Page 48

TAKE THIS HEART

Beautiful Devil

GOLDIE

Minnesota is in my bones.

Apparently, the cold hands, warm heart myth was debunked by scientists, who said how toasty your body is has a direct correlation to how nice you are to others.

I beg to differ.

On some winter days in Minnesota, it doesn’t matter how nice you are—you, your hands, and the rest of your body parts are going to be cold.

But the cold is familiar, like a cantankerous grandma who pinches your cheeks too hard but knits you colorful half-finger gloves because she knows you love them…

Grandma Donna. The kind who always smells like Vicks VapoRub and who, no matter how much you eat, thinks you don’t like her food because you didn’t have three helpings… Grandma Nancy.

I’ve missed that. The mercurial seasons. The lakes—there are more than 10,000, no matter what the license plates say. The fact that (some) people say “doncha know” without irony…both Grandma Donna and Grandma Nancy.

It’s not always cold; in fact, in the sweet days of summer and fall, you can almost forget that winter is around the corner.

But the consistent 70-degree sunshine in California was delightful, as were the palm trees and delicious food and people whose whole personality was yoga pants.

Traffic, I didn’t enjoy so much, and after I had a horrible car accident on the 405, something inside me shifted.

Eternal sunshine didn’t seem so important anymore.

I wanted roots. Comfort. The kind of sky that makes you wonder what craziness is rolling in next.

So I came home.

I’m an interior designer by day—farmhouse kitchens, cozy cabins, the occasional baby nursery—and I paint by night.

Oils, mostly. I’ve worked nonstop for the past four months getting ready for my art installation at MIA—the Minneapolis Museum of Art—a place I never imagined showing my artwork.

I’ve thrown everything into it. Late nights.

Early mornings. Meals scarfed in front of half-finished canvases.

I love creating, that feeling of bringing an idea to life.

I get some of that creativity out through interior design, but that’s breathing life into someone else’s ideas.

It’s the most rewarding feeling when I paint a piece that’s all me and watch it transform with each layer of paint.

For a long time, any form of creating energized me, but the exhaustion is catching up.

The last thing I feel like doing right now is attending a gala at the Walker Art Center.

I love the place, but a room full of intimidating people on a night when I just want to be painting at home?

No, thank you. But I’ve heard I need to put myself out there and get acquainted with the art community if I want to be part of it.

I miss Addy like crazy. We met in California.

She was my roommate in college and remains my best friend, the one person who always knows what I need.

FaceTime calls are never enough. She lives in Silver Hills, Colorado, with the love of her life, Penn Hudson—who happens to be a pro football player and is the running back of all time—their kids, Sam and Winnie, and a baby on the way.

Oh, and she also houses a family of Sphynx cats whom I get almost daily pictures of…

insert full-body shudders here. They’re super sweet if I just don’t have to look at them.

I’ve made a few friends at work, but I don’t see any of them here yet. So I’m clutching a glass of champagne like a security blanket and sipping more than I should on an empty stomach.

I smile at people I don’t know and compliment a woman’s earrings, wondering how long I have to stay.

“There you are.” Luna puts her arm around me. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”

I sag into her. “I’m so glad to see you. I needed to see a friendly face.”

Luna has taken me under her wing. She’s the one who got me into MIA, and she thinks I will need to quit my job and paint full-time after my show. That’s the dream. We’ll see.

She flits around confidently and introduces me to so many people, I don’t retain the names, and then she’s called away to talk to someone else. I’m near an exhibit that’s caught my eye, so I tell her I’ll catch up with her.

The exhibit is intriguing—it’s an architectural model of a park with sculptures integrated with nature. I study it for a while, but when I realize that it’s actually a proposal to rehaul the sculpture garden I love across the street, I frown.

“You don’t like it?”

The voice is low and husky, and when I look up, I struggle not to gasp.

The beauty of the man in front of me is…

wow. Holy buckets. I swallow and try not to appear as shaken as I feel.

His black hair falls over his forehead, firelight eyes cool and assessing beneath thick curly lashes.

Perfect lips. He’s also tall . I’d put him at 6’5” like my youngest brother Dylan.

He blinks and tilts his head, like he’s waiting for my response.

“Oh. Well, it’s an interesting concept, but is it really meant to replace Spoonbridge and Cherry? That sculpture is iconic! It’s been part of the landscape of Minneapolis since before I was born. Why would anyone want to bulldoze it or anything else in the sculpture garden?”

He’s smirking until I say bulldoze , and then his eyes narrow.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be bulldozed, more like moved to another location,” he says.

I turn to face him and shake my head. “Part of the beauty of it is the skyline in the background. It would be a travesty to move it.” I nod toward the model and make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “ This is a travesty.”

He snorts derisively, and now, I’m really annoyed. I cross my arms over my chest and stare back at him. He’s snorting at me now?

“Art is evolving,” he says. “We preserve it, yes, but we also make room for the new.”

“And you think that ,” I point at the sculpture replicas in the model that are admittedly very cool, even though I will never admit that now, “is worthy of booting out the old, I take it?”

He steps closer and leans in, his breath skittering over my skin. “Yes, I do.”

When I look up at him, we’re about an inch apart.

I poke his chest. “ You are what’s wrong in America.”

Poke, poke, poke.

He arches an offensively perfect brow, and if it’s possible, moves even closer. “Is that right? And how does wanting to move a few sculptures make me so wrong?”

It’s hard to think straight when he’s this close and smells so good. Like cedar and honey.

Those eyes make me want to cuddle up to him and enjoy the fire.

Focus, Goldie.

“We don’t appreciate history here,” I say—somewhat breathlessly, but I soldier on.

“We build things and tear them down when we’re tired of them.

Massive structures that cost millions to build become rubble if someone gets tired of it and wants to put something else there.

It doesn’t even have to be better, just new.

Different. Why can’t we appreciate our rich history and preserve it? At least the beautiful things?”

“Like Spoonbridge and Cherry,” he says dryly, his lips lifting as he mocks me.

“Like Spoonbridge and Cherry,” I say emphatically.

“Why not let someone else enjoy it for a while?”

“Why mess with perfection?” I volley back.

I had no idea I felt this passionately about Spoonbridge and Cherry, but it is really cute.

“Perfection?” he scoffs. Scoffs!

“It’s the principle of the thing!” I say, louder than I intended.

He rolls his eyes and takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wonderful! You’ve met Milo,” Luna says, appearing at my side.

Milo? Ugh. Even his name is cool.

Luna beams up at him. “The man of the hour.”

“Man of the hour?” I say under my breath. Man of the hour, my big, fat toe , my brain shouts.

“Yes! He’s the architect who designed this model. What do you think of it? Isn’t it incredible?” Luna says, grinning between Milo and me.

I feel unsteady and then hot all over. My eyes narrow again, and I look around Milo to find the museum label next to the park model.

Milo Lombardi.

Oh my God. The Milo Lombardi? I can’t believe it. World-renowned architect. Ridiculously talented.

Ridiculously hot .

Hmm. They say Satan was pretty too.

“She thinks it’s a travesty,” Milo tells Luna, while still staring me down.

I tilt my head as if to say, you’re not wrong.

Luna gasps and turns to gawk at me. “What are you?—”

“There’s someone over there I need to see,” I say, pointing behind them.

Milo nods—smug and with the kind of confidence that suggests he invented air. And maybe also a little smug because he sees right through me and knows I want to get away from him as fast as I can.

I walk away and grab another glass of champagne, downing it.

A few minutes later, my phone dings and I look at it, happy for something to distract me.

Dad

It’s pretty quiet. Everyone okay? Take a pic of what you’re doing right now, so there’s proof of life.

Tully

photo of his hockey jersey crumpled up in his locker Pretty sure I saw you in the stands so you know I’m alive. Lol Love you, Dad.

Camden

photo of a Food Network-worthy meal Love you, Dad.

^ I don’t recognize anything but the mashed potatoes. Photo of me in front of a nude sculpture of a woman The closest you’ll get to a naked woman tonight. Love you, Dad.

Tully

That’s what you think.

That’s what I KNOW because I don’t want to think of my brothers around naked women, thank you very much. Hi, Dad. I love you.

Dylan

photo of him holding a surfboard and standing next to a woman who looks like a model The picture speaks for itself, Golds. Love you, Dad.

Noah

photo of him and Grayson eating Taco Bell Love you, Dad!

What about me? Does anyone love me?

Tully

Can’t you feel the telepath waves of twin love?

If I had I wouldn’t have asked.

Noah

Grayson wants his Aunt Goldie to hurry up and visit. You are loved.

Camden

I just texted that I loved you an hour ago in another thread. But I’ll say it again.

…waiting.

Camden

OMG, the kitchen is backed up and I am texting my sister how much I love her.

Dylan

You’re needier than me, Golds.

And you know you’re all here for it. Love you guys. I’m at the Walker tonight and would much rather be with you.

Dad

photo of the sun going down over Lake Superior. I love you all so much. Hanging at the lake. Homesick for all of you.