Better Than Safe (10 page)

I came by it naturally I supposed. My father was a painter, my mother was his muse. As an only child, I’d witnessed their odd synchrony and wondered at times how they could stand each other. David Fallon was alternately charming and extraordinarily engaging, then cool and aloof. His mood swings were challenging. My mother simply accepted his mercurial shifts as though it were a change in tide. Sometimes high, sometimes low. It was up to us to adjust. And we did. I followed her lead and never thought twice about it. Until I went away to school. I was a sensitive enough child to recognize the sympathetic tones and glances thrown my way when my parents were too involved to visit for a holiday. It wasn’t until I was invited to my schoolmates homes that I caught on my parents were nothing like my friends’. Theirs were “normal.” They lived in beautifully appointed estates in the country and had smart flats in London. They were polished and posh. Intelligent and socially savvy. My parents were… eccentric.

Sure, we lived in a lovely countryside home, an old stoned ivy-covered cottage that once belonged to a vicar à la Jane Austen. It was a bit drafty in the winter and tended to be a tad unkempt. But it wasn’t for lack of money. It was simply not as important as the one thing that mattered most to David and Harriet Fallon. Art. The carriage house adjacent to the main house was where my father worked. It had been transformed into a studio most artists would eye with keen jealousy. There were refurbished wood floors and tall windows to let in ample natural light. And with a small bedroom, bath, and kitchen space, my father had no reason to join us in the main house unless he chose to. He rarely did. My mother spent a great deal of time at work or in the carriage house, and I was left alone.

I didn’t mind. There was always plenty of food. A cook came by to take care of that basic necessity. She was a friendly enough woman who would chat with me while she prepared amazing concoctions, but she couldn’t help muttering loudly under her breath about the desperate need for a full-time housekeeper and a playmate for poor Paul. I would shrug and stick my fingers happily in the pudding bowl, scraping the sides as I tuned her out. My world was different. My parents were fine enough when they were around and I didn’t mind being alone. It gave me time to dream about the places I wanted to travel to and the grand sights I hoped to see someday.

And I had the whole house to listen to music with absolutely no one pleading with me to turn that bloody racket down. I discovered rhythm and blues in my early teens when I was away at school, but it was jazz I fell in love with. I could listen to John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Charlie Parker over and over. It was funny really. I was an English teenager who sat in his room dreaming of a time when I could finally move across the pond and feel the pulse of that music in the gritty city streets of America.

Real life has a habit of delaying dreams. Once I finished university, I turned my focus to establishing a career. One of my internships was for a small advertisement firm based in London. I liked the creative energy and found I was a natural at copywriting and visualizing marketing strategies. I was hired on at an elite London-based agency when I was twenty-four, and suddenly my world opened. I had a gorgeous older boyfriend and traveled all over Europe and the US for work. When I was thirty, I no longer had the boyfriend… thank God, but I finally had the opportunity to make the permanent move I’d dreamed of as a teenager. It had been five years since I’d moved to DC, and I had no plans to return to Britain to do anything more than occasionally visit my parents or attend to business. My home was here now.

However, at age thirty-five I had to admit it would be nice to share my life with someone. My career was on the right track. I had a beautiful townhome in Georgetown and had traveled the globe and back again. It was a nice life but it was a little… lonely. If I could change the one quirk in my personality that drew me time and time again to crazy artistic men with beautiful but difficult minds, I just might get lucky. I didn’t think I was entirely a hopeless case.

As I stepped through the doors of the National Gallery of Art and immediately made eye contact with a young man dressed from head to toe in black with a notebook tucked under his arm, I realized I might just be doomed. Maybe I should take Aaron up on his offer to introduce me to Matt’s lawyer friend. A doctor, lawyer, or hell, even a politician would be—I chuckled to myself and shook my head. No politicians. They were crazy too.

I smiled distractedly at the good-looking man, then made my way through the West Building’s main floor to view the new Caillebotte exhibit. It was a Saturday afternoon in early May. The weather outside was crisp and cloudy, which in my mind made it a perfect museum day. I’d been to the gym, worked at home, and even called my mother who sounded distracted as usual. The conversation was short and sweet. I figured I could meander about the gallery for a couple of hours and later tonight swing by Jack’s bar in Dupont. Curt sent me a text message earlier saying he’d be there around eight. He added something about making sure I dressed in khakis, but since I usually did, I sent him a photo of a man in leather chaps and wrote,
my outfit tonight
.

LOL. Looking forward to seeing the guys drool over your ass, oops, I mean your chaps. Meet me in the corner.

So I had a plan. A means to get through the day without thinking about Seth or obsessing about meeting someone more appropriate. Perfect. I brushed past a crowd of tourists stopping to take selfies in front of major works of art. I waited until they filed out of the large gallery space and followed one of the museum’s tour leaders to the next exhibit. The room felt warmer than normal, I mused as I pushed at my shirt sleeves and made my way to the first painting by Gustave Caillebotte called
Skiffs
.

I noted the muted colors of the muddy green river juxtaposed to the golden oars and perfect balance of each skiff in the water. It was lovely. Peaceful. I leaned in to get a better look at the brush stroke when a familiar figure entered the exhibit. My heart skipped a beat and my palms went instantly clammy. The warm room was suddenly stifling. I pulled at my collar uncomfortably and willed myself to relax. I didn’t have to say a word. I could leave undetected. No problem.

Except, I was here first. I wasn’t going anywhere, dammit.

I tried to focus on the art, but I was too aware of my surroundings now. The soft chatter of a couple speaking in French next to me and the sight of a museum security guard standing vigil near the entry. I closed my eyes for a second, hoping I’d open them and Seth would magically vanish.

No such luck.

“Paul. Hey. I… um… how’s it going?”

I glanced over to give my best “fuck yourself” look. I’d perfected it over the years with a slight tilt of my nose to let the recipient know I thought they were pure shit. It was generally effective, but I ruined it by stopping short to study the man beside me.

“What happened to your eye?”

Seth let out a short, humorless huff and turned to face me. His hair was dyed black, which gave his angular face a ghostly pallor. If it hadn’t been for the purplish yellow hue under his right eye, I might have thought he’d come directly from a photo shoot. He looked gorgeous, but obviously something was amiss.

“Got in a fight. Long story.”

“Hmph.” I looked back at the painting for a second then moved to the next. Seth set his hand on my elbow and pulled slightly.

“Wait. Don’t—I’m sorry ab—”

I batted his hand away and spun back to face him. “Don’t apologize. Don’t say anything at all.” I stared at him meaningfully and stepped back. “Good-bye.”

The crowd was thick in front of the adjacent painting, so I moved on to the next. I stood beside a tiny old woman wearing a bright orange rain parka and ruby red lipstick. Colors seemed to blend and twist around me. The stooped, white-haired figure in bright colors, the muted pastels of the impressionist work in front of me, and the figure dressed in black I sensed in my peripheral vision. So much for a peaceful Saturday wandering the hallowed halls of the National Gallery. Maybe next weekend.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I—”

“I’m not interested. Leave it alone,” I said louder than intended. The old lady gave me a sharp, scolding glance and pursed her lips in disapproval. I muttered my apologies then moved to the next painting.

Of course he followed.

“I got in a fight with my ex and things got out of hand. I did—
”

“Stop. I don’t want to know about your bloody ex or your bloody problems or why you’re a complete and utter flake!” I hissed. A well of anger seemed to swell inside me. I gave him a piercing stare, aware of my clenched fists and pounding heartbeat.

“Whoa. I—”

“We’re done here. Perhaps there’s another part of the museum you’re interested in seeing,” I whispered loudly.

A small, round man with a horrible comb-over wearing the dark navy garb of a museum employee tossed an irritated glance between us. His pudgy hand was glued to his walkie-talkie as though he recognized he might have to call in reinforcements.

“I’m not going anywhere. I was here first.” His smug grin was the last straw.

“Actually, I was here first.” I cocked my head and stepped toward him. “Stay if you must, but stay away from me.”

He held his hands up in surrender and took a step back. I knew better than to trust him. It was only a matter of time before he spoke and—

“What do you think of the exhibit?”

I ignored him. Or I tried to. I focused on the rich realism of the next piece. The vibrant colors, the subject matt—

“These are my favorite. The ones that depict real people doing everyday things. It was scandalous in the late 1800s. Crazy, huh? I love how he used a traditional pastel palette in some works and these lively colors on others. His versatility was impressive and the photographic quality is….”

I moved to the next piece. Leave now, I warned myself. Seth Landau was trouble. He was inscrutable, unreliable, and a complete nuisance.

“Did you know he was strongly influenced by photography? That was high technology back then. It makes you wonder how modern technol—”

“I’m not interested,” I snapped, turning to find him much closer than I’d thought. “I’ll muddle through the exhibit on my own. Good-bye.”

“You’re mad.” His theatrical sigh echoed through the room. In my agitated state, I was sure every eye was on us. “I’m not good at this stuff but—”

“Don’t,” I said in a low menacing tone.

“Don’t what? Apologize? I have to. I fucked up. Again. I want to blame Simon but….”

He kept talking. In my mind it was a never-ending chorus to a song I hated blaring on the radio. And every station was playing the same damn tune. I couldn’t change it or silence it and I couldn’t bear to be near him for another second. I pushed through the growing crowd to the next painting and stood by the old woman in colorful clothing, thinking she’d save me somehow from my spiral into madness.

He followed me. And kept talking. “He’s a nightmare I can’t shake. I don’t owe him anything but he’s—”

“Shh!”

“You’re right. This isn’t the place. Come with me. Let me buy you a coffee or—”

I leaned into his ear and growled under my breath. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

“But if I told you—”

“Fuck off!” I shouted. I could literally feel myself unravel. It was the strangest sensation. A sort of cathartic release of pent-up anger and frustrated exasperation. It felt… good.

Then all hell broke loose. The entire room went still until the little old lady gasped in horror. The museum guard narrowed his beady eyes and pulled out his walkie-talkie, quickly calling for backup. He pocketed the device deftly, then tugged at my sleeve like I was an unruly child who required immediate discipline. The sheer absurdity of being thrown out of my favorite museum left me sputtering and speechless. I felt a deep flush crawl up my skin, undoubtedly making my face bright red with embarrassment. I was mortified.

I swallowed hard and followed the guard, knowing I’d probably made his day. He could brag later about the pretentious Englishman he tossed out on his ass. My jaw was set in a hard angry line and my vision was slightly blurred as I made the walk of shame out of the room.

“You too, sir. You need to leave,” the guard said sternly.

Great. Maybe I should have taken satisfaction I hadn’t been the only one who’d been admonished, but I was more concerned with avoiding Seth if possible. I quickened my pace and made a beeline for the exit. I sidestepped wayward children and leisurely moving tourists carrying umbrellas and did not take a deep breath until I’d made my way outdoors under the grand portico entrance with its giant Greek columns. I started down the steep staircase leading to Madison Drive, but stopped suddenly when the first drops of rain hit me.

Of course it was raining. Perfect. It was exactly what should happen in the movie version of this ridiculous blip in the history of me. Yes, the one and only day I was tossed out of a museum should be on a rainy afternoon when I didn’t have an umbrella with me. There was no way around it. I was going to get wet. My car was parked three blocks away and I really didn’t want to be standing there contemplating my lack of options when Seth popped outside.

“Hey! Paul!”

Too late.

Fuck. I ignored him. Or tried to. I heard him calling my name as I traversed the steep stone steps and turned right up Madison. There was a coffee shop on the corner. I couldn’t block him from following me, but the steady patter of rain didn’t leave me with many alternatives. I had to get out of the rain.

I sprinted up the street only to be stopped at the crosswalk. I pushed the button impatiently and willed myself not to look back.

“Wanna share my umbrella?” asked the now familiar voice behind me.

He didn’t wait for my response before raising the large nylon barrier over my head. The instant relief from the elements was welcome. I kept my eyes forward, pointedly ignoring my rescuer. He chuckled softly as though he were amused at my petulance. I wanted to turn and blast him again, but I held back. When the light changed, I ducked under the umbrella and walked swiftly to the coffee shop, not bothering to hold the door as I entered the blessedly warm store. I stomped my feet a couple of times, wincing at the condition of my Italian loafers. Thank God they weren’t one of my better pairs, I mused, shaking the moisture from my hair before making my way to the front register to place my order.