then paused as she gathered her purse and gloves.
"Break a leg," she said, and for a moment, he caught a flicker of pride in her eyes, unguarded and fierce.
He stepped into the night, the city humming around him, the weight of family and hope and art pressing close. Tonight, he would show his heart. Flawed, unpolished, but his alone.
*****
Chandeliers dripped and glittered like sharp white ice from the ceiling. The crowd milled around the various pieces exclaiming in hushed tones their pleasure and approval. It was a formal event, and the women had gone above and beyond in dressing for the part.
