24

New York, evening . . .

As Nate neared the art gallery in SoHo, he tried his best to keep his mind blank and his emotions in check. The steel bars around his heart were solid, and there was nothing Joanna could do to hurt him. She’d inflicted all the pain she could already, and the past was the past. As Casey had told him in London, he needed to stop letting that hurt define him. The simple act of handing this wedding gift over was a step in that direction.

As a throng of hipsters in slouchy shirts and tight pants clicked past him on Grand Street, the gallery came into view. A party appeared to be underway as the crowds spilled from the brightly lit art fete to the sidewalk.

With the box tucked under his arm, and the warm June air rushing by, he walked through the open doorway. He scanned the crew quickly in the overstuffed gallery—packs upon packs of skinny women in black with long, dangly earrings, and men with goatees and sideburns, nibbled on cheese and crackers and drank wine and champagne, probably discussing the fleet of paintings on the white walls—images of surreal still-lifes. Not his favorite style. He liked Casey’s taste in art so much better. Hers came from her heart. A heart he wanted to protect, to care for, and to cherish.

The momentary thought of her brought a flicker of a smile to his face, and he hoped that image would feed him as he sought out the too familiar figure of his ex-wife. She hadn’t mentioned a party was on the agenda tonight, but who cared? It was probably a send-off before her Chicago exhibition. No big deal. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

He felt a clap on his back out of nowhere. He startled, but turned quickly, and ice crystallized in his veins at the sight of Claude—the tall, lanky, bearded and mustached much older man she’d been fucking while she had his last name. Memories snapped cruelly in front of him, slamming him back in time to the day he’d discovered their affair. Her hands had been dirty with clay from the sculpture she’d been crafting in the small studio they’d fashioned for her in one corner of the apartment. He’d parked himself on the living room couch, clicked on the touchpad on her laptop to look up movie times, and was greeted with an email exchange from a few hours before, when he’d been at work on a Saturday. The note started with Claude reminiscing about their last time together: So glad you could stay late with me. But my bed is lonely without you spending the entire night in it, wrapped in my arms where you belong. When can you manage another night that lasts into the morning? She replied: Soon. He heads out of town again on Tuesday. Can’t wait to see you all day and night then. I will be counting down. I promise.