Chapter 25
Dorothea seemed thrilled when she made lunch for me and Hugo. Once he dressed himself, I walked down the stairs ahead of him and into the dining room. His pace was no quicker than the previous time, but I made no mention of how long it took him to descend the staircase as I knew he was cautious due to the loss of his leg and the fear of falling down the stairs.
While we finished eating, Dorothea had the carriage brought around. It was only one forty-five, but considering it took ten minutes to reach the bottom of the stairs, I wasn't certain how long it would take to manage descending the porch to the winding, uneven stone path that led to the street.
"What happened to our tickets for the opera?" Hugo asked once we were seated inside of his carriage.
"The tickets haven't arrived yet."
"Are you sure you'll be receiving them?"
I rubbed my forehead, feeling exhausted by the conversation and the ordeal of traveling what would have been a mere ten minute walk down the street. "I have no idea. I suppose I will inquire Tuesday if I've not received anything by then."
I sat back as the carriage bumbled over loose cobblestones on the road, my lower back and legs aching.
It had taken a bit of effort on my part to pull him up and into the carriage itself, but thankfully there was one step instead of two, and the vehicle was lower to the ground than most other modes of transportation. I managed to pull him upward while he balanced his full weight on his remaining leg. From there he turned and practically fell onto the seat, but at least he was in and neither of us had broken our necks.
"Just when I thought you were the ideal husband, you disappoint your wife with the promise of theater tickets," he dryly retorted. "You are a tease, Phelan Kimmer."
"It's not my fault the theater manager is unhelpful."
"What are you going to do if there are no tickets available?"
"I suppose I won't attend."
His eyebrows shot up. "At all?"
I shrugged. "From the brief parts I saw, it doesn't look to be all that entertaining."
"Ah, yes, of course that's why you invited me. Because it's dull."
I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I invited you so that I could rest my head on your shoulder and take a three hour nap."
"What's the opera about again?" Hugo asked.
"I'm not sure there's a plot," I said. "It seems to be mostly about a man getting desired female company into the bedroom."
There was a twinkle in Hugo's eye. "Ah yes, I recall you adding a personal touch of breasts. Quite fitting."
I scoffed at him. "Don't be crass," I said.
He waved his hand dismissively at me. "You are the one adding a bit extra to the scenery. And besides, I do believe you have a reputation of being quite popular with the ladies. Perhaps the opera is about you."
I scowled at him. "I will walk the rest of the way if this is what you want to talk about."
"You're the one who brought up sex," he pointed out.
"You asked what the opera was about and I told you."
I was beginning to think that sheerly based on the amount of time we had spent together that we were becoming a bit of a married couple.
Thankfully the carriage reached our destination before the argument continued. I stepped out first, preparing to assist Hugo. I held onto one of his crutches while he grasped the other and looked warily at the street below.
"It's one step," I reminded him with a nod of my head. "You will be fine."
"It's a big step, Phelan." He took a deep breath. "It's one very large step with one leg, which is practically like jumping."
"I'm standing right here. You don't have to jump."
"I can see you," he grumbled. "Get out of my way."
I exhaled and took a small step to the side, fearing if I moved too far I wouldn't be able to catch him if he indeed fell. For a long moment he stood, eyes darting this way and that, terror etched into his features. He took a deep breath, glanced both ways down the street, and leaned forward with the crutch in his hand extended, but nowhere near the ground.
"Dear God, what are you doing?" I snapped.
Immediately I stepped in front of him, grabbing his arms to help ease him down before he tumbled and ended up with a broken arm.
"That is going to take some getting used to," he said, patting me on the shoulder once he managed to right himself. "Thank you, my friend."
"My pleasure," I mumble with a shake of my head.
It was slightly after two when I pulled at the gallery door and discovered it was still locked. Stefan happened to walk past and notice us outside and opened the door.
"Ah, Phelan, I should have known you'd be early," he said to me before he acknowledged Hugo.
I noticed Stefan's gaze never left Hugo's face despite the obvious amputation. Stefan's smile widened when he shook Hugo's hand. "Monsieur Duarte, what an unexpected pleasure to see you in my gallery."
"I'm glad you realize the honor I bestow upon you, Monsieur Ciszan," Hugo responded.
Stefan shook his head. "Come, Monsieur, take a seat and relax. I'll have champagne brought out to you straight away unless you prefer a very strong punch."
"The kind in a bowl or the kind involving your fist?" Hugo asked.
"The one in the bowl, but if you get out of hand…"
Hugo chuckled. "You see the company I keep these days," he said, nodding at me. "Trouble comes as a pair."
"Make yourself comfortable," the gallery owner said.
"Stefan," I said before the tiny gazelle of a man briskly walked away. "Is there a guest list for today's opening?"
"Not today," he replied. "Friday night is when I'll host a more private gathering. Makes the collectors with deep pockets feel as though they have exclusive access to the gallery. If there's someone you wish to add for Friday…?"
The only guest I wished to add was hobbling toward a row of chairs.
"Not at this time," I said to Stefan.
"If you change your mind, let me know."
Hugo and I sat together at the furthest end of the gallery near a table with refreshments. Directly in front of us was one of my paintings and two sculptures from a different artist. The painting was the chapel in Conforeit and the priest who had notified me of both Bjorn's expected passing and Gyda's death. I had no idea if he tended to a garden, but that was how I depicted him, in the midst of a wild garden in full bloom with the petals of flowering trees raining down.
"Exciting, isn't it?" Hugo commented as he sipped his punch. The smell of liquor permeated the air and I turned my head away. "This is a good view."
Nerve-wracking was a far better description, but I nodded, thankful for his company, even if it seemed as though I had become his servant when it came to fetching desserts and punch.
By two-thirty, Edgar De Gas and several other painters arrived together, nearly cleared the table of alcoholic beverages before they approached and exchanged pleasantries with us.
"What happened to you?" Edgar asked Hugo.
The old curmudgeon scowled at us, which was the only expression he seemed capable of making.
"Me? What do you mean?" Hugo asked.
De Gas looked at me briefly before he stared at Hugo's trouser leg pinned at the knee. "Your leg," he said.
Hugo looked down and gasped, then frantically looked around the gallery. "My God! Where is my leg?"
De Gas gaped at Hugo before realizing it was a jest in poor taste.
"You are mad, Duarte! May you rot in hell, you terrible old bastard," De Gas grumbled. He shook his head and walked away, scowling at the two of us before he joined the other painters I wasn't familiar with on the opposite end of the gallery.
"Edgar is sorely lacking a sense of humor, don't you think?" Hugo whispered as he leaned toward me.
"Indeed."
"Will you get me another punch?" he asked.
"Already?" I eyed the clock, concerned by how swiftly he had finished his drink. "We've been here for thirty minutes."
Hugo frowned at me and exhaled hard. "Fine, I'll wait, I suppose."
Once the gallery officially opened, a steady stream of art admirers filed into the building and began making their way around the temporary walls.
"Make your rounds," Hugo said, patting me on the back. "You needn't sit here all afternoon with me."
"Are you attempting to get rid of me?"
He nodded. "There are quite a few pretty women walking around. I can't have someone with your good looks beside me the entire time." He nudged me in the arm. "Get out of here."
Reluctantly I stood and walked around the gallery, admiring some of the other paintings and sculptures on display. The program for the show boasted eight artists with a total of sixty-three pieces of art in the form of drawings, paintings, sculptures, and jewelry.
Being asked to participate in the gallery show still felt surreal. I had the fewest paintings on display of any other artist, but given that I went from two pieces of art at the previous show to six, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the opportunity.
Two women walked in and stood in front of one of the larger canvases of mine Stefan had placed against the longest wall. It was of an old man with white hair leaning against a stone well with his straw hat clutched in one hand and a handkerchief around his neck.
The two women spoke quietly to one another, nodding and pointing at different aspects as they discussed the image.
"Who is Phelan Kimmer?" I heard one of them ask under her breath.
"I've never heard of him. Says he's French."
"The very talented and dare I say exceedingly handsome artist is behind you, ladies," Stefan answered as he strolled up and kissed both of them on their hands.
"Stefan!" they greeted him in unison. "You have a way of finding the best talent."
He motioned me over and I crossed to the part of the gallery where the three of them stood.
"Yolanda, Sylvia, how are you ladies this fine afternoon?" Stefan asked.
"Simply wonderful," one of the women answered as she blatantly ogled me.
Stefan took notice of her expression and grinned at the older woman. "Allow me the absolute pleasure to introduce you to Paris' best kept secret in the artistic community. This, Mademoiselles, is the one and only Phelan Kimmer."
It felt as though my heart would leap out of my chest with the way Stefan introduced me. Swallowing, I offered my hand to one of the ladies and heard them giggle as they looked up at me.
They were older than I had first thought, and by the looks of it , they were perhaps twins or sisters close in age. They both had green eyes and white-blond hair and stood at nearly identical heights. Curiously, they also both had small birthmarks just above their lips on the left sides of their faces.
"Oh, he's very handsome, Sylvia," one woman said to the other.
"And tall, Yolanda."
Stefan cleared his throat. "And behind all of those good looks is someone who brings the world to life on the canvas, wouldn't you say? His pieces are very thought-provoking."
The women agreed and Stefan clasped his hands. "Why don't you show Yolanda and Sylvia the two paintings on that wall?" Stefan suggested, pointing to the other side of the gallery. "I'll tend to Monsieur Duarte."
The sisters were beside themselves with glee. I started to motion them toward the two paintings when one of them took my arm and dug her fingers into the crook of my elbow, forcing me to slow my pace.
"Dearie, is your wife in attendance?" she asked, her words dripping with honey sweetness. For the life of me, I couldn't tell them apart.
"Not yet," I answered, sensing if I admitted I was unmarried, I was never going to be out of their sight for the duration of the opening.
The woman frowned at me. "The good ones are always wed," she said with a shake of her head. "Isn't that right, Sylvia?"
"What a fortunate woman, Yolanda. I hope she appreciates you, young man. If not, I'll give her a piece of my mind."
I glanced back at Hugo, who gave me a very enthusiastic thumb's up as well as a toast with his refreshed glass of punch. I shook my head at him as I walked across the gallery.
After twenty agonizingly long minutes of answering questions from the two sisters regarding multiple topics, none of which had anything to do with my art, Stefan mercifully retrieved me.
"What do we think, ladies?" Hugo asked.
"We think his wife is terribly rude for being so late to the show."
Stefan gave me a quizzical look and I turned my head to the side, widening my eyes in a silent plea for him to play along.
"I'm sure she'll be here shortly," Stefan replied.
The sisters frowned. They scanned the room and mutually decided another man attending alone was worth approaching and excused themselves.
"Monsieur Van Gogh has arrived," Stefan said, gesturing toward the door. "I apologize for the Roux sisters. They have a tendency to be on the friendly side, shall we say?"
"How old are they?"
"Old enough to be my grandmother."
I practically sighed in relief when I spotted Theo Van Gogh in conversation with De Gas. My broker glanced at me and smiled before scribbling a note to Edgar and handing it to him. He took a step in my direction before Edgar began speaking again.
Theo glanced at me a second time, but I took little notice of him as the gallery door opened and another individual walked through, grabbing one of the programs from a table near the entrance.
Marco.
oOo
It couldn't be. Surely my eyes deceived me and Marco had not walked through the gallery doors.
Breath held, I waited for Florine to follow her son into the gallery, but the door closed behind him. With his attention on the program, I stood staring at him, unsure of what to make of him attending the art show opening.
I was confident Florine would not have sent her son to a show where my art was on display–especially without her supervision. I was also confident that Florine had raised Marco as Baptiste Fabienne's son and that my name had most likely never come up in conversation, which made me wonder why he attended. Surely he knew one of the other artists in the show, I reasoned, and his appearance had nothing to do with me.
Marco put the program back onto the table, flinging it aside rather than returning it to the stack neatly. I winced and he paused, grabbed all of the programs, and patted them into place so that they were in a more uniform pile. With a nod, he put them back onto the table, seeming satisfied.
Inwardly I smiled to myself, noting the similarity between the boy Florine had raised alone and myself at least in terms of keeping things neat and orderly.
Marco started to turn toward the door and I thought for certain he would swiftly exit, perhaps reconsidering his visit as the gallery itself was quite crowded.
Instead he paused and scanned the room, his blue eyes moving from one painting to the next and across the swarms of people standing between us. His gaze met mine and we stared at one another, neither of us moving from where we stood. He looked me over, eyes settling on my left hand before he met my eye again and blinked. I swore there was a hint of recognition in his gaze when he looked at me a second time.
Someone clearly told him about the scar, I thought. My heart stuttered. He knew me at least in some respect.
I forced a smile and he immediately looked away, reaching for one of the programs again. My heart beat wildly, my mind and heart divided on whether or not I should engage in a conversation him.
Florine would be furious if I approached her son, my head reasoned. But he is my son as well, my heart insisted. I've done nothing for him to earn the title of father. By staying out of his life, I gave him everything, more than I could have ever provided.
Perhaps he wanted to attend simply to see the man he heard was rumored to be his real father. Perhaps he wishes to make amends. Or he desired to challenge me with hand-to-hand combat because he not only knew me as the man who had an affair with his mother, but that I was a no good, disagreeable bastard with more stints in jail than paintings sold.
Disregarding my thoughts, I listened instead to my heart and weaved my way through the crowd toward the seventeen-year-old young man before he left the gallery. There was no harm in simply introducing myself, I reasoned. From there, he could decide if he wanted to speak to me or walk away. Whatever he wanted, I would accept.
"Finally," Theo said, stepping in front of me. His presence startled me and I nearly shoved him aside. "My apologies, Edgar was in a mood today and apparently I was the one he selected to sooth his troubled brow."
"You can take all the time you need," I said.
When I looked over his shoulder at the door where Marco had been standing, he was nowhere to be seen. His place had been taken by my students slowly filing in, one at a time until all six of them made their way inside and slowly separated, making their way through the gallery in all directions.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Theo asked, following my gaze.
"No," I answered, turning my attention back to him. "I thought I saw someone I knew, but…apparently not."
Theo rubbed his hands together. "I have good news," he said. "There's another show opening in Brussels. I've sent word to the manager at our other location and asked that two of your portrait drawings be displayed there."
"Brussels?"
Theo nodded.
"Would I need to attend the show?"
"It's not required."
"What's at the other gallery, if I may ask?"
"An opportunity. In the last month, one of my very good friends and fellow brokers has sold six portraits. One of his buyers is looking specifically for pencil drawings done in graphite. What are your thoughts? Are you interested"
"Who receives the commission?" I asked.
Theo gave an appreciative nod and smile. "I forget you were a banker," he said.
"Something I will never forget, much as I try," I said.
"I would split the commission with Johann. Your earnings would remain the same, if that is what you were asking. As long as you are interested, we'll set up an appointment and decide on the most likely candidates for a sale or two."
"At your convenience then."
Theo nodded. "I'll send word tomorrow once I've looked over my appointments. Now, if you will excuse me, I have more courting to do with another artist."
Theo excused himself and I turned toward the other side of the gallery where Hugo and I had originally sat, intending to take a break from mingling to enjoy familiar company.
"That's enough," I heard him say.
I followed his gaze to the refreshment table where Marco poured two glasses of punch. He handed one to Hugo and began to turn away when Hugo cleared his throat.
"You aren't simply going to abandon me here without giving your name first, are you, son?"
Marco hesitated. He turned back to Hugo, his cheeks flushed. "My apologies, Monsieur, for my terrible manners. My name is Marco Fabienne."
Hugo looked him over and smiled. "Ah, yes, Marco Fabienne, a pleasure to meet you. I'm Hugo Duarte."
Marco's eyes slightly widened. "I believe I've heard your name before."
"Well, of course you have," he said. He gestured for Marco to take a seat beside him. "I am a very famous painter. My, you are a tall young man. Why don't you take a seat?"
Marco took a step forward, facing away from me. "I was only stopping in for a moment."
Hugo looked past Marco at me and winked. "I will only keep you for a moment, Marco Fabienne. Tell me, what brings you in today?"
Marco shifted his weight. "I, uh, I'm not certain. I suppose I merely wanted to see…" He bit his bottom lip. "The artists?"
My heart hammered.
Hugo offered a warm smile in return. "Anyone in particular?"
"No," Marco answered quickly.
"They're all very good," Hugo said. "I have my personal favorites, but I enjoy the whole show. You know what, Marco? look like an artist yourself."
Marco took a seat and smiled. "What makes you say that?"
"Your eyes," Hugo said. "They remind me of a friend of mine who is very talented." He glanced at me again and gave the slightest wave of his left hand, telling me with a barely noticeable gesture to continue making my rounds. "And you have a bit of paint beneath your fingernails."
Marco chuckled and picked at his nails. "You are observant, Monsieur Duarte."
"Oh, none of that Monsieur business. You must call me Hugo. I insist, young man."
Hugo issued another, more insistent flick of his hand and I took a breath before reluctantly turning away, finding myself confronting a wall of six grinning faces.
"Do not start yelling, squealing, jumping, or otherwise acting like you normally act," I warned. "You're in a gallery, for the love of God."
"May we at least smile?"
"I will allow it," I said, seeing as how they were already overflowing with mirth.
It didn't seem possible, but their expressions of joy became uncontainable. Six pairs of eyes nearly disappeared while their teeth were on full display. Almost immediately, I found myself smiling back at them in a slightly more controlled fashion.
"We are so happy for you," they said.
Their sincerity truly stole my breath. It was remarkable how, in the span of nine months, we had come to respect one another and take such joy in the triumphs we mutually experienced.
"You are all too kind," I said.
They told me with devious delight that the door was left unmanned and they'd snuck inside. I didn't have the heart to tell them that there was no guest list and no need to sneak inside–or that all six of them were as inconspicuous as a herd of cattle walking through the door.
"What do you like best so far?" I asked as we strolled through the gallery in a cluster, me the mother goose with fuzzy goslings in tow.
They truly and sincerely fought to control themselves when it came to squealing, instead pointing at my painting of the empty studio at the university.
"That one? It can't be. What's really your favorite?" I asked.
"Everything that belongs to you," they whispered.
Emotion thrummed through me. For all that I kept at bay, the sincerity in their words filled me with pride. It was a good if not slightly overwhelming sensation to feel so loved and respected.
"You flatter me more than I deserve."
They disagreed, but I told them they needn't shower me with praise as it would not benefit their grades.
"Flan!" they admonished. "Fee-lan, you are terrible at taking compliments. And what are you always telling us?"
I rolled my eyes. "Do as I say, children, not as I do."
They groaned in response.
"Make certain you have something to eat while here, but do not clear the table and no second glasses of punch. And most of all, behave like adults."
"We know," they told me, collective shoulders sagging. "Edgar De Gas has already reprimanded us."
"For?"
They didn't know what they'd done wrong, and I assumed it was simply De Gas being his cantankerous self as usual. The most likely scenario was that they had breathed and he took offense.
"What did he say?"
"He called us monkeys."
"He calls everyone monkeys." I rolled my eyes. "He's a bit disagreeable, more so than your professor, if you can believe it."
They were all looking past me, and I had a feeling it was either Stefan or the older twin ladies vying for my attention. Excusing myself, I turned and found Marco standing in front of me.
My lips parted, my mind strangely blank. With no words available, I nodded.
We both stood silently several paces apart, neither one of us willing or able to speak first. Immediately I noticed he had my height and build with his mother's eyes and hair. He was perfect, I thought to myself, a strikingly handsome young man–and I knew nothing about his personality or life.
I'd made a few attempts at knowing Marco in his first year of life. Florine would walk through the park with her newborn in his pram, tiny body swaddled in yellow blankets. She had asked if I wished to hold him and my heart nearly leapt out of my body.
The only newborn I'd ever held was my brother; a screaming mass of afterbirth left to freeze to death on a December afternoon. I had taken him inside because I couldn't bear his shrill cries or the notion of being alone. Three and a half years old, and I wanted companionship. When I held Erik, he quieted down as if he knew my intentions.
Marco, on the other hand, was nothing like Erik. The moment I peered into the pram, he screamed and I felt myself shiver. Florine attempted to hand him to me and he sounded as though I were going to butcher him.
He doesn't like me, I told Florine.
He's six months old, Phelan. He doesn't know you from a hole in the ground. Take him.
But I couldn't take him. His wails became increasingly distraught and I was convinced that despite my desire to hold him, to rock him back and forth as I had done with my brother, my son sensed something about me that he found distressing.
And now that boy, that screaming infant who wanted nothing to do with me, stood with his mouth agape and within arm's reach.
A dozen questions raced through my mind: How are you? Do you know who I am? Did you have a party for your birthday? You turned seventeen recently, didn't you? My God, you look like your mother. And your real father…
"Um…" He swallowed and licked his lips, his posture rigid and voice high and tight, almost stricken with fear. The hairs on my arms raised. His voice wasn't the same as when he'd been an infant, but he sounded distressed all the same.
"Yes?" I prompted, the single word impatient to my own ears.
"Monsieur Duarte asked me to summon you."
"Summon me?" Unintentionally I chuckled. "Did he now?"
Marco shifted his weight, appearing quite uncomfortable by our encounter. "That's what he said," he blurted out. "Do you want me to relay a message?"
"No, no, not at all. Thank–"
Before I finished speaking, Marco turned on his heel and dashed through the crowd, weaving his way toward the door where he swiftly exited.
My breath hitched as he disappeared from sight. For all of the moments in my life where I felt empty or incomplete, his sudden departure made me feel cavernous.
"Marco!" Hugo shouted as the door slammed shut. He started to reach for his crutches, but I crossed the room and shook my head.
"These damned contraptions," Hugo muttered under his breath. "Help me to my feet. Or foot, I suppose. Damned missing leg." He looked up at me. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"What are you going to do?" I asked, aggravated by how the conversation had gone.
"Follow him," Hugo impatiently answered. "He's getting away, Phelan. Why are you standing here?"
"We are not chasing that boy," I firmly said.
"Boy? Boy, Phelan? You mean your–"
"Don't say it," I warned. "Hugo…"
Hugo exhaled and bowed his head. "My apologies, Phelan," he said, looking past me at the door. "I didn't think he would leave."
"I didn't think he would stay," I said under my breath. I'd given him no reason to speak to me, to allow me a moment of his time.
"Would you call my driver back?" Hugo asked me. His face was flushed, his words slightly jumbled, most likely from the amount of punch he'd consumed. "I'm afraid I feel a bit exhausted and light-headed."
I nodded. "Of course."
After I approached Stefan and thanked him for inviting me to the opening, I stepped outside and ordered the carriage around to the front of the building.
"You don't have to leave because of me," Hugo said. His words were slurred, his breath smelling of alcohol.
The scent turned my stomach, but since Hugo was not able to get in or out of his own mode of transportation on his own and his maid was hardly able to catch him if he fell out once he returned home, I couldn't allow him to leave on his own.
"I would prefer returning with you," I said as I helped him to his feet.
I couldn't tell if my words relieved or disappointed him, but he didn't argue.
"You know," he said once we were safely inside of his carriage. "Those two women certainly fancied you."
I gave him a significant look. "If that is how future gallery shows go, I would prefer sitting in the back until the event ends or staying home."
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
"Why?"
"They weren't interested in my art."
"Of course they were," Hugo argued.
"No," I firmly said. "They were not. They were more interested in my marital status."
He lifted a brow. "What did you tell them?"
"That my wife wasn't there yet."
"Ah, well, instead of lies, you could wear a bag on your head the next time," he said lightly.
I snorted. "The mysterious artist with a bag on his head," I said under my breath. "Or I could simply frighten people away and bring Elvira."
"That would keep the ladies away for certain." Hugo chuckled to himself. "Of course, if you were a decent friend you would have sent them my way."
"Next time," I promised. "And then perhaps it will be your wedding I attend."
Hugo sat back and folded his arms. His eyes turned glassy and distant. "I'm afraid no woman would want me now."
I immediately found myself staring at his missing leg. "Not necessarily," I said.
He followed my gaze and straightened his trouser leg. "Not purely based on this," he said, giving the pinned fabric a shake. "I'm afraid I'm not in working order."
I furrowed my brow. "I beg your pardon?"
Hugo lifted his hand as if he were about to run his fingers through his beard before he remembered how short I had cut his facial hair and instead stroked his chin. He forced a smile and looked me over.
"You must stop me from rambling, Phelan."
"And how do you suppose I do that?"
Hugo sat back and put his hand over his mouth in order to stifle his boyish giggle. "I haven't the slightest idea. It's been years since I've had a good, stiff drink, and I'm afraid I cannot handle my liquor." He snorted with laughter that left him nearly gasping for breath. "It's the stiffest part about me these days."
My lips parted. "Hugo!" I admonished, snorting with laughter.
I had known violent, belligerent drunks and pensive drunks who lamented their woes. Hugo, however, was amused by his own perverse comments and in turn amused me as well. He stomped his foot and slapped his hands on the seat like a mischievous toddler doubling over with his own hearty laughter.
"You are trouble, Phelan Kimmer," he said, leaning forward to slap me on the knee.
"What did you say to Marco?" I asked as his house came into view.
Hugo observed me, his face flushed and eyes glassy. "That's between me and Marco."
My jaw tightened. I looked away from him and stared out the window, unsure of how I should feel.
"You did not come up in conversation, if that's any consolation to you," Hugo offered.
"It isn't," I said under my breath.
"He's a good young man," Hugo said.
"I didn't have the opportunity to make that type of observation."
I expected to feel angry, perhaps bitterness, but overwhelmingly there was a sense of something I hadn't anticipated: grief.
"For Christ's sake," Hugo said to me as the carriage came to a stop. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it, you fool."
"I can't–"
"You can." Hugo gave an aggravated sigh. "And mind you, I would not say a damned thing if I weren't so fond of you, but you need to hear it."
"I'm listening." I held my breath, bracing myself for the worst.
Hugo looked me over, his expression sobering. "You're a perfectly capable adult, Phelan," he said, his voice softening. "The only person holding you back in every aspect of your life you find lacking is yourself. It's time you took a good, hard look at your life and what you want from it and cease the foolishness that makes it so damned easy for you to make excuses. You deserve better," he said. "And there are people in your life that deserve better from you."