Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Finn

T he next couple of weeks keep me busy. I spend them mostly in my studio readying my final paintings for my first solo exhibition. My time spent with my daughter is limited, but according to her new teacher, she's doing well. Maddie substantiates it, excitedly telling me about the things she's learning day after day. She's even impressed me with her French.

"Je t'aime. Tu es mon héro."

"What does that mean?" I ask over breakfast, unable to speak a word of the language.

"It means: I love you, Daddy. You are my hero!" she says proudly, scooping up a heaping tablespoon of Raisin Bran.

Unusual words for beginner's French. But nonetheless, I'm touched by them. So charming and heartfelt.

Maddie hasn't stop telling me how much she loves her new teacher. Wanting to get to know her better, I've asked Scarlet to join us for dinner on more than one occasion, especially because Maddie wants her there, but she's politely declined. She keeps to herself. Sometimes, I think she's deliberately avoiding me and whenever Kayla is around she disappears. A sadness often washes over her. She seems like an old soul. Hiding something behind her eyes.

Things with Kayla are on edge. She's more preoccupied with our pending nuptials than my first solo show. Frustrated that nothing is falling into place. Two weeks after Scarlet's arrival, she insists we go out for dinner to talk.

"Jacques, this looks divine," coos my fiancée as our meal is served. She's seated across from me at her new favorite French restaurant. Le Petit Peu.

Maddie, who was thrilled to stay home and have dinner with Scarlet, translated it for me. The Little Bit. A fitting name. I glance down at my plate of artfully arranged baby-sized samples of dishes I can't even pronounce. Kayla tells me it's a special gourmet dinner—from the chef-selected tasting menu. Trust me, I'm going to want an In-N-Out burger after we leave this joint. This frou-frou meal is strictly for the birds. I'm a man with a big appetite and this ain't gonna cut it.

"Merci, chérie," replies the beaming proprietor, a slight, dark-suited man with a handlebar mustache. "Can I get you something else?"

"Another Bellini would be wonderful."

It's her third. He turns to me. "And you, monsieur?"

"I'm fine." I take a sip of my sparkling water.

The restaurateur's eyes zoom in on Kayla's ring as she lifts her flute to her lips.

" Ah, chérie, mes félications!" The sparkling three-carat diamond captures the light of the blazing fireplace we're seated by. The restaurant's most coveted table, which, of course, my fiancée had no problem snagging. For Kayla, the world is her oyster.

A wide toothy smile flashes on Kayla's face. " Merci , Jacques!"

"And when eez the special day?"

My stomach knots. Kayla's been pressuring me to lock a date, but for some reason I've procrastinated. Something I excel at.

We've only been engaged for a short time. A month. Our relationship was purely professional and platonic until one night four years after my wife's passing Kayla seduced me. While the sex wasn't great, it made me realize what I was missing. That I had needs. We began to have regular sex—appointment sex as Kayla calls it—at her place once a week. Afterward, she takes a hot bath alone and gets her beauty sleep while I go home to my daughter. Which is fine by me.

The art world began to perceive us as a couple. It was Kayla who proposed. Or should I say made a proposal. To get married and become the next powerhouse couple to take the art world by storm. To join the long list of others including, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, Jackson Pollack and Lee Krasner, Man Ray and Lee Miller. And to knock the reigning king and queen—John Currin and Rachel Feinstein—off their pedestals. Kayla wanted not only to conquer the art world... she wanted to rule it. She convinced me that we were perfect for each other. Me, the ruggedly handsome, mysteriously widowed abstract painter; she, the stunning golden girl promoter who can wrap anyone around her finger. Including me.

I thought about her proposal. While my relationship with her was nothing like my passionate relationship with my late wife, it made sense. Moreover, I thought my daughter, now entering her formative wonder years, could use a strong female role model. Someone with ambition. Class. Power. Culture. And taste. So, I said yes.

And now as I approach the biggest moment of my career—my first solo show at a major art gallery—a cloud of regret hangs over me. Kayla has failed to embrace the single most important thing in my life—my precious daughter. As much as I've tried to get my new fiancée to warm up to her—including inviting Maddie to all our glamorous dinners including tonight's—Kayla wants nothing to do with her. She treats her like an annoying puppy that jumps up against your legs for affection, and constantly shoos her away. Whenever she's at my house, she insists on Rosita taking my daughter up to her room or outside to play. I've more than once seen her do her signature eye roll whenever Maddie's needs have come before hers. She has failed to understand that no one comes before my daughter. Not her. Not me. Plain and simple. I'd kill for Maddie. And die for her.

Hijacking my thoughts, Kayla answers the mustached man's question. "Darling, we haven't set a date yet, but you can be sure you'll be invited."

Grinning, the restaurateur leaves us to enjoy our meal. Bon appétit . Easier said than done. After a heated argument about me moving back into town—something I'll never do as I relish the privacy and protection our secluded Malibu house offers us... the ocean views which inspire me... and the fresh, clean air given Maddie's asthma—Kayla drains her drink and then slams the flute on the table. Not getting her way, she leaps up from her chair and stalks out of the restaurant. I pay the three hundred dollar bill and curse under my breath. Damn Kayla and her champagne taste.

Trust me, we won't be setting a wedding date soon.

And there's another reason why.

Though she avoids me, I'm inexplicably attracted to my daughter's new teacher.

I leave the restaurant on an empty stomach. And with an empty heart.

A juicy cheeseburger would be good, but what I really hunger for is love.

Even a petit peu.

On the drive home, Springsteen's "Hungry Heart" plays in the car.