Calendar Girl: October: Book 10

S
ilence
. That’s what greeted me when I entered Wes’s Malibu home.
My home.
I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps the thought crossed my mind that the universe would suddenly open up and deliver heaven on Earth in the form of my man safe and sound on American soil, standing in the comfort of our home. Because ultimately, that’s what it was.
Our
home. Wes had been adamant that I change my way of thinking about what Gin referred to as the Malibu mansion. The alternative, Wes said, would be that we found something new together. I didn’t want that. Truthfully, I’d rather immerse myself in everything that was him. Whole. Unique. Understated. Glorious.

Wes worked hard for everything he’d amassed at such a young age. He wasn’t boastful or greedy. The clean lines, and easygoing décor begged to be sat on and spoke of that mentality. As I walked through the dark, empty rooms, I reconnected with his things, but it had changed. Something was different. I looked around with an analytical eye and surveyed the subtle differences since the last time I’d been here two months ago.

On the mantle above the stone fireplace was a small one-foot-tall statue of a ballet dancer, her long leg extended out and up. Her hands held the leg at the ankle above her head as she balanced on pointed toe. The piece was my mother’s. She’d hoist herself up on her toes, bend back, and show me exactly how a ballerina executed that move. My mother had been a showgirl in Vegas, but before that, she was a dancer, classical and contemporary. I loved watching her move. As she cleaned the house, she’d twirl around to music only she could hear. Her black hair fell to her waist and fluttered around her body like a dark cape. At five years old, I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, and I loved her like no other. That love was misplaced, but the statue wasn’t. It had pride of place on the mantle, and as much as I wanted to knock it off, let it crash to the ground, I left it there. Had I not wanted to keep it, the item would have been donated. Sometimes memories hurt, even the really beautiful ones.

I turned and surveyed the living room. On an end table was a framed photograph I recognized. Maddy. It was the day before she started college. I’d followed her around the school like a lost puppy. Mads, on the other hand, skipped, holding my hand, swinging our arms in the process. We went from class to class as she showed me each one of her courses and what the program book said she’d be learning in them. Her happiness was exuberant, and I relished in it, knowing that in that moment, my girl, my baby sis, was going to make something amazing of herself. She already had. I was beyond proud of her. The sky was the limit and nothing would hold her down.

Continuing my journey into the kitchen, I found a collage of images held by magnets to the fridge. Loose photos I’d peeled off the fridge at my tiny apartment were added here. Maddy, Ginelle, Pops. There were also a couple of new ones. Pictures I hadn’t printed. Wes and me. One from dinner, and a selfie we’d taken in bed together that just showed our faces. He must have added them. That was the beginning of it all. I ran my finger over Wes’s smirk. So confident and sexy, holding me close in his bed. My chest tightened, and I rubbed at the ache. Soon. He’d be home soon. I had to have faith. Trust the journey. Now more than ever I needed to believe those words I’d had tattooed on my foot.

Moving into what had become our bedroom, I stopped dead in my tracks, mouth dropping open, eyes wider than dinner plates.

“Holy fucking shit.” I looked in awe at the image that stared back at me. My image.

It was the last portrait Alec had taken of me back in February, standing at the space needle observation deck taking in the view of Seattle. My hair was blowing out behind me in a fan of ebony locks. That day, I’d felt liberated. Free of the burden my father had inadvertently placed on my shoulders and the requirement to be whatever the client needed—all of that gone in that one second of peace. In that moment, I was just Mia, a girl seeing real beauty for the first time in the landscape before her.

I couldn’t believe it. Weston had purchased the most expensive piece Alec had created of me. I mean, in our conversations over the year, I’d finally told him about Alec. Well, not the nitty gritty details, just the basics. I made a point to tell him about the art, how each piece had changed me, allowed me to see life, love, and myself more clearly. We’d been in bed, naked, wrapped around one another when I told him how much I owed Alec for that lesson. How taking his money felt wrong because of what he’d given me, but I’d had no choice.

Pulling out my phone, I scanned the contacts and pressed the call button.

“
Ma jolie
, to what do I owe this extreme pleasure of your voice,” Alec answered in that smooth, sultry tone that reminded me of far better, happier times spent underneath the sinful Frenchman.

Turning, I scrambled onto the bed, sat cross-legged, and stared at the painting. “I, uh, I can’t believe…” Instead of finishing, I flipped the phone around and took a picture of the work, sent it to him, and lifted the phone back to my ear. I could hear the ding from my text through the line.

“Mia,
parle moi
, are you okay?” His tone was anxious.

My voice shook as I took in every facet of the beauty in front of me hanging over Wes’s bed. My bed with Wes. “Check your text.”

“I do not care about this type of communication,
chérie
.”

“Just do it.” I groaned, hopefully making my point.

A few clicks could be heard. “Ah,
mais
oui,
you are seeing you,
non
?”

There are moments in time when a person wants to reach through a phone and strangle the person they’re talking to. This was one of those times. “You’re missing the point, Alec. Why am I seeing
me
in my boyfriend’s bedroom?”

Alec gasped. “
Ma jolie
, you have a
copain
? A boyfriend?” The word rolled around in his French accent almost making me forget I was annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “You have made a life commitment.
Félicitations!”
He congratulated me, yet provided no answer as to why the art was there.

I groaned. “Alec, honey, pay attention.”

He hummed. “Oh,
chérie
, you always have my attention. Especially when you are bare to me. I can remember exactly what it felt like to have you in my arms that month. You recall,
oui
?”

“Alec, we are not going to take a walk down memory lane right now. I need answers. From you. How did this piece end up here in my bedroom?”

He chuckled and sighed. “Always eager for information. Perhaps it was meant as a surprise,
compte tenu
de votre amant
.”

My French was rusty since I hadn’t been studying or talking to Alec much by phone the last few months but he’d basically inferred it was a surprise from my lover.

“Wes bought it?”

“Not exactly.”

My spine stiffened and I clenched my teeth so hard I could have broken rocks between them. “This is not the time to be coy. Spit it out, Frenchie.”

He made a gag type sound. “Spitting is a vile habit, one of which I do not partake.”

I rolled my eyes and flopped back on the bed. “Alec…” I warned.

“Your lover did not pay for the painting,” he said clearly.

“Then how did it get here?”

Getting information out of my Frenchman when he obviously didn’t want to give it was harder than getting a man to stave off an impending orgasm after going a few serious rounds. Fucking impossible.

Finally he sighed. “
Ma jolie
, I will be honest with you,
oui
?”

As if I needed to respond—he knew what I wanted, yet I did so anyway. “
Oui. Merci
.”

“Your lover called my agent. Wanted to purchase
Goodbye Love
. I have been refusing to sell it.”

That surprised me. An artist who created art specifically to be sold and shared with the world was refusing to sell? “Why? That makes no sense.”

He hummed again noncommittally. “It just is. I love you and wanted to make sure your beauty was being appreciated by the right people. I had rules about every painting. There were two I wasn’t planning to part with.”

“And which two would that be?”

His voice lowered to the sexy growl I knew far too well. “I like to see us in our moment of love. I have hung
Our Love
in my den at my villa in France.
Je ne pouvais pas m’en séparer
,” he said and I racked my brain, trying to put the words together into something that made sense. Mostly, I think he stated that he couldn’t bear to part with it.

I laughed. “Alec, that’s silly. The point of the exhibit was to share the art.”

“Ahh, but I want it seen daily by the right eyes. I have sold the others, each to individuals I have vetted and spoken with personally.”

I shook my head and licked my dry lips. Emotions were swirling inside me, seeing the art, talking to Alec, missing Wes. I felt like the aftermath of a tornado. I was trying to pick up the shredded pieces of my thoughts and feelings even though they didn’t match up right.

“And this painting? How did it get here?”

“I spoke to your Weston. He told me who he was, explained that he knew the terms of our relationship. I expected
grabuge
.”

“Garbage?” He expected garbage? What?

“
Merde. Non
. How you say this…may him?”

At that, I piggy snorted. “Mayhem?” I laughed.

“
Oui
. Mayhem. However, he was a true gentlemen. Said he’d seen the exhibit photos online and wanted to buy them.”

“Buy them. As in all of them?”

“
Oui
,” Alec responded as if this were not unusual. I found it highly unusual that my laid-back surfer guy wanted to spend millions on pictures…of me. We’d definitely be discussing his misuse of hard-earned dollars upon his return.
God, I hope he returns
.

I got up and walked through the house quickly, looking from room to room. I didn’t see any more images of me staring back. “Well…”

“I told him no. That there was only one he could have, and if he picked the right one, I would sell it to him.”

Jesus. Alec was a weird guy. Complex, peculiar, loving, demonstrative, demanding, devastatingly good in bed, but downright bizarre. Then again, weren’t all artist types? You couldn’t peg their strange nature or label it, because most people didn’t respond the same way.

“And?”

“He chose well. He chose you.”

The way he phrased it sent ribbons of tingles running up and down my arms. I rubbed them, hugging my body since no one was there to do it for me.

“They’re all of me, Alec.”

“
Non
. The others were times in your life, experiences, as well as some things you acted out, for the sake of the art. That one image was a direct result of who you are today. And he wanted it. So I let him have you.”

The word “have” sounded strange on his tongue. “What does that mean?”

“Consider it a gift to you and him. To your love.”

“You gave my boyfriend an image worth a quarter of a million dollars?”

“Actually that was worth half a million.”

“Fuck!”

“Mia.
Je t'aime.
I was going to give you half the money it made anyway. This way, you get a beautiful reminder of who you are each and every day. I adore that he hung it above the bed you share. No better place could have been chosen for that image.
”

I sniffed, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. “I love you too, you know? In our way.” I meant every word.

He laughed. “
Oui
. I know,
ma jolie
.” And just like the painting’s name, he ended our call with two words. “Goodbye, love.”

I hoped that wasn’t the last time I’d hear from my filthy-talking Frenchman. Even if he was essentially giving his blessing to Wes and me in a way, I still wanted him in my life. He’d always be a part of this journey, and I’d love him until the day I died. I just loved Wes more. Was
in love
with him and needed him to come home.

T
he night was cooler
than the last time I was here, but I’d been cold for weeks. I looked up at the stars and wondered if Wes could see them where he was. Even though I promised myself I’d let him initiate the contact, I pulled out my phone and hit the number for him. It went straight to an automated voicemail. Powerful bursts of tension licked through every vein as I steadied my breathing, trying not to panic because he didn’t answer. He was probably sleeping. The man was healing from a gunshot wound to the neck for crissake.
Relax, Mia. You spoke with him yesterday
.

“Hey, um, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice tonight. I’m home. In, uh, Malibu.” My gaze went to the dark ocean waves off in the distance. When I spoke, my voice shook. “The house is quiet. I don’t know where Judi is.” The waves crashed against the shore and the wind picked up my hair, chilling me even more. “I love that you unpacked my things. Or maybe that was Judi, though I hope it was you wanting to merge our lives together.” I picked at the threads at the seam of my jeans. “Wes, God, I miss you. I don’t want to sleep in our bed alone.” As much as I tried not to let them, the tears came anyway, and a few traitors trailed down my cheek. I didn’t know what else to say to tell him how much I needed him. Wanted him. Didn’t think I could live a beautiful life without him in it.

“Remember me,” I whispered and disconnected. For us, those two words meant as much, if not more, than any words of affirmation we could give one another. I glanced once more at the sky, turned and went to my old bedroom. If I couldn’t have the real thing, I wouldn’t sleep in the bed we shared together, either.

W
eightless
. That’s the way I felt. A grogginess swarmed around me as strong arms held me close. I snuggled closer to the warmth, rubbing my nose into it, inhaling his familiar male scent. The few nights I could sleep soundly were always filled with him. Instead of fighting it, tonight, I would succumb to it. Let the joy of having him here with me, taking care of me, seep into my bones, curl around my heart, and protect it. I imagined Wes putting me in bed. Our bed. The pillow smelled of him, of ocean, sand, and that little extra richness that was purely Wes. It lingered there. I rubbed my face against the soft cotton. “I miss you…” My voice cracked as a tear slipped from my eye.