That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (27 page)

Why stop there? Why not do all of it her way? Like tango.

The thought of tangoing again filled her soul with such sweet joy. She rubbed her chest, feeling her heart speed at the thought—and at the thought of dancing with Remy.

Remy Savage
.

She swallowed thickly. She wanted him, too. Badly. Only she wasn't sure he'd ever be over his wife, despite what Esme said.

Later. She shook it off and smiled at Michelle. "Tell you what. We'll work something out. Maybe you'll let me work on it for free."

Michelle looked confused. "Did you inhale the cookies? Because they might be toxic."

George smiled, putting her arm around Michelle's shoulders, feeling like herself for the first time ever. "Let me tell you what I'm envisioning."

The Holocaust memorial stayed with him.

Remy sat at the dining room table and set the bag from the art supply store in front of him. Taking a deep breath, he took out the sketchpad and the drafting pencil he'd just bought. He tossed the bag aside and opened the sketchpad to the first blank page.

He stared at it, remembering the totality of the installation. The figures were bronze painted white—a hard material. A brilliant choice, but there was no breathing to it like there would have been with stone; the figures were all on the ground, corpses of concentration camp victims.

It inspired him on a level he hadn't experienced in—

Well, since Giselle.

He waited for her voice, that soft whisper in his head, but there was nothing. It'd been several days since he'd heard her voice. It was beginning to worry him.

He looked up at the ceiling. "Where did you go?"

No answer.

Maybe she was upset that he'd think of being with another woman. He looked at the sketchbook. Maybe he shouldn't do this. He looked at the blank page, his fingers twitching with the need to draw what was in his mind.

He got up from the table—he had to move.

As large as the loft was, he felt confined. He needed air and space. He strode to his closet to get his jacket. He reached in for it, but his hand connected with his tuxedo instead.

He frowned. He hadn't worn it since before Giselle died. In fact, he swore he'd given it away. There wasn't a need for it after she was gone; he didn't attend fancy parties any longer. He pushed it aside to get his jacket.

Something inside it crunched.

Frowning, he opened the coat and reached into the breast pocket. He froze when his fingers touched an envelope.

Slowly, he withdrew the letter and stared at it. On the envelope, it said
Remy
in Giselle's frilly cursive.

His hands shook as he opened it and took the letter out.

Remy, my love!

Tonight we're going to your unveiling at the MOMA. I'm petrified. I hope I look good enough for the wife of the next Rodin, as they're calling you.

You're cuter than Rodin. In case you wondered.

I'm also so proud of you I could burst! Your art is a gift to people, and I love that
that
is being acknowledged tonight. I'm going to hold the memory of tonight bright, so that if you ever doubt what you're doing I can remind you and steer you back to your purpose. Because your purpose is grand, my love. Your talent is bigger than you and me. It belongs to everyone.

Never forget that.

Kisses,

Giselle

He remembered that night, but he'd never seen this letter. He read it again, and as he finished reading the second time, he felt a kiss on his cheek and then an absence, and he knew Giselle had moved on once and for all.

Except for in his heart. He put a hand over it—he could still feel her there. He could still feel her support and her affection, her undying belief in his work.

He went back to the table, sat down, and pulled the sketchbook closer. Taking a deep breath, he started drawing.

When he finished, he dropped the pencil and sat back. He wasn't sure if he was there for ten minutes or ten hours—time warped when he was in the zone.

And this time he'd definitely been in the zone. He studied his sketch critically, feeling the rise in his chest when he knew he had an important piece.

He reached for his phone and called Marty.

His manager answered on the first ring. "I thought this must be a pocket dial, only I'd have thought you threw away my number."

"I have an idea for an installation," he said.

There was utter silence on the other line. Then Marty exclaimed, "
Hallelujah.
"

* * *

There was one more thing Remy needed to take care of: Georgina.

His chest squeezed in that way again. Maybe all of this was just a precursor to a heart attack.

Intuitively, he knew different. Georgina had wiggled her way under his skin and wouldn't be extricated. Somehow, she'd become important to him, despite both their efforts to keep their walls up.

He had no idea how that'd happened.

He had no idea if they had a future.

That didn't matter, he decided. He'd been unkind to her, and he regretted it—badly.

But he knew exactly how to make it up to her: by showing her how he saw her. He just needed Max to help him.

His friend was all for it, coming to pick him up in his car. Max unlocked the door with a smile and held up a ski mask. "I'm all ready for this mission."

Remy shook his head as he fastened his seatbelt. "We aren't robbing anyone. We're going to paint a mural."

"Graffiti!" Max drove off. "Way cool. Can I add my tag?"

"And what's that? Sexy Max?"

"Dude."

Max drove them to the paint store for supplies. By the time they got everything they needed and arrived at the garage, it was after closing time, which was exactly how he wanted it.

Max got out and helped him unload. "I don't know that we're going to have time to do everything on that design you showed me."

"We won't, but we'll do what we can." He looked at the base coat that someone had applied over the atrocious Popeye mural.

Max held his hand out. "Let's do this."

He put his hand in his friend's. "Let's do it."

Remy knew Max was no artist, but his friend had a steady hand and could follow directions. He gave him the task of doing the outline of the painting, knowing Max would be meticulous about setting up the stencil and making the lines straight.

He got the ladder and began to work on the woman on the motorcycle.

He'd always loved sculpting. Painting, though, had been lower on the totem pole in the whole hierarchy of how he'd spend his time. But he felt good about this project. He started more abstractly than he'd have ideally wanted, but he figured he'd be able to fill in the details later.

If Georgina liked it. There was a distinct possibility that she'd reject his vision of her.

He was so engrossed in their project that he didn't realize they had an audience until he heard, "Well, this is pulchritudinous."

Remy glanced over his shoulder to see Esme standing there, staring up at him with a smile. "That means nice," she explained happily. "It's better than redheaded Popeye, that's for sure."

"The redheaded Popeye was kind of hot, in a way," Max said, smiling at her. "I'm Remy's accomplice, Sexy Max."

"Delighted to meet you, Sexy Max." She tipped her head and regarded him oddly, her eyes casting off a strange paleness. Then she shook her head and mumbled, "Not your time yet," before facing Remy. "This is a good decision. Don't forget the roses."

They watched her return to her apartment. Max wandered over and said, "I thought you said Georgina wasn't a roses kind of girl."

"She's surprising, actually." He looked back at where he was weaving the vine on the mural. "And I have a feeling she wouldn't mind a few virtual ones."

Dana sat at the bar in Comstock, staring at the door, fingers tapping nervously on the countertop. Would Scott come?

The bartender came over for like the hundredth time. "Are you sure you don't want something to drink? Or at least a shot of whiskey?"

"Whiskey." She perked up, tempted, because it'd probably settle her a little. But then she shook her head. "I'll wait for my friend."

The way his eyes widened told her what he thought of that. She stuck her tongue out at him behind his back. In another ten minutes, she'd just order something because she might as well drown her sorrows when he didn't show up.

She shook her head. "No negative thinking. He has to show up."

Actually, he didn't. Especially after Kevin punched him. But she hoped the message she sent him was compelling enough that he'd come.

She hoped the idea of seeing
her
was compelling enough to show up.

She drummed her fingers. Maybe she should just start drinking now.

Then the saloon doors opened, and a man in a suit stepped through the door. He had glasses and looked like an adult Harry Potter, grown-up and filled out in all the right places.

His gaze locked on her, and he strode straight to her.

She thought she was going to be so relieved, but she got even more nervous the closer he got. By the time he stood next to her, she almost couldn't breathe.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Some guy in an owl suit said you wanted to see me."