Page 24 of Grind
A tentative note gives me pause. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. But I have no idea what a man like Connor envisions as a date. Dancing at his club? Dinner at a fancy steakhouse? He’s probably got some signature move.
“Do you like art?”
Okay, that’s definitely not what I am expecting. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Perfect.”
A few minutes later he’s holding the door open for the passenger side of his Mercedes, and then we’re driving to Beacon Hill. Looking wistfully around, I gaze up at the historical brownstones lining these narrow streets. Someday.
“What made you want to be a lawyer?” he asks, glancing my way as he drives just a little too fast. He’s always playing just a little too close to the edge, moving just a little too fast, and somehow it makes him even more attractive.
“My dad was a lawyer,” I find myself saying. “He worked the really tough cases. Defense for people who couldn’t afford to pay. Women who shot their husbands when they were being abused. Neighborhoods that corporations polluted. That kind of thing.”
“You want to be like him?”
“I don’t really remember him, to be honest,” I confess. “But my mom always talked about it, and I wanted to make a difference.” I leave out the part where he dumped us for his paralegal and used his legal skills to avoid paying fair child support.
“And now that you’re studying”—he pauses for a second, and then adds with a wicked grin—“riveting subjects like constitutional law, do you plan to still do that kind of work? Or do you see yourself doing something else?”
I shift a little in my seat. “Actually, I’m hoping to get a job going after organized crime.”
His whole body goes tense, his eyes cutting my way.
I add quickly, “Not like the mob. More like corrupt politicians. So yes, the same general thing, but just maybe on a larger scale.” It must sound insane to a man like Connor. He probably thinks it’s a way to get back at Brooks, but I’ve been wanting to do this long before Brooks. Watching my mother navigate corrupt legal and government systems to get the money and benefits she was owed while being constantly shot down by powerful men who said they knew my father was a good man who’d take care of his own was infuriating. I can still remember their condescending smiles and fake concern. I shake my head, moving out of the past.
We pull into a private driveway, and a valet opens my door. Connor takes my arm and escorts me inside. The place is a mansion, and once we’re inside, an elegant woman greets us. She seems to know Connor.
“Hello, Mr. Doyle,” she says warmly. She takes me in with a curious glance. “Welcome, thank you for joining us tonight. The exhibit is just up the stairs.”
As we’re standing there, I’m very aware of how large Connor is. With my hand looped through his arm, I’m feeling his muscles straining the fabric of his suit jacket. It’s very distracting. He starts moving confidently toward the stairs, and we ascend the sweeping staircase.
It’s not exactly that I feel out of place. I attended upscale events with Brooks while we dated. But those were always stuffed to the gills with people looking for something and weird unsavory overtones. Just the thought puts me slightly on edge. The patrons here are more diverse, and definitely totally engrossed in the artwork.
We stop briefly at the top of the stairs and then step into a side room. It’s deceptive. The room is beautifully arranged, with careful lighting and exquisite portraits on the walls. A single leather bench sits in the middle of the room. He leads me over to the bench, helping me sit before lowering his considerable bulk down beside me. The bench shifts a little, and I slide toward him, our knees touching.
“What is this place?” I whisper.
He’s studying my face, looking a little concerned. “It’s amazing,” I add quickly, and can’t help but smile when he visibly relaxes. There’s a touch of something almost vulnerable in his expression.
“It’s actually a private art gallery,” he says. “They do different shows. Big name artists have work that goes through here before it shows up at the Stewart Gardner Museum or the MFA.”
When I catch his eye, I tilt my head inquiring. Something simmers just below the surface, a sort of anticipatory anxiety. He pulls a card from his jacket pocket embossed with elegant script. “There are two exhibits here. These paintings are ancient Irish monastery art.”
My eyebrow shoots up. “The subject matter is a little heavy,” he admits. “But the other works they’re showing are actually a collection of art by Boston artists of Irish descent.”
He stands up suddenly, holding out his hand. I follow him down the hall, to the last room at the end of the corridor. Stepping in, I see a mix of paintings and photography. But his eyes immediately settle on one painting and he moves that way with purpose.
It’s a painting of a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. She’s dressed in a loose-fitting dress, and it has a dreamy quality. Even with my lack of art training, I can tell it’s good. I Then I glance at the golden tag next to the door and then look closer. It reads ’A self-portrait by Kathleen Doyle, Boston Massachusetts.’
“Doyle?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“My mom painted this,” he says, his eyes on the painting. “She was a really talented artist, although she didn’t get to do as much after she married my dad. But this and a couple of other ones are still on display.”
This huge man who drives too fast, who was quick to get into fights, who commands a crowded nightclub without effort, spends time with his mom’s paintings. And chose that to show me on our first real date. A study in contrasts.
“I just wanted you to see it.” His voice is very quiet, his eyes on the painting.
“Does she still paint?” I ask, moving in a little closer.
