"She specifically blamed me?"
"Yes. She did."
"I have no idea who or what you're talking about. I don't meddle in other people's love lives. You know that."
I do, but … "She wasn't lying."
"Neither am I." Blake's voice is cold and sharp. "I don't know how well you know her, but I don't appreciate either of you dragging me into your relationship mess."
I scowl. He is definitely not lying. He's too self-righteously angry. Did Ava lie? Or maybe she misunderstood …
"Why are you talking with this woman?" Blake says. "Are you going to propose to her?"
I snort. If I asked her to marry me for a year, she'd brain me with that handbag she carries everywhere. "No."
"Then forget her and go after someone with more potential."
"I'm not going to marry for a year for the portraits. Dad's not going to control me like that," I say, feeling a wave of petty annoyance.
"Not even for Elizabeth?"
Trust Blake to hit below the belt. I could deal with my brothers not getting the damned portraits, but my half-sister is another matter. She's just too damn nice to become collateral damage. After all, how do you look the other way from a woman whose goal in life is to change the world one hungry child at a time?
"Not even for her," I insist, just to be contrary.
"You know Elliot got married, right?"
I laugh dryly. My twin is the last person Blake should bring up if he wants to change my mind. "Oh yeah. Huge sacrifice for him, marrying a hot stripper. I bet he auditioned her-missionary, doggy style, up against a wall. Blow jobs. All the positions to get the position."
"I think you're wrong. She didn't look like some cheap ho you can buy with a few bucks."
I snort. "How the hell would you know? You have the sensitivity of a bull on Novocain."
He grunts in response.
"Let's say you're right about the cheap part. I bet he still had to test her for STDs."
"You're a cynical bastard."
"Pot, stop calling the kettle black." This isn't helping. "I gotta go."
"Where are you?"
"Overseas. I have things to take care of."
"This Ava girl?"
"Yes."
Blake sighs. "I'm not going to tell you to get hitched just for the portraits. Grandpa didn't paint them so Dad could use them to leverage us around."
"But … ?" There's always a but with Blake.
"But if you are going to do it, find someone who understands how things are. A woman who won't be hurt when you can't give her the world on a silver platter in some garish romantic gesture." He hangs up.
An image of Faye flashes through my mind. She fits Blake's requirements to a T. She's widowed now, but she used to be married to a rich land developer. While he was alive, she hosted big events by his side, looked gracious and beautiful on his arm when the occasion called for it, and didn't start or spread rumors. Most importantly, she doesn't push or demand. She accepted my decision to end our affair with good grace, and we've remained friends.
If I explain the situation to her and ask her to help, she'll marry me, no questions asked. She'll also sign whatever prenup my lawyer drafts.
But a sixth sense tells me if I marry her, it will mean losing Ava forever. She won't give me another look even if I divorce Faye once the year is up.
Faye has nothing to do with anything, you dumbass. Ava doesn't want me. If she did, she wouldn't have dumped me the moment she faced Blake or learned about Faye. She would've stuck around until I was out of the OR and had a chance to explain.
Much to my bitter bewilderment, Ava's very presence made me feel something other than barren coldness, even when she was delivering cruel blows about how I was unworthy of her time and attention. If that makes me pathetic, fine. I'm sick of living an empty husk of a life. Until I met-and then lost-her, I was never, ever aware of this horrible chill that nothing except Ava can thaw.
I want to be free of her so I don't need to be around her to feel. That's the least I deserve.
Twenty-four weeks. One week for every month she left me. Surely that will provide enough familiarity-bred contempt to wash my hands of her forever.
Plan fully formed, I make a call.
Young Dreams
"Hey sweetheart."
It's a warm, soft greeting, but the girl doesn't look up. Her father has missed her birthday again. He always misses her birthdays. School plays and Christmases, too.
She's sitting on the edge of her small worn bed. The mattress is so old it no longer has any bounce. He squats in front of her and puts a hand on her knee.
"Sweetie, I'm so sorry." He sighs. "Daddy had to work."