Falling Angel (22 page)

In the next room, the woman let out a laugh, and Cara’s stomach knotted. That’s it, she thought. I’m leaving. And yet, she remained rooted to the spot. She didn’t want to let go of Ben this easily and slink away into the night. Regardless of how he felt, she knew that what had passed between them was something special, something rare. Something, if she were to be completely honest, that she had never experienced before. How could she let that slip away like gold dust through a sieve, without at least making an effort to understand why Ben wouldn’t talk to her.

Cara walked the length of the buffet table and rounded the corner into the adjoining room where the brunette and Ben stood together, still admiring the vase.

The woman looked over her shoulder at Cara’s entrance. Her green eyes narrowed.

Mustering her courage, Cara extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Cara Walker.”

After a moment’s pause, the woman took her hand. Her handshake was as cool and limp as a wet noodle. “Alicia Keen.”

Alicia Keen, muralist and boyfriend-stealer.

Alicia took Ben’s arm and glanced down at Cara’s chest with barely concealed amusement. “Too bad about your shirt.”

Cara ignored her and addressed Ben, who was watching the exchange impassively. “I’m going to take off. I thought I’d say goodbye, and congratulations on your painting.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”

“Yes. That’s it, really.”

“Nothing else?”

Cara frowned, trying to gauge his mood. He seemed so cold. What was it he expected her to say? “Well, no.”

“I see.” Gently, Ben disengaged himself from Alicia’s grip. “Would you excuse us a moment?”  

Alicia stared at him, her eyes widening as she realized she was being dismissed. Regaining her composure, she gave a brittle smile. “Of course. I’ll catch up with you later.” She turned on her elegant, three-inch heel and stalked into the reception room.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Ben said. Cara nodded meekly.

In strained silence, they left the penthouse and rode the elevator down to street level. It was a cool night. Cara shivered as goose bumps formed on her bare arms, but she was grateful to Ben for recognizing her desire to go somewhere private. They left the lobby and walked down the quiet street. Turning the corner, Cara followed Ben to an alleyway lined with dumpsters.

At the entrance to the alleyway, Ben stopped and turned to face her. His face was shrouded in darkness. “So,” he said. “You came to say goodbye.”

“Well, not goodbye, goodbye,” Cara said, trying to make light of the situation. “Goodbye for tonight.”

Ben’s arms were crossed and he looked away from her. She touched his arm. ”Ben, what’s going on?”

Ben’s lip curled. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh would you quit with the innocent act already? It’s getting old.”

Tears sprang to Cara’s eyes at his savage tone. “Ben, I don’t understand what’s going on. Could you please tell me why you’re so angry?”

“Why am I so angry?” he repeated incredulously. “You have a lot of nerve. You spend Sunday afternoon visiting my friends and getting down with me on the beach, we get together for lunch on Monday, and you get engaged to some idiot banker that same night.”

“But I didn’t!” Cara protested. Ben held up a hand to silence her.

 “I can handle that, I guess. You’ve got a right to go out and get engaged to whoever you want. What I can’t stand is your hypocrisy. Going on about relationships and commitment when it’s clearly nothing but a game to you. You’ve been playing us off each other, haven’t you?”

“But it wasn’t a game! I’m not engaged to David! There’s nothing important between us. He’s just a, a . . . guy I know,” Cara finished lamely.

“Yeah, well your definition of important seems a little different from mine.”

“Ben, I’m sorry,” Cara began, trying a different tack. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Hurt?” Ben became instantly defensive. “What makes you think I’m hurt? I knew where you stood from day one, remember? You don’t date artists. They’re too sketchy, too unreliable to fit into your grand plan of bourgeois mediocrity. Well guess what? You won’t have any more trouble from me.”

Cara felt her own hackles rise at his words and she flashed back at him. “I’m sorry that you think I’m so shallow. But at least I’m not some kind of stalker. How did you even know I was out with David? Were you following me?”

“For your information, I was in the neighborhood when I saw you flaunting your engagement ring in the window like some trashy bimbo. . .”

Cara was taken aback by his contemptuous tone. “I told you, it wasn’t an engagement ring!”

“Engagement ring, friendship ring, whatever. From my experience, women don’t accept fancy jewelry from a guy unless they’re sleeping with them, or pretty close to it.”

Cara stomped her foot and gave a little cry of frustration. “Whatever, Ben! Believe what you want to. Why should it matter to you, anyway? You’ve already made it clear that your freedom is more important to you than anything else. That art is more important to you than financial stability, love and commitment. And what about your relationship with Alicia? From what I saw tonight, it’s not exactly over, is it? You can dish it out but you can’t take it!”

They had retreated off the street into the relative privacy of the alley. Cara leaned against the brick wall of the building behind her. Ben glared at her and for the first time Cara felt a twinge of fear. She had never seen him angry before. Already she regretted her angry outburst. There was no need to escalate the situation.

Ben took a step closer to her and spoke in a low, controlled voice. “You know, I’ve tried to chalk your half-baked ideas and erratic behavior up to immaturity, but I can’t. You’re not stupid, you’re 24 years old, and you’re not as innocent as you look.” He stood a foot away from her, breathing heavily. Even in this charged atmosphere his proximity made her feel weak in the knees.

“What do you want, Cara? Do you need a written contract and last year’s tax returns to feel comfortable in a new relationship? Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t operate that way. I trust my gut to tell me what’s right, and I thought things were right with us. I was wrong.”

As he turned to go, Cara panicked. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Please don’t leave. I want to make things right.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” he asked fiercely, spinning around to face her again.

“Ben, please. I do care about you. I really do.”

Their eyes met, and she saw that along with his anger there was sadness and desire. With a groan, his lips bore down on hers, the stubble of his chin scraping her cheek. She opened her mouth and returned his kiss with fervor.

“Oh, Ben,” she whispered, eyes closed.

It took a moment for her to realize that he had pulled away. Her mouth hurt from the force of his lips. A river of cold air flowed in the gap between them. Ben stared at her, his breath ragged.

“What is it?”

He raised his hands, and then let them fall to his sides. “I can’t do this,” he said.

“Then don’t,” Grasping his hand, Cara attempted to pull him to her. “We can go someplace else. We can talk. We . . .”

“I’m done talking.” Extricating his hand from hers, Ben zipped up his leather jacket. “You know where to find me if you ever figure out what you want.”

“Do I? Will you still be there?”

Ben flapped his arms and winged backward with a mocking smile. “Have you forgotten my credo? Footloose and fancy-free. No promises, no guarantees.”

Cara longed to call him back to her again, but pride and shame kept her silent as Ben turned the corner and disappeared into the street.

As soon as he was out of sight, the levee inside her broke. Sinking down against the wall, she covered her face with her hands as hot tears slipped between her fingers.

Ben was gone, and she feared she had lost him forever.

Chapter Twenty One

Except for the dim light emitted by a bare bulb suspended on a chain above Ben’s canvas, the studio was dark. It was well past midnight, and Ben was almost done sketching in the outline for his final exhibition piece. The painting was another in his
Fallen Angel
series, depicting a figure on canvas similar to the sculpture he had given to Cara. A woman in mid-flight, or mid-fall, was set against a swirling, surrealist background of dark colors pierced by points of brilliant light.

A half-empty bottle of cheap wine and a paint-stained glass tumbler stood next to his palette on the table. He poured himself another drink and stood back to survey his work. In his mind, he envisioned the canvas in full color. Now all he had to do was make that vision manifest in the physical world; a feat that was easier said than done.

It was good to work. He had been so distracted the past few weeks, his passion and energy suctioned off and redirected in his pursuit of the elusive Cara. What a waste of time, he thought. As usual. In her way, Cara had been as disingenuous as Alicia. From the moment they’d met, she’d had him running after her, trying to please her, as was his wont. How she must have laughed with her roommate about him! Ben, the sucker. It was a good thing their relationship had run its course in only a matter of weeks, rather than months or years.

Now he could get back to what really mattered.

On the window ledge, his cell phone rang. Ben wiped the charcoal from his hands with a paint-stained rag and went to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Bonjour, Ben, is that you?” He recognized the throaty, heavily accented voice of his old friend and mentor immediately.

“Bernadette!” Ben switched to French, which he spoke passably well, although with a strong American accent. “What a pleasure to hear from you.”

“I should have known to call your atelier first,” she said. “You are working hard, no?”

“There’s a slave driver at my back, telling me I need to complete this piece in the next two weeks and ship it out or face the wrath of God.”

Bernadette gave a hoarse laugh that turned into a cough. Ben rarely remembered seeing her without a cigarette in her hand. Despite that, at 72 she was still as slim and energetic as a girl and remained a powerful force in the insular Parisian art world.

 She claimed it was the artistically stimulating stable of young artists she cultivated, and whose works she exhibited, that kept her young. Ben had no doubt that some of them had stimulated her in other ways also. Despite her advancing years, Bernadette D’Autry, curator for the Musee Maillol, was an incorrigible coquette.

“Still, you are not, how do the Americans say, too ‘stressed-out,’ I hope,
mon cher
.”

“Not at all. The work keeps my mind off the rest of my troubles, and for that I am grateful.”

“And what troubles can a young, handsome and successful man like you have?” she teased. “Let me guess; an
affair de coeur
has soured?”