The sun sets, and the arbor turns into a glowing yellow arch. The DJ plays a mixture of local music and pop tunes.
Deacon and I are dancing to Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” when Winnie calls to the group. “It’s time!”
Sofia runs through the crowd distributing paper lanterns with Lola following behind with lighters. The music stops, and we gather in a group while my aunt counts down to zero. We all light the small rings inside the lanterns—Deacon and I have the biggest one, which we light together. When she says zero, we release them, watching as the glowing beacons rise in the dark night, catching the breeze and turning into a swirling line drifting towards the mountains.
It’s beautiful and hopeful, and as Deacon folds me in his arms, I relax into my happily ever after.
We healed our family.
We created a new path.
One vow we did add to our ceremony, and it drifts through my mind. No matter what, from this day to forever, without hesitation or pause, we choose each other, and we’ll go on choosing each other, in a heartbeat, until death do us part.
Epilogue
Deacon
Six months later
“Mi Mamá?” The older woman holds a pair of glasses in front of her eyes as she reads the card beside Angel’s painting of the Sierra Madre at dusk.
We’re at her showing in the Palladium, and the gallery is packed with business leaders, art collectors, students, and the generally curious. Angel is a pro. She’s wearing a tight black dress that shows off her baby bump magnificently. It stops mid-thigh, and her toned legs are accentuated by tall, black heels.
Her hair is darker from being inside all winter, and she had it straightened. Although I prefer her crazy curls, she’s very sophisticated with it shiny and smoothed into a bun at the nape of her neck. Oversized earrings are in her ears, and she is mouthwateringly gorgeous. She’s a smart, professional artist I’d like to fuck. AILF…
I’m getting distracted.
“My late mother preferred a deep blue and green palette for her work.” She gestures with her slim arms and elegant hands at the painting of the mountains. “I typically work in warmer, more vibrant tones.”
“And the mountains?” The woman nods, stepping back to absorb the large work.
“The Sierra Madre. I grew up in the foothills living with her.”
The woman’s eyebrows rise, and she smiles, nodding as if she understands. Another work sold. Angel’s premier showing to the Texas art world is a hit.
“I’m so nervous.” She grabs my arm, speaking into my chest as the woman strolls down the line.”
“You’re amazing.” My hands are on her waist, and I kiss her forehead, inhaling the jasmine in her hair. “You sound like you’ve been doing this all your life.”
“Art, yes. Talking about it to super-rich, judgey, total strangers? No.”
That makes me chuckle, and I lean down to kiss the side of her cheek. “You sound like a pro.”
“Now, Mr. Dring, you can’t monopolize your talented wife all evening.” Her former professor walks up smiling, holding out her arms.
“Professor Roshay.” Angel turns to give her a hug. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“How could I not? You are one of the finest students I’ve taught. I wanted to tell you you’d get the residency, but how could I?”
“You’re too kind.”
“Farrell?” Winnie joins us, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Aren’t you so proud of my niece?”
“Winnie, how very fortunate you are to have such a talent in the family.”
“I have the privilege of saying I was one of her first portraits.” My aunt preens like a peacock, and I feel pretty proud of myself.
We built this bridge.
Angel looks up at me, her cheeks rosy pink, and I slide my arm around her waist. “How are you feeling?”
We’ve been at this show for more than an hour, and the doctor is pretty sure Angel’s about thirty-six weeks along. She could go into labor any day now, which means we’re staying at my penthouse for the duration.
“I’m tired, but I’m excited.” I hand her a glass of punch. “I think everybody likes what I’ve done.”
Over the last six months, she’s created several new pieces, but the show also includes works she did before she received the prize.
“That one’s getting a lot of attention.”
I gesture to an oil painting of a male torso in blue and orange with the face obscured and the waist covered by a small towel. The gallery priced it at nine thousand dollars.
She gives me a sly grin. “A man walks into a bar?”
“What can I say? You gotta pay to have all this sexy on your walls.”
She leans into me, wrinkling her cute little nose. “I would have marked it priceless.”
I kiss the tip of her nose as a shrill voice cuts through the low roar of voices.
“Who is the artist?” Looking up, I see Cecilia Westbrook making her way through the crowd of elegantly dressed patrons with one of her little minions at her side. “Why, Winnie. I didn’t expect to see you here. Isn’t this a fabulous exhibition?”
“Yes.” My aunt crosses her arms, her answer clipped.
I haven’t kept track, but my aunt has spent less time with her former bestie since the Cattleman’s Masque.
“I haven’t seen works like this since they had the O’Keefe exhibit here.” Cecilia places her hand on her chest. “I want to buy all of them. Particularly that horse at the entrance. Spirit? It says Not for sale, but everything has a price, right?”
“You’ll have to ask her.” Winnie, gestures to where I’m standing with my hand on Angel’s lower back.
“Why, Deacon…” Cecilia looks from me to my wife. “Is this—”
“The woman you disrespectfully called a little brown girl last year? Yes, it is.”
“My goodness, that was a silly night.” Cecilia blinks quickly shaking her head as if she’s embarrassed. I hope she’s embarrassed. “I think we’d all had a bit to drink.”
“I hadn’t.” Angel smiles, holding out her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Westbrook.”
“My dear, you’re very elegant. And who knew you had such a gift?”
“I knew. Winnie steps forward. “I agree with Deacon. I believe you owe Angelica an apology.”
“Of all the things.” Cecilia huffs. “People can’t take a joke anymore. I’m certain I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Treviño.”
“It’s Mrs. Dring.” My voice is firm as I set her straight.
“Mrs. Dring? I don’t remember reading about a wedding.”
“We were married at my family’s estate in Mexico.” Angel rests her hand on her bump, showing off her large diamond and the wedding band set around it.
I put my hands on the top of her shoulder so my band is visible as well.
“Your family’s estate?” Cecilia’s little minion finally pipes up. She’s a birdlike woman peeking around her friend. “That sounds very refined.”