Page 59 of The Wrong Husband

When Jean-Pierre excused himself to tend to his kitchen, Damian turned his attention back to me. After we were served champagne and made some small talk, Damian asked with genuine curiosity, "How did you get into art?"

I took a sip of the wine, enjoying its rich, crispy texture on my tongue. "It was my aunt…my father's sister," I began, my mind drifting back to fond memories. "She was an artist herself, not famous or anything, but she loved painting. She taught me everything she knew. I spent countless hours in her studio, watching her bring canvases to life."

Aunt Maddy had been the only person in my family who truly noticed me. I spent a few summers with her at her horse ranch in Temecula. She was my favorite person growing up. She died when I was ten from an aneurysm that came out of nowhere. She was only fifty—so young, with so much left to do and be. I still missed her.

"I thought Gideon's sister works for Vogue in New York."

"That's Aunt Tonya. This is Aunt Maddy. She's his half-sister."

My parents had been happy to leave me with Aunt Maddy and I preferred it as well.

"How often did you see her?"

"From when I was seven to ten, I spent every summer with her," I told him. "Dad would drop me off at SFO and Aunt Maddy would pick me up in San Diego. She lived in Temecula. She raised horses. She was an equine therapist."

Damian leaned in, clearly interested. "She sounds like a remarkable woman."

"She was," I nodded, smiling at the thought. "She always encouraged me to see the world through an artist's eyes. Every time I paint I feel like she's watching over me."

Damian's gaze lingered on me for a moment, as if he was seeing me in a new light. "The painting you made last weekend is stunning. I can feel your pain just by looking at it, and I hate that I'm the one who caused it."

Not just you!

"My pain is my problem."

The waiter took our orders, and the Sommelier came to chat with Damian. They discussed various wines for dinner and finally settled on a Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre Châteauneuf-du-Pape blend.

I liked wine. I wasn't militant about it. But Damian seemed to be really into it. The truth was that I didn't drink much. Since I was so small, a couple of glasses and I was ready to stand on tables and sing at the top of my lungs; or apparently, marry my sister's boyfriend at the Silver Bells Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. I saved getting my drunk on for when I was either alone or with Moana. It was less humiliating.

Damian tasted the wine and approved it. He thanked the Sommelier who filled our glasses.

"To Aunt Maddy." He raised his glass, and I clinked mine against his. "You know, Em, there's a certain magic in the way you talk about your art. It's inspiring."

Before I could respond, the waiter arrived with our appetizers—delicately arranged plates of escargot and foie gras.

"You look very lovely tonight," Damian told me out of the blue.

I had put in some effort. I was so tired of being called the lesser sister that I went to Moana and asked her to do me up. Having waited years for this moment, she clapped her hands and called some friends over.

The end result was still me, just a much, much better version. One that I couldn’t sustain without the three women who had yanked and pulled and worked on me. One of Moana's friends worked for Mademoiselle magazine, and she was the one who had found me a dress.

Given my petite frame, Moana had put me in a form-fitting cocktail dress with a deep V-neckline and delicate spaghetti straps, adding a touch of elegance and allure (Moana's words not mine). The hemline hit just above the knee. The dress came from the designer closet at Mademoiselle as did the shoes that complimented the dress. They were classic, strappy stiletto heels in matching black, which were meant to enhance my look but made me feel conscious about not falling flat on my face. I was more comfortable in flats and sneakers.

Moana also made me wear a pair of her sparkling diamond stud earrings, a thin silver bracelet, and a small, elegant clutch bag in a metallic shade. Her other friend who ran a salon did my hair and makeup. She insisted that my hair was made to be styled in loose waves and not scrunched up in a knot. For the makeup, she kept it minimal but told me that the red lip was nonnegotiable.

"Thank you. Moana played fairy godmother," I explained.

"She is a good friend."

I smiled at that. "She's my best friend…my only friend."

"How's that even possible?" Damian asked as he reached for his glass of wine. "You're a fun and generous woman, why don’t you have more friends?"

"I'm an introvert who prefers to spend time in front of a canvas rather than with people?" I mused.

"You're funny and charming, Em. I'm so sorry that I didn't get to know you earlier."

My heart did that pitter-patter nonsense and to silence that shit, I said, "That's because no one notices me."