“I do love this piece,” Mariabella said, pointing toward the portrait of the brunette. “It has a certain depth and mystery to it. It is my favorite piece in the collection.”
“It does seem to have good karma, doesn’t it?” Carmen took a step back, propped a fist beneath her chin, sending dozens of silver and gold bracelets on a jingling race down her arm. “Such deep thoughts in each brush stroke. What do you think it’s saying?”
“Probably what she knows…and no one else does.”
Carmen turned and caught Mariabella’s eye. Her black pageboy haircut swung forward with the movement, and her red-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses slipped a little on her nose. “Oh, so perceptive! I can see that now. The way the woman has her chin tilted down just a bit, the way her hair is brushed across her eyes, like she wants to hide behind the bangs but can’t because they’re not quite long enough. Hmm…though that could just be a bad haircut. And then there’s the way her hand is coming up to cover her mouth. It’s like she has…”
“Secrets,” Mariabella finished, then wanted to catch the word and bring it back. But really, Carmen—like everyone else in town—didn’t know anything about the true identity of Mariabella “Romano.”
Who wasn’t a Romano at all.
Money and privilege provided the opportunity to buy anything—including a new identity and a temporary escape from a life that had chafed at Mariabella like a too-tight yoke.
Carmen’s scarlet lips spread in a wide smile. “This is why I love working for you. You’re, like, totally psychic about art. You have such a gift.”
The genuine compliment washed over Mariabella. She’d lived her life surrounded by people who had dropped compliments on her like confetti at a parade—with the words having about as much depth and meaning. She’d found herself feeling as vacant as those words, and needing something…more.
So a little more than a year ago, she’d left that insular, empty world behind, shedding her true name and her heritage to come here, searching for—
Reality. Peace. Independence.
Here, in Carmen’s words, her gaze, and also in the friends who filled the shops lining Harborside’s boardwalk, Mariabella had exactly that. People who saw her, not for her lineage, but for herself.
“Speaking of gifts, when are you going to share your gifts with the world?” Carmen drifted over to the store’s Christmas tree and hoisted one of the faux presents that sat below the tabletop display. “And I’m not talking about these empty boxes.”
Sometimes—like when they were dealing with a difficult artist—Mariabella considered her employee’s persistence a blessing. And other times when she called it more of a curse.
Like now.
“A gallery is not meant to be used as the owner’s ego trip.”
“Mar, you’re not even on the baggage carousel.”
“Baggage…what?”
Carmen waved a hand. “American translation, you’re not taking any risks. At all. And for your information, it’s not a big deal to hang a few of your pieces here. People want to get a peek into who you are, and what’s going on in your noggin.” Carmen tapped her head.
“Carmen, we go through this argument every week—”
“For good reason—”
“And the answer is always the same.”
“Doesn’t make it the right answer.” Carmen arched a thinly penciled brow.
“My paintings are hardly ready.” The lie slipped easily from Mariabella’s tongue. She’d been to art school, received her master’s degree. She knew when a painting had fulfilled its potential on the canvas. Even though she wouldn’t call her art ready for the Louvre, by any stretch, the pieces she’d created could hang proudly on these walls.
If she dared to put her soul on display.
There was something inherently intimate about hanging art on a gallery wall, something that allowed, as Carmen had said, the world a peek inside the artist’s true self. And Mariabella knew that as long as she was living a lie, she couldn’t permit even a single glimpse.
“In addition,” Mariabella went on, when she saw Carmen readying another objection, “we have a number of artists scheduled to exhibit, enough to carry us through next year. Our walls are full, Carmen.” Mariabella returned to the front desk of the gallery, and started reviewing the proofs of the catalog for next Tuesday’s show. The holiday tourist season was in full swing, and as the calendar flipped closer to Christmas, more and more people flocked to the seaside community looking for unique, locally made gifts. Harborside decorated its boardwalk, revved up its restaurants, brewed up special seasonal lattes, and after a post-summer slumber, came back to life in a new and festive way.
It hadn’t been that way in years’ past. Before Mariabella came to town, Harborside used to lock its shutters and close its doors for the winter, all the residents and business owners hibernating like bears. Mariabella had joined the Community Development Committee, seeing a potential for more in the little town. That enthusiasm had gotten her elected to committee chair, and also spurred the town into action. This year would be the second that Harborside used the holiday season to bring in much-needed winter revenue through a series of events. The boost in tourism dollars—albeit not a large amount yet, but one that was growing—seemed to have everyone humming Christmas carols.
Carmen’s hand blocked Mariabella’s view. The bangle bracelets reprised their jingle song. “An excuse is still an excuse, even if you wrap it up with a pretty bow. Or in your case, a European accent.”
Mariabella laughed. “Are you ever going to give up?”
“Not until I see a Mariabella masterpiece—” Carmen framed her fingers together and squinted through the square at the wall “—right there. That space would be perfectamundo.”
“Uh-huh. And getting this catalog to the printer’s before the end of the day would also be…” Mariabella paused. “How do you say?”
“Perfectamundo.” Carmen grinned.
“Perfectamunda, yes?”
“Close enough. Eventually I’ll have you talking all slang, all the time.”
Mariabella shook her head and got back to work. Slang—coming from her cultured tongue. She could just imagine her father’s reaction to that. His stony face, rigid posture. But worst of all, the silence. She’d hated the judgment in that quiet.
She’d never measured up, not to his standards, voiced or not. She’d never sat still enough, smiled at enough people, acted as he’d expected.
Acted as a princess should.
If he could see her now, her hair loose and flowing, dressed in jeans and spiky heels, paint beneath her fingernails from a frenzied creative streak this morning—
Well, he couldn’t see her, and that was the best part about Harborside being located on the other
