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A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! I'm glad everyone is liking the direction of this story!
Anne felt a familiar pang in the crevices of her heart, as she leisurely strolled along the worn pathway of Central Park. Though the sun had made its grand entrance around dawn, the atmospheric temperature was quite brisk.
Wrapped in the folds of her pea coat, Anne studied her surroundings and indulged in the simple pursuit of physical activity. The white earphones of her IPOD was weeping the sounds of Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley; a fitting soundtrack to her solitary stroll.
The shouts of children laughing, housewives gossiping and teenagers cackling ricocheted and bounced off the music of her IPOD, her tiny steps nearly matching the musical rhythm. It had been in this very park that Anne had refused Wentworth's proposal. Disaster had commenced at this park and the words that Anne had timidly spoken, or rather the words she had failed to utter, had proven to be the catalyst of her emotional downfall.
Forcing back the lump that clogged her throat, Anne plunged ahead. She inhaled with impressive force, allowing the chilly air to stab her voice box and her nostrils. Although the premiere of Madame Butterfly had been a considerable victory, Anne's inability to completely forget Wentworth had reached a startling height. It was not a matter of weakness or pitiful remorse; she was not holed up in her room, mutely wailing into the darkness of another lonely night.
Rather, Anne couldn't bear to disregard the great unknown, the unknown of all those wasted possibilities. Her mind engaged in one-sided guessing games, as both her conscious and unconscious generated spurts of What If questions that never had a pleasing answer.
For so long, Wentworth had been a ghost, alive in memory, deceased and decayed in physicality. However, considering present circumstances, the corpse had been brought back to life, given a beating heart and a winning smile. The past was not a set of moaning spirits that haunted Ebenezer Scrooge; the only chains this ghost clanked were self-imposed.
Dragging this ongoing thought like the train of a gown, Anne halted when something snagged her attention. Wordlessly, she studied the magnificence before her. It was a painting of Ophelia, peacefully floating in the chilly waters that had robbed the young woman of her very vitality. The painter was passionately tangled in the webs of his creation, his hand hovering over the tawny canvas, his fingers possessively curled around his dripping brush.
The work itself radiated undiscovered brilliance, each color bursting with impressive zest and sparkle. The innocent maiden lingered above the gray water, her pale face humming with angelic virtue. Her white dress sagged with the added weight of the water, her right hand housing a bouquet of sloppily-chosen forget-me-nots. An assortment of unidentifiable flowers slithered around her head, almost like a halo. The painting captured the slaughtering of innocence with poignant accuracy.
With a wry smile, Anne thought that suicide had never looked this beautiful. She took one step forward, intending to continue her trail. However, something would not let her leave. Acknowledging her hesitation and trepidation, Anne walked off the marked path and onto the grassy knoll. She pressed pause on her IPOD, stood to the right of the nameless artist and then cleared her throat.
With a slight jerk of alarm, the artist turned towards the direction of the intruder. When he gazed at Anne's amiable face, he relaxed. Anne initiated her speech with a pleasant smile, taking a glance at the unfinished painting.
"Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to commend you for that beautiful painting. It's of Ophelia, correct?"
The painter appeared surprised, as if his masterpiece was utter garbage, but nevertheless, she had stopped to compliment him. While he struggled to battle his initial shock and form a response, Anne couldn't help but observe that this stranger unknowingly embodied the "starving artist" stereotype. His windblown, mahogany locks called for a needed trim and the shadow that christened his jaw line was about twenty minutes past 5 o clock.
The purple sacks stationed under his nearly black orbs marred the advantage of otherwise clear, slightly tan skin. Though dressed in a pair of jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt, the ensemble seemed to sag off his narrow frame with an unspeakable anguish, as if it were too much of an effort for his body to exhibit the cloth.
Similar to his painting, there was a simple beauty in this man's disheveled, battered appearance, a quality that translated without explanation or lengthy discourse. He was generally attractive, but was not in the same league of Wentworth or even the gentleman from last week's opera.
"Why…uh, thank you. And yes, it's of Ophelia. I'm impressed that you guessed correctly, right on the spot."
The voice that emptied from his small mouth flapped with genuine humility, soft and docile, as though it hurt too much to speak at full-volume. His manner deemed strikingly childlike, though assuming from his facial features, he was rapidly approaching his early thirties.
"Hamlet is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. For me, the juxtaposition of the flowers and the grip of the water were a signal. Tell me….I hate to be obnoxiously pushy, but are you a professional?"
The artist blinked for a moment, studied his picture with blank recognition and then returned his stare to Anne's waiting face.
"By professional, if you mean I'm actually making a living off my paintings, then no. It's more of a hobby than a real job…something to channel and dispose of my…unwanted anxieties."
He smiled, exposing a few miniscule, though pearly teeth.
"Well, you have amazing talent. I just can't get over how…organic and gorgeous this is. The color composition, the style, everything. I know I can't be the only person that thinks so," Anne sincerely praised.
The man's cheeks tinted with a submissive blush, the splotches of crimson staining the rounded areas like a bottle of ketchup knocked over by bowling balls. He rubbed the back of his neck with meek discomfiture, shifting around in his folding chair, as though he were an infuriated butterfly pinned to a cork board.
"Thank you, you're too kind. I mean, like I said, I love to paint, but it's not my actual profession. I'm in the stock market, over at Wall Street. Amazing, eh, going from economics to art? It's like saying you crave chocolate, but quenching the feeling with a steak."
He chuckled, looking at her expression for approval. Anne laughed and diplomatically extended her hand.
"I'm Anne, by the way."
The man's amused grin softened into an enchanted curl of the lips, as he placed his paintbrush on the easel and stood up to accept her handshake.
"Benwick. Jay Benwick."
Anne focused on the slip of paper in hand, the computer screen flickering with a greenish tint. She had spent two hours in Central Park, one of which had been in the company of Jay Benwick. They had spoken mostly about art, though Anne had learned that Jay lived in the same district as Kellynch Hall.
As they continued to converse, she noticed that the air of his melancholy decreased but did not altogether extinguished. Jay never offered an explanation of this essence and Anne did not probe its rearing. Safe to say, this made her even more eager to discover his secrets.
Contradictory to his mild manner, Anne was surprised when Jay had offered his cell phone number. Anne wasn't the type to cling to the digits of strange men, but her intuition told her that Jay was perfectly harmless. It was three days later and Anne hadn't yet contacted the stock-broker turned painter.
Though she could easily accept his number, she was too paralyzed by hesitation to quickly pick up where they had left off. She didn't want to give off the illusion that she was desperate for a date.
Anne hoped that tonight would break their silence, as she was planning to attend a special event at the Museum of Modern Art. A new gallery was to be opened and the museum had decided to host a party eligible for the select elite.
This was certainly not the type of function that Mary or even Mrs. Russell would attend; they could care less about art and did not believe it would aid to the development or maintenance of their high-class reputations. Thus, they had no deep or strong motives to even make a hasty appearance.
On the other hand, Anne knew she could not even properly draw a stick figure, but truly appreciated all forms of art, whether it was sculpture, painting, architecture or even to an extent, music. The strengthening of her public persona was not a primary factor in this decision, though her enthusiasm and the lack of passion of her social counterparts would equate that she would be without an escort. However, Anne did not have any objections towards this fact.
As the clock chimed 7:50, Anne abandoned her laptop and scurried over to her closet. She had called ahead of time for a taxi; it would arrive at 8. Mrs. Russell had practically begged Anne to use her own obnoxiously large Jaguar, but Anne had downright refused. She hated the mere idea of flaunting wealth and showing up in such a car would only attract unwanted and uneasy attention. She failed to harbor any desires to be associated with the oblivious pretentiousness of her financial peers.
Anne's eyes darted around the closet floor, searching for a pair of heels to match her red, Calvin Klein dress. She settled on a cream colored pair by Missoni, grabbed her clutch and then gracefully flew out the bedroom door. As she floated down the stairs, the horn of the taxi cut through the auditory sea of New York nightlife. Mrs. Russell was peering through the front window, when Anne reached the door.
She turned to Anne, her hawkish gaze boiling with disapproval. Her mouth flapped with tremendous speed, as her thoughts instantly formed and immediately launched into shrill sentences. Concerning the rapid fire of her speech, it was a wonder that Mrs. Russell didn't trip over her own tongue.
"Oh, Anne dear, don't you look lovely. But I must confess, I'd still prefer if you let me call Lawrence. I'm sure he wouldn't mind driving you. I'm rather uneasy at the notion of you riding in a taxi; so dirty and dingy. No respectable individual drives a taxi; such shady characters they employ, a poor soul doesn't know whether the driver will take you to your destination or pull out a pistol!"
Anne ignored Mrs. Russell's silly and considerably prejudiced argument, punching in the code to the electronic lock and then swinging open the door. Anne gave a quick wave to the driver, placed a foot on the steps and then turned to a horrified looking Mrs. Russell. Anne smiled, one filled with latent irony.
If this had been back in the past, the old Anne would have been easily persuaded by Mrs. Russell's claims. However, she had shed this bothersome skin as the years had evolved. The pleadings of Mrs. Russell failed to have an impact on her, the advice simply churning into a hidden joke.
"And once again, I appreciate your offer, though I'll have to refuse it. I'd much rather use a taxi; there's no need to rouse Lawrence. The gala ends around 10. Knowing the traffic, I'll be lucky to get home by 10:45. If you need to contact me for whatever reason, my phone will be on all night."
Without another word, Anne sauntered down the steps and to her awaiting getaway car.