Trinity Hyatt walked down the museum hallway, keeping her steps light on the tile floor as if she were a child trying to sneak past her parents. As if the sound of the gala from the west wing wouldn’t cover her brief getaway.
She just needed a moment, a moment away from the speculative gazes and prying questions. A moment to breathe…
But then she thought back to the headline she’d seen when she turned on her computer this morning.
Suspicious Marriage Threatens
Local Jobs
That damn blogger… Her mother had drilled into her growing up that using profanity was only for the uneducated, but Trinity had found its occasional use more than satisfying as an adult. Since the mental slip was the only form of anger Trinity allowed herself, she hoped her mother forgave her this time.
Didn’t the anonymous columnist understand how much words hurt? Not to mention how the photograph that accompanied the story made Trinity relive the moment standing beside Michael’s grave as half the country watched and ultimately judged her. Why couldn’t her online tormentor see the grief on her face? Why couldn’t this person tell her tears were genuine?
Trinity locked away the memories of the painful whispering and curious stares during tonight’s charity gala, brought on by today’s post. Instead she tried to focus on her momentary solitude in one of her favorite places in New Orleans.
So many memories from the familiar hallways of the ASTRA Museum flitted through her overtaxed mind, bringing a welcome peace. She remembered holding her mother’s hand as they walked in the blessed quiet, without worry over someone yelling at them or telling them to leave because they didn’t fit in because they were too poor. The museum had been open without cost every Saturday. They’d often made the trip across town on the bus to spend a few hours away from her screaming father, looking at the paintings and sculptures, appreciating the beauty that drew them even though they knew nothing about art.
Later, Michael had wandered these halls with her, filling her mind with stories of the artists and the sometimes harrowing journeys the pieces went through before coming to be displayed in the Southern United States.
They were both gone now, to Trinity’s never-ending grief. But she tucked it down inside and locked it away, because Michael had left her with a very important job to do. And she would. She would step back out into the charity event with her head high and represent her best friend and everything he’d worked so hard to build.
But for just a moment, she needed peace and calm to surround her.
A twinge of guilt stole through her as she reflected on her husband…though it was still hard to think of him as such. Ten years her senior, Michael Hyatt had been her friend and mentor of sorts for a long time. Then they’d barely been married a week. She had trouble accepting that he was gone, though the explosive crash of his private helicopter had taken him from her just a little over six weeks ago.
The ache he’d left behind weighed on her day and night.
Coming to a standstill in front of a hundred-year-old painting of a peasant woman holding her infant son, Trinity stared at the muted colors. Her vision blurred, the familiar details disappearing as her brain simply drifted. Even the ache this particular portrait always evoked inside her remained subdued. Children were another part of her life to be mourned, and she didn’t want to handle that tonight.
When her eyes felt too full, she let her lids close, ignoring the solitary tear that flowed down her cheek.
“She looks happy… At peace, wouldn’t you say? Despite what must be hard life circumstances.”
Startled to hear an echo of her own past thoughts on this particular painting, Trinity turned. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. But the man now standing beside her took her very breath away.
His dark hair had a touch of premature silver at each temple. The color echoed the cool gray of his irises, which had subtle green striations. His bearing was distinguished enough that he fit into the elegant surroundings of the museum, but he didn’t have the soft edges that a lifetime of high living gave many men in this world. Head and shoulders taller than her own average height, he left Trinity feeling dwarfed. He filled out his tux just enough to hint at muscle without too much bulk.
His gaze dropped to her cheek, leaving Trinity uncomfortably aware of the cool air over her moist skin. As casually as she could manage, she wiped the tear away. He didn’t mention what he’d seen.
The very look of him mesmerized her even more than the paintings. An embarrassingly long moment drew out before she could force herself to breathe in a long drink of air, then she offered a small nod. “Yes, I’ve always thought so.”
For the briefest instant, a surprised expression crossed his features. She noticed a faint lifting of one dark brow, so quick she wondered if it had even happened.
Trinity stiffened. The question of whether or not he was a reporter hadn’t occurred to her, but having seen that same expression on the faces of the people who hounded her day in and day out, she couldn’t help but wonder. Had he followed her here on purpose?
Having swallowed the story that she’d been raised in a rural, strictly religious household, most press hounds didn’t expect her to speak with a cultured accent or intelligent words. After all, she had to be a money-hungry hick to have come from obscurity to inherit the entire Hyatt fortune. It was the very image that Michael’s family had painted of her.
That idea sold more stories, more of the candid pictures they hunted her down for. They didn’t want to look for the truth, the deeper truth of who she was, of what she’d survived.
But the man’s expression disappeared so quickly that Trinity wondered if she was just being paranoid because of her current situation. Now his cool gaze trailed down her sapphire gown, one of the few Michael had personally picked out for her. For once, Trinity wasn’t left feeling vulnerable and exposed. Instead a small wave of unexpected heat flowed over her.
“Needed a little breather from the party?” he asked quietly.