Picture Perfect Christmas. Melanie Schuster

watched in amazement while Chastain consumed a large serving of peach cobbler. “Where do you put all that food?” Mona said in consternation. “I’m about a dumpling away from Lane Bryant and you pack it in like a sumo wrestler but you weigh less than a runway model. I could hate you, really I could.”

      Chastain gave her spoon a sexy little lick. “Genes, honey. All the Thibodauxes are on the skinny side. We have the metabolisms of a hummingbird. Wait until you meet my family, then you’ll see what I mean. They’re coming up here in a couple of weeks. I hope New York is ready for them because they bring the party with them wherever they go,” she said with a wicked grin.

      “Laissez les bon temps rouler, huh?” David said, chuckling.

      “Oh, we let the good times roll like you’ve never seen in this life,” she assured him.

      She regaled the table with some of the exploits of her uncles and cousins in the French Quarter where she’d grown up and they were all laughing uproariously when the check came for their meal. “I had an unorthodox childhood, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything,” she said.

      As she and Mona put their coats on while David took care of the check, she realized that she meant every word. There was a time when she wasn’t comfortable with certain aspects of her upbringing, but those days were long past. There was nothing in the world she couldn’t handle now. She could hold her head high and meet anyone in the world on an equal footing. Somewhere along the line, she had grown into her own skin and she liked it. No, she deserved it and she was loving every minute of it.

      Chapter 2

      Chastain stood in the middle of the gallery and looked around in amazement. It was humbling and exhilarating at the same time. All of her works were hung and lit to show every detail of her talent. Everything was ready for the opening and so was she. She was feeling more serene than nervous. She had worked hard for this and she was ready for the next level. David had pulled out all the stops for her showing and she was grateful for his efforts.

      Studio L was huge. The walls were covered in oyster-white wool flannel and the floors were covered in taupe Berber carpet. The walls were moveable and could be arranged in any manner to better display artwork and there were stainless steel pillars for sculptures and other kinds of work. There were seating areas here and there but not too many; David wanted to encourage the flow of foot traffic. Tall potted trees graced the corners and added a jolt of natural color to the neutral palette of the room. In the high ceiling, there was a combination of pinpoint halogen lights and some hand-sculpted fixtures in stainless steel that were a perfect counterpoint to the carefully arranged display lights.

      For the special invitation-only showing, there was a wine bar and a buffet, catered by Melba’s. Any sales from the first week of the showing would go to the continuing restoration of New Orleans, a project that was a passion of Chastain’s. The soft music of a live jazz trio and the quiet hum of David’s highly efficient staff made it all look like a scene in a movie.

      She had to stifle a giggle at the thought. David arrived unobtrusively at her side with a flute of sparkling wine. “What, may I ask, is so funny?”

      “I was picturing a scene in an Audrey Hepburn movie, only I was the star,” she admitted. “Thanks, but I don’t drink, David. Alcohol has had its way with one too many members of the Thibodaux family, so I leave it alone.”

      “And that’s why this is a passionfruit spumante without a drop of alcohol. I told you I pay attention to everything about you,” he said as she took the flute.

      “You’re too good to be true, David. Everything looks beautiful, don’t you think?”

      “I think you look beautiful,” he replied, caressing her face with his dark eyes. “That ensemble is amazing,” he added.

      Chastain smoothed the supple silk fabric over her hip. She was wearing a lustrous gold knee-length dress with a layered drape that began at the right side of the waist. The dress’s strapless bodice fit her perfectly, showing off her tiny waist and the straight skirt had a slit up the back that allowed her to walk easily in her three-inch slingback gold heels. Her necklace was made of amber, citrines and topaz set in gold wire arranged in an abstract pattern, and her matching earrings were twisted wires with citrine and goldstone beads.

      “Who’s the designer?” he asked. “There’ll be a lot of reporters here tonight and someone is bound to ask.”

      “The dress is vintage Dior. I got it at this fabulous flea market in Paris. And the jewelry is my design,” she said, fingering the smooth stones. “I made it.”

      “I told you we should have put some jewelry in the show,” David said. “Women will go wild for that.”

      Chastain shrugged. “I don’t have enough pieces yet. I only started making jewelry recently and I’m still experimenting. Besides, I think there’s enough on display, don’t you?”

      “I’d say there’s just the right amount. I have a feeling those nudes are going to get a lot of attention,” he said, and they both turned to the centerpiece of the exhibit. Three life-size oil paintings were displayed in the center of the room. They were amazingly lifelike. In fact, the viewer had to get very close to see that they weren’t photographs. All three were of the same model, a man with well-defined muscles who exuded raw sexuality. In one portrait he was bathing, in one he was standing on a balcony and in the third, he was making love to a very lucky woman. The mystery of the pictures was the absence of a clear view of his full face. There was just enough to mesmerize the viewer into a private fantasy about the subject.

      “I don’t remember you ever painting nudes before,” David remarked.

      “I did quite a few when I was an undergrad,” Chastain said. “You know that drawing figures and painting are required in most art programs. All we did was draw nudes in those classes. There were always a few pervs who tried to audit the class to see the naked models, but they were for art majors only.”

      David persisted, “That’s true, of course. But when I saw your work in Paris I don’t remember those. They’re not easy to forget.”

      “No one has ever seen them but me. I painted them after I got to Paris and they weren’t for exhibit, they were just for me,” she said demurely.

      “After tonight that’s all going to change, sweetheart. Everybody who sees them is going to love them.”

      They touched their glasses in a toast and exchanged a brief kiss.

      The invitation-only crowd was thoroughly enjoying Chastain’s work. She’d met so many new people and received so many compliments that she couldn’t help but keep a smile on her face. The champagne was flowing and the excellent jazz made the perfect backdrop for conversation. Mona was at her most sociable, meeting and greeting everyone and handing out Chastain’s brochures and business cards. People had approached her with questions about commissioned work and she’d also had many inquiries about her jewelry, once Mona informed several fashionable women that she’d created it. David never strayed too far from her. But he didn’t smother her with attention. He was just there if she needed anything. It was truly the most spectacular night she could remember.

      She was about to look for a quiet corner to sit and catch her breath when a large hand clasped her upper arm, firmly but gently. A shivery sensation went down her spine and she heard the last voice she expected to hear that night or any other.

      “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Chastain? Is this your idea of a joke?”

      It was Philippe Deveraux, speaking in a tone that she’d never heard before. Philippe had been many things to her in the past, but he’d never been angry and he’d never embarrassed her in public. She was shocked, jerking away from him while she turned to face him.

      “How dare you…” Her voice trailed away as she looked up into a face that didn’t belong to the Philippe she’d last known. His long ponytail was gone, replaced by a short, close-cropped haircut. His full beard was now a well-groomed