Madonna

5: Breakthrough

Michael was the last person I expected to show up at my gallery unannounced, and yet there he was. He stared into the painting, his dark eyes still. My bodyguards informed me that he had come, and I peeked around the corner of my office to see him absorbed by the largest painting in the gallery. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his dark trousers, his gray suit sharp and well-fitting. He gazed at the painting with a sort of intentioned curiosity, like he was searching for something inside of it without knowing what he was looking for.

I couldn't help but smile to myself, proud that a painting I produced could rivet him so. I walked toward him, leaning on the wall ten feet away. I wondered what was going through his mind, what he was seeking from the painting. Whatever it was, did he seek the same from me?

"Hi, Michael," I said softly, breaking the silence as well as his focus. His eyes flickered over to me, the corners of his mouth twitching sweetly.

"Hi, Lu," he replied, with the nickname he used to call me. For a fleeting moment, I had the rush of feeling sixteen again, the way he used to make me feel. I hadn't seen him since the wedding the weekend before; after all the time that had passed, it was still hard to believe he was really there, in front of me, in my own gallery.

"You look beautiful," he told me, his eyes glinting softly. I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway, not bothering to fight the blush that prickled my cheeks.

"Is that what you came here to tell me?" I asked grinning, and he laughed gently; what a sound.

"Among other things," he mused with a smile.

"I'll give you the tour," I told him, walking towards him. My heels clicked along the vast wooden floorboards, echoing through the empty gallery. He followed me closely, eagerly, in a way that made me wonder if I'd been on his mind more than I'd thought.

"This is my office," I told him, opening the door. It was the first room along the hallway to the back studio, where I usually worked and made calls to clients. I was proud of the level of organization; I always did that part myself. I trusted nobody else to deal with my paper trail.

I showed him the storage room, which was full of the paintings I couldn't hang or couldn't keep at home. I showed him the safe where I kept my most valuable art, the precious treasures that I bargained for. I explained to Michael the way my business worked: I had many close relationships with painters in the art scene, who got to know me by coming around the bar a block from the gallery. I bought their art for the gallery and displayed their best work, and after throwing many fancy fundraisers and parties at the gallery, I got to know New York's richest families. They were all art lovers, as Rockefeller and other pezzonovantes have been, so all it took from me was a little charm to get the sale going.

"And this is the studio," I showed him, leading him to the farthest room in the back. Daylight flooded through the glass windows, the wide white walls covered in protective sheets and tarps. Unfinished paintings littered the walls and multiple easels, my art supplies piled high on the tables. The tarp crunched under our feet as one of my paintings caught his eye.

I hadn't yet moved it to storage. It was the blue canvas, the wedding dress floating aimlessly in the water. He studied it carefully; I couldn't name his expression.

"I wanted to marry you when you got back," he said, his voice low, still looking at the painting. I swallowed, biting the tip of my tongue. "That was the plan. But I never wanted to be a part of my father's business, and I couldn't stand to be around it. When Pearl Harbor happened, I figured I'd rather fight in a real war. I wrote you one more letter and then I left."

He looked back at me, his eyes soft with the memories.

"I figured it would be easiest for you to get over me if I just dropped contact with you, I assumed you were bound to find someone else in Rome anyway. You were going your own way and I wasn't part of your life anymore."

"How could you think that?" I asked him sadly, not understanding this ridiculous state of mind. "I didn't go because I wanted to. I was sent away and I counted the days until I could come back. Of course you were still a part of my life, I just wasn't a part of yours. That's why you didn't say goodbye."

In his eyes, I could see that I was right and he knew it.

"You were right. I am a fool," he sighed with a soft, embarrassed smile. He looked away shamefully, his eyes finding the painting again.

"I loved you," I admitted, feeling brave. What did it matter? We had never said it when we were younger, but something told me he always knew.

He looked back at me, the sunlight making his skin look golden. He parted his lips, which I couldn't help but notice closely.

"I loved you too," he told me. Something in me was annoyed that he could tell me that after wronging me so, but why would he lie? I thought back to my teenage self, glowing with fantasies of running away with Michael, praying that he really did love me and it wasn't all in my head.

"This is some of your best work, you know," he told me, looking back at the painting. I smiled, feeling lighter.

"You think so?"

"Mhm," he hummed. "I think you're on the verge of a breakthrough."