Second Chance for the Black Goddess

Chapter 1

Peter

“Dude, you look fine," says a familiar voice behind me with a mocking yet loving laugh.

I turn to see my friend Thomas getting out of his car. He's caught me looking in the side mirror of my black BMW x5 trying to fix my short blonde hair. 

"In fact, if you want, you can forget I asked you to come to the gallery opening at all,” Thomas jokes. “Just go home so people will look at the art instead of those baby blues."

I roll those baby blue eyes at him. An ex-girlfriend, an artist, once said they reminded her of a paint color on her palette. Cerulean. Thomas complains that he has to hear women go on and on about them all the time. I know better to complain, because then I’d really never hear the end.

Thomas is opening his trunk and lifting out a case of wine. I help him with the second one.

"I’ll be a fly on the wall, don’t worry," I say. "Word is you've already sold half the pieces in there."

"I don't know where you get your information," Thomas says, checking all of his trouser pockets for his keys while holding everything with his other hand. "But can we pause and appreciate this moment?"

"To wonder why you don't ever get your keys out first?"

"No, Peter. To celebrate.”

Thomas opens the back entrance of the old brick building and holds the door with his foot while I walk in. Ambient house music echoes down the back hall along with crowd noise.

Thomas was right. It sounds like there's a large number of people chatting, laughing, and clinking their glasses.

"You have to admit, I throw a mean party," Thomas says.

I nod.

"That event you did for Peachtree Cellular was amazing. The aerialist in particular was a nice touch."

"None of that tonight, though. The art is the only star this time," Thomas calls out over the growing sound.

We turn a corner and are suddenly in the cavernous main gallery. It's full of people in all manner of dress and formality, from jeans to cashmere suits. Canvases and sculptures fill the space, divided with temporary walls into smaller sections for each artist.

We've come out of the hallway behind a temporary bar and put the cases down on the wood shelves at the feet of one of the servers. She gives me a once-over and winks.

"Will you please not distract the workers?" Thomas jokes over the noise. The second bartender pours him a glass of Merlot. "What will you have, Peter?"

"The same."

When he hands me mine, we clink glasses and sip.

"Well, I'm off to do my thing," Thomas says. "Have fun. Oh, and by the way. Alex is here."

"What?"

I almost drop my glass, but Thomas is already past the bar, greeting a couple as if they were his best friends.

"Who's Alex?" the female bartender asks. She pours a Chardonnay for the next person in line.

I look at her, my mind blank, not knowing what to say. Who’s Alex Lightwood? My mind goes through a rapid-fire, Hollywood-style montage of the time we'd spent together.

The first time I saw Alex, paint was smudged across her face and pants. Her hair was kinky at the time, practically in dreadlocks, and bleached and dyed bright green. She was unconventional but jaw-droppingly beautiful.

She was at an Earth Day festival doing a live mural project. My company, Belmont Stakeholders, was a sponsor, and I wanted to introduce myself to all of the participants.

She smiled at me with no preconceived ideas, even knowing I was one of the main sponsors for the event. I didn’t faze her at all. She was so genuine, so willing to show who she is to anyone she meets. Whereas I… take a little longer to show who I am. If ever. 

I remember our trips to places she chose based on a color she was trying to capture in her landscapes. She would say something like, "I need to see ultramarine in action. What do you think? The gulf? The lake up in the mountains?"

And we would go, usually in a style somewhere between luxury and roughing it, a compromise that made neither of us perfectly happy but made both of us happy enough. That was our relationship in miniature.

We never talked about my money, but she wanted to make sure I knew she didn’t remotely care about it, much less had any desire to go after it.

But then there had been the inevitable. She lived by the seat of her pants, and I lived by my calendar. We loved our divergent ways, until we didn’t. They started to clash instead of smoothing out each other’s edges.

We were like oil and water, fire and ice. Now that I look back, a lot of our worst fights could have been avoided with more communication. More time listening. More telling her what was on my mind.

Who's Alex? 

"An ex," I say, not looking up from my glass. “She’s the one that got away.”

I take a sip from my glass, devising a game plan in case I see her tonight.

"If she let you get away, I have to question her taste. Good luck out there," the woman says, giving me a sideways smile before turning to the next guest. 

I step around the bar into the crowd of people. I haven’t been back from New York for long, so it’s good for me to mingle. I’m a sponsor and an investor in the gallery, so it makes sense for me to be here.

But I’m rethinking that decision now. Thomas was emphatic that I come. Surely he didn't invite me because of Alex?

I stop to look at a large abstract canvas. It’s good, but I don’t see the spirit behind it. There is no motion, no vitality.

I turn away from the painting and look out across the crowd, chatting and gesturing and sipping their wine.

 And then I see her. She has gone back to her original black, wavy hair, worn in its natural coiled curls. Her dark skin glows against the canvas behind her, which is, yes, mostly cerulean. She is smiling and holding out a hand to an older white woman who squeezes it affectionately.

She looks up, scanning the room, her face lit up with joy. Of course, I think. She's doing what she loves. She's showing the world her passion. She's exhibiting her art like she always wanted.

Our eyes lock across the room, and a jolt of electricity goes through my body. I walk over to her, and my pulse is racing with the awareness that she’s here.

She shakes her head in disbelief and flashes a big smile. She holds out her palms. ‘What the heck?’ the gesture seems to say.

She waves me over. I don’t know quite what I’ll say, but I also usually know exactly what to say. Pleasant bon mots, different ways of saying lighthearted versions of nothing in particular.

"Hi, Alex."

"Peter," she says. Her voice fills me with warmth down to my toes. I feel myself grinning with my entire face.

“It’s been a long time.” Three years, two months, and nine days since that last argument. She said she needed someone who didn’t keep everything bottled up inside. And I was too bottled up to tell her everything I wanted to say.

Seeing her now, I wish I had.

“It’s been too long.” She hugs me, and I hug her back. 

There’s a sense of relief just from being near her again. She feels exactly the same in my arms. Even her hair smells the same.

"How are you?" she asks, pulling away and looking at me with a gaze that says I'm the only thing in the world right now. It’s part of why people are so drawn to her.

“I’m great. Back in Belmont, as you can see.”

“Your namesake city. Or is it the other way…”

“It means both things. Either one works. Alex, you look so happy. It’s good to see.”

"I am." She gestures around her. "So, what do you think of all this?"

She points to a wall of her landscapes, realistic with a bit of impressionism about them, but always with an interesting twist. I lean into one and look at the ocean directly behind her. There's a realistic whale just visible under a stylized surface, and it's looking directly into the viewer's eyes.

And then there are her portraits of people. Each one captures the subject's personality through infinitesimal lines in their foreheads, or points of light that look like real reflections. 

They are like her. Full of soul underneath the beauty. Always revealing one layer below where you think the depth stops.

“They’re lovely.”

She beams. "Thank you."

She cocks her head to one side, a gesture so familiar it makes my heart careen. 

"Tell me all about you now," she says, smiling again. "I want to know everything."

“How much time do you have?”

“All night,” she says, although some of her would-be patrons come up to speak to the artist and take her to her paintings.

“That won’t be nearly enough time. But it’s a start.”