A smile spread over his face before he did just that.
***
I didn't remember a time in my life where I was as nervous as I was the night of my first professional art show. All of my friends and family were there, including Uncle Eddie and the girls.
In the months that followed Aunt Kim's death, the three of them were picking up the pieces together. As expected, it was hard on the girls, but they had such a strong rock in their dad that I knew they would all get through it.
“Lark? Are you ready?” My dad asked. He, like me, was dressed in all black and when I looked up into his face, a face that looked so much like my own, it amazed me I hadn't seen it immediately. In my defense he had resembled Bigfoot during the earlier part of our acquaintance. I exhaled, then smiled, “Yes, I think so.”
My dad and I walked hand in hand out into the spotlight.
***
After the show we all returned to the Wrights' house to await the critics' reviews and I was so nervous I couldn't stand still. The show had been a success and the praise I had received from the guests had been, well, I never expected it, but it was the critics' opinions that could make or break me.
I was outside. The cool evening air helped to calm me as I looked up at the stars. I felt Bastian before I heard him. He slipped his arms around me and pulled me back against him.
“You're amazing. How you see things, how you translate that onto the canvas. I don't give a damn what any critic says, you are incredibly talented.”
Resting my head against his chest, I snuggled more closely to him. “And coming from you, that means the world to me.”
We stood there pleasantly silent, which was interrupted when Bastian said something that surprised me. “Your dad is a good man. I hope I am half as good a man and father as he is.”
Turning to him, I saw the seriousness in his expression and knew he was thinking of his own father.
“He gave you life but that's all he gave you. You will be a wonderful father and if you stumble, I'll be there to help pick you up just as you've been there for me.”
He lifted my hand to kiss his ring.
“It's in.” Saffron's voice pulled Bastian and me from our moment. The review of the show from the art critic for the New York Times. My heart started to pound.
“I'll stand out here with you for as long as you need, Lark.”
Love swelled in me for this boy as I skimmed my lips over his. “Thanks, but I think I'm ready.”
He wrapped his strong hand around mine as we walked into the house.
“Stay at my side.” I whispered.
“Always.”
As soon as we entered, Caden and Poppy greeted us at the threshold. Poppy hugged me, “It was an amazing show, regardless of whatever the critics say.”
Caden leaned over and kissed my cheek and though he didn't say anything, he didn't have to.
I looked into the room, which was nearly filled to capacity, and teasingly said to Dr. Wright, “I think you may have actually succeeded in filling every one of your rooms.”
She and Mr. Wright laughed but it was strained and I knew it was because they were almost as nervous as me. My dad was on the sofa with his iPad. I sat down next to him and pulled Bastian down with me. My hold on his hand tightened.
My dad asked. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
I, like most in the art community, held on with hope to the rumors that have circulated since his disappearance that David Cambre wasn't really dead. When just over five months ago those rumors were proven true, it was a humbling moment having one of the greatest artists of our time, the greatest in my opinion, back from the dead.
When it was announced that a joint show of Mr. MacGowan's work was to be shown with that of his teenage daughter, it was said by all that the daughter was riding on the coattails of her famous father.
I attended the showing this evening, a star-studded event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with standing room only. I walked through the exhibits and discovered that Mr. MacGowan still has the touch to create something positively magnificent. In this case, it isn't a painting or a sculpture but his daughter, nineteen-year-old Larkspur O'Bannion.
This young artist does not need to ride her father's coattails. Her paintings and charcoal sketches, in particular, have a depth of character that is rare in one so young. The emotions of the young artist completely translate into every piece she creates which not only brings her art to life, but allows the viewer a glimpse into her mind and her imagination making the experience a personal one.
Larkspur O'Bannion is not just exceedingly gifted, but I do believe that given time Miss O'Bannion will even surpass her father in talent.
Thank you, Mr. MacGowan, for introducing us to your daughter. She is, in my humble opinion,your finest work.
***
Later that night, Bastian and I whispered like school kids breaking curfew as we left our room and headed down the hall to the kitchen. We had planned to grab some blankets to sneak outside, but it was just too cold and so we moved onto our backup plan—warm milk and a movie. I didn't even really like warm milk, but I loved the meaning behind it.
I settled on a stool just as Bastian pressed a kiss to my temple before he made his way to the refrigerator. My gaze trailed over the ink on his arms and the tail of the dragon. He looked at me from over his shoulder, caught me ogling, and closed the refrigerator before he walked back to stand opposite me across the island, his hip leaning up against it.
“If I remember correctly there was another time you were ogling me like that.” He said.
“Who me? Never.”
He leaned over to rest his elbows on the granite. “I believe it was the third day of school and as I sat in the front of class, I felt a warmth burning down my spine. Truth be told, it was so hot it damn near sizzled my nerve endings and when I turned my head, you were looking, staring is a more accurate description. In fact, I think it would be safe to say you were undressing me with your eyes right there in English class.” His grin was wicked.
I rolled my eyes. “I've no idea what you're talking about.”
“Um, I'm sure. Well, I have a confession.” He declared.
“Really?” I dropped my elbows on the counter as I leaned into him. “Do tell.”
“Weren't you ever curious why I didn't talk to you in the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“You rendered me mute; those eyes and that face, but it was more the feeling that swept through me whenever you were near.”
Anticipation for his answer had me leaning closer to him. “What feeling?”
“Belonging.”
I understood the sentiment because I had felt similarly around him. Reaching across the counter, I ran my finger over his arm, over his siren, before I lifted my gaze to his. “Imagine if you hadn't switched schools?”
“Won't even go there.”
“I have a confession too.”
He raised his eyebrow in reply.
“I saw you before English class.”
“When?”
“When you drove into the parking lot that morning, I actually stopped and stared. I saw your arms first and I thought your tattoos were beautiful, but I was intrigued more by the story they told about you. You then parked right in the front, to the dismay of the “populars”, and I thought I could really like that boy.”
Hs leaned over, stretching across the counter, so his lips could meet mine. His tongue licked my lips and tangled with my own. “You were spectacular tonight.”
“It was amazing.”
“The greatest moment in your life, I imagine.”
I smiled as I linked our fingers.
“No, not the greatest, it was great, fantastic even, but not the greatest.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I have a few really great moments that rank higher than tonight.”
“Like?”
“Finding my dad, that was a really great moment. And seeing you for the first time is definitely one.”