Page 35 of The Prince Who Loved Me

Sebastien drove his car even faster.

He made the four-hour drive in three hours and wound through downtown until he found d’Arte Pesca, the first gallery listed on the post card. He pulled to a stop in front and gave Massimo the keys. “See you soon.”

“Yes, sir.” The man drove away. He’d park the car and then come back to escort Sebastien around the town.

Sebastien entered the building, an anonymous soul milling about with other people.

His casual jeans and button-down shirt drew some curious looks. Most everyone else was dressed at least with a blazer. Still, he was only a minor curiosity among the art hung on the walls, from the solid colored canvases with a sprinkling of dots to pieces that evoked images of punctuation marks. A computer projected designs onto a painted canvas that hung by itself on another wall.

The staccato clip of high heels sounded nearby, announcing the arrival of a woman dressed in a purple so deep it was almost black. She greeted the patrons, some by name, having short conversations with each one.

A server appeared by Sebastien’s side, offering a glass of champagne. He took one, then turned his attention to an ambitious piece of a woman climbing out of cumulous clouds. A hint of a ladder was drawn under her feet, but it was abstract enough to hide in the background. Photos of pioneering women flickered across the bottom of the drawing.

“Welcome to d’Arte Pesca. I see you’re interested in the work by…by…” The woman’s deep, throaty voice trailed off as a look of recognition dawned in her eyes. She swallowed, but Sebastien gave her credit as she kept going. “Maria Mosey. She used mixed media as a way of bringing together the past and the present, getting her inspiration from those who climbed before her. I’m honored to have you here, Prince Sebastien. Your Highness.”

She seemed on the verge of dipping into a curtsey, so he held out his hand to shake hers. “Please, just Sebastien. Unless my parents are nearby. I try not to stand on ceremony.”

“Sebastien, then.” She held on with her elegant hand. “I’m Thomasina Wile, the curator. I’d be honored if you’d let me show you around.” She walked him past a series of paintings that were covered in lottery tickets painted over with angry red swirls. They stopped at black and white photographs of a brick building. “The artist, Smitty Alexander, took one photograph every five minutes and five feet closer to this store.”

It was an interesting idea, akin to what he was doing in the orchard, sketching the same tree each season. People sometimes appeared in the pictures, sometimes the building looked abandoned. A lone dog sniffed the sidewalk in one, then was seen only as a flash of tail. “A passage of time and what gets lost on the outside,” Sebastien murmured.

“That’s the nice thing about art. Smitty was hoping for a statement on the evils of capitalism, but people see what they see.”

“Exactly.” The echo of what he had said to Brandi made him wish she was there to hear it from someone else.

“Thomasina!” A young man with a clipboard approached them. “There’s a lady who wants to talk to you about the Zeke Nayor sculpture.”

“Tell her I’ll be right there.” She turned back to Sebastien. “I hate to let you get away. If you don’t have plans for after the art walk, come back here and I’ll take you to dinner.”

He hesitated, Brandi’s smile flashing through his mind.

“Solely as a curator interested in your art,” Thomasina said. “I don’t think either of our girlfriends would mind.”

***

Brandi read through her notes from her conversation with Jordan under the dim lamp on her desk, her mom’s soft exhales creating a steady hum in the background. She opened a drawer to get some paper. Usually the ream was easily reachable, but apparently she’d put a pack of pens and some rubber bands on top of it. She brushed them off and took out a couple of sheets.

Her face flushed when she thought back over her evening. She immediately went to her room after coming home from Belle’s, taking the coward’s way out of seeing Sebastien. The intensity of the kiss had awakened something in her that would have been better as dormant, but she didn’t want to think about it.

But she shouldn’t be avoiding him, especially after making him promise not to leave. She’d seek him out tomorrow, but now the pink walls of her room were closing in on her. She needed out.

And she needed some food.

She snuck down the servants staircase, careful whenbypassing the second floor, and made her way into the dark kitchen. No lingering scent of frying bacon filled the air, and the kitchen was clean and sparkling in the moonlight coming in through the windows. The barstools next to the island were pushed in at the exact same distance. Wendy’s handiwork.

Plates and silverware were stacked on the counter, ready for tomorrow’s luncheon. Paul the social coordinator would probably get to the Hall early to set up while Wendy handled the check outs. Brandi hadn’t been part of that in a while, not since she started devoting all her time to Belle’s.

Brandi scoured the fridge for leftover bacon, but didn’t find anything. Fine. She didn’t want any salty goodness anyway. Ooh, but those leftover homemade cinnamon rolls on the counter would make a great meal. It was like the moon had spot lit them, giving them a special glow.

She put her notes down on the island and quietly took a plate out of the cabinet. Right now, she easily understood only about three words out of every five words from her conversation with Jordan and the notes she took. She was rusty, but information from her college business classes were coming back to her. It wasn’t going to be easy.

But Belle’s was going to be hers.

Footsteps sounded in the dining room and Brandi tensed, expecting Sebastien. Aunt Eulalee came in a few seconds later. “Oh, hi, sweetie. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I needed a nosh,” Brandi said, quoting Jordan’s expression. She held up the pastries. “Want one?”

“Thank you. I was coming in here for a glass of water, but a cinnamon roll would hit the spot.”