Crying out in fury and frustration, he grabbed the unfinished painting from the easel and smashed the edge of it against the floor with all his strength, snapping the stretcher like a toothpick. He let the ruined mess drop from his hands and backed away from it blindly.
«Damn you, Serena!» he shouted to the heavens. He whirled toward his work table and swept an arm across it, knocking bottles and brushes to the floor. And he shouted in anguish above the crash, «Damn you! Damn you!»
He stumbled back across the room, reeling at the inner pain, exhausted from fighting his feelings. Slowly he sank back down to the floor, on his knees on the dropcloth where they had first made love, feeling as bleak and desolate inside as he had ever in his life. He tilted his head back, turning his face up toward the skylights and the cold white light of the moon. Tears trickled from the outer corners of his eyes, across his temples, into his hair.
He hadn't asked to fall in love. All he had wanted was to be left alone. Now he was so alone, he couldn't stand it.
This was hell on earth, and Gifford had the gall to accuse him of taking the easy way out.
Serena had called him a coward. She'd said he pitied himself, that he was afraid to give their love a chance to work.
Of course he was afraid. He had known they would only end up hurt in the end, and he'd had enough pain to last him a lifetime.
But Serena was hurting now, despite his noble sacrifice, and he'd never lived through this kind of agony. It was far worse than anything Ramos and his buddies had dished out because it was relentless and unreachable and nothing relieved it. He ached with missing Serena. He ached with the need to touch her. He ached with guilt and the knowledge that she was right.
He was a coward. He'd been afraid to feel again. He had been afraid to let Serena get close to him for fear of what she would see, but she had seen every part of him, every side of him-good and bad-and she'd still loved him.
What kind of fool was he to let a woman like that get away? What kind of fool was he to go on suffering like this?
A noble fool who had pushed away the woman he loved for her own good. A frightened fool who had been too wary of love. A fool who had nothing to offer her but himself because his life had been stripped down to mere existence.
Where did he go from here?
Lucky stared long and hard at the painting on the floor before him. It lay in a crumpled, twisted heap, ruined, worthless. He could throw it out or he could try to salvage it, restretch the canvas, start over on the painting.
A sense of calm settled inside him as the answers came to him.
If Serena deserved a better man than he was, then he would have to become a better man. If his life offered her nothing, then he would have to change it, because he didn't want to live without her. He didn't want to be a martyr to his past. It had taken so much from him already-his youth, his hope, his family-he couldn't let it take Serena too.
The time had come to leave it behind and try to take that first step forward. He had a long way to go before he would feel whole and healed, but he would never get there if he didn't take that first step, and his life wouldn't be worth living if he stayed where he was.
Slowly he reached for the ruined canvas and pushed himself to his feet.
CHAPTER 21
SERENA STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, LOOKING UP AT the sign above the black lacquered door. RICHARD gallery was spelled out in flowing gold script on a black background. The building was three narrow stories of old brick sandwiched between similar buildings that had been lovingly restored more than once in their long histories. There was ornate grillwork over the windows, and flower boxes spilling scarlet geraniums and dark green ivy over their edges. Two doors down, a young man sat on a stoop playing a saxophone for tips. Just beyond him locals and tourists alike had begun to gather for dinner at a sidewalk cafe. A mule-drawn carriage clomped by on the street, its driver reciting the history of the area for his passengers. Just another hot summer night in New Orleans.
The French Quarter address of the building matched the one on the invitation she held in her hands, but still Serena hesitated. It had been four months since she'd last seen Lucky. He had made no attempt to get in touch with her until now, and this could hardly be construed as personal contact-an engraved invitation sent out by an art gallery. All it meant was that she was on his mailing list. How flattering.
A group of tourists brushed past her, laughing and chattering, parting to go around her like a stream around a boulder. Serena didn't move. She looked at the invitation in her hands, remembering how she felt when she first opened it. There was a mixture of joy and sadness-joy that Lucky had taken this step, that he was making an effort to put his life on track, sadness that she wasn't being included in that life.
She acknowledged the fact that she wasn't getting over him. She was getting on with her life without him, but she doubted she would ever be completely free of him. In fact, she knew she never would be. She was carrying his child.
She nibbled her lip and stared at the door of the gallery. All the way to New Orleans she had told herself she was going for Lucky's sake, to show her support. But the truth was this was an opportunity to see him on somewhat neutral ground, and she needed that. She told herself she would be calm and cool and tell him that while he was going to be a father, she expected nothing from him. She would be the picture of sophistication and poise, and then she would probably pass out.
«So, are we going to go inside or is this all you wanted to see?»
Serena jumped at the sound of the voice. She glanced around at the man who had insisted on accompanying her to New Orleans. Blond and handsome, David Farrell looked down at her with kind eyes and a gentle smile curving his wide mouth.
She had joined David and another psychologist in practice in Lafayette, and they had quickly become good friends. David was easy to talk to, understanding, intuitive. Serena had found herself confiding in him within days of meeting him, something that was very unlike her. There was something about him that seemed so trustworthy, so nonthreatening, everyone wanted to confide in him. It was a trait that made him very successful in his profession and popular with his friends. Serena had it on good authority he was considered prime husband material by every single woman in Lafayette.
He had insisted on driving with her to New Orleans to give her moral support. Now he stood beside her with his hands in his pants pockets, waiting patiently for a response. Serena gave him a look.
«Yes, we're going inside. I just wanted to be certain this is the place, that's all.»
David raised his eyebrows. «Mmm.»
«Save it for your patients, Dr. Farrell,» she said dryly, and led the way inside.
The gallery was cool and light. Stark white walls were used as backdrops for the paintings, lights were strategically spotted toward the works, bleached wood floors were polished to a brilliant sheen. An impressive number of people milled around, admiring Lucky's work, talking, nibbling on dainty canapes and sipping white wine from tulip-shaped glasses. Cajun music floated out of cleverly hidden speakers, too soft to be appreciated.
Serena found herself missing the bayou country, and she smiled a little at the thought. This was the land of life she had enjoyed in Charleston, but she found herself wishing she were sitting on the gallery at Chanson du Terre, listening to Pepper and Gifford argue with a blaring two-step playing in the background.
She couldn't imagine Lucky in these surroundings. He was too big, too wild, too elemental. She moved through the crowd half expecting to see him in fatigue pants and no shirt.
«He's very talented,» David said over her shoulder.
They had stopped beside a study of the bayou cast in the last bronze light of sunset. Serena looked at the painting, remembering the day she had first seen Lucky's work, remembering how it had drawn her in, remembering how they had made love at the foot of his easel.