Page 1 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Chapter One
Ipull my coat a little tighter around myself as I shuffle my way through various bodies crowding the downtown city sidewalk. It’s usually pretty frigid this time of year and being that I weigh a buck thirty at my heaviest, it’s not exactly easy for me to keep warm.
Adjusting the ear muffs my aunt gave me last Christmas over my air pods, I tilt my head up toward the skyscraping buildings that have made New York City so famous. It’s not hard to fall in love with the architectural designs of each one of them. The tan and gray concrete buildings stretch so high, they block any promises of warmth from the sun, but I smile at their beauty despite the cold.
I’ve always appreciated the architecture of this concrete jungle I now call home. The twisted metal balconettes covering the windows, and the gray floral motifs adorning the older style buildings give each one a timeless look. Artistic gems such as Oculus, with its giant white steel ribs arcing over the World Trade Center, welcome busy workers and tourists inside, easily creating a sense of curiosity for anyone who visits.
My hair whips against my stinging cheeks, and Nirvana’s "Heart-Shaped Box" plays lightly in my ears as I approach the storefront of my favorite coffee shop, Charlie's. Opening the door, I’m greeted with the warmth of a functioning heater and the aroma of coffee beans; my mouth begins to water in anticipation of the caffeinated nectar.
“Hey, hey Ellie!” I look across the café and smile at one of the baristas I’ve come to know since moving here.
“Hey, Jon.” Giving a small wave, I pause my music and step in line behind a group of people, casually checking my watch. Alex is going to kill me if I’m late with his coffee—again.
Alexandre Bernard is one of the most successful artists and art gallery coordinators in New York City, and only he can pull off both roles so seamlessly. Like myself, he grew up poor, and came from an unloving family—but not even that could stop him. He clawed and fought his way through the Rhode Island School of Design and when he graduated, he hit the ground running.
As if acquiring his own gallery by the young age of twenty-two wasn’t enough, he eventually began dabbling in event planning for various artists in the city and his name quickly became a staple. Ten years later he’s officially settled down, growing roots in downtown Manhattan, and I’m the lucky girl he chose to partner with.
Though my life has taken a sharp turn into the land of Figure It Out, I’m learning as I grow further into adulthood that it’s a lot more sink and a lot less swim. If I could draw out my life plan perfectly, I would have my very own art gallery just like Alex. Or maybe even have a dedicated section for my work in a museum somewhere. But lately, that dream is as impossible as reaching into the night sky to capture stars with my bare hands.
Deep in my soul, I’ve always known my calling. I’d like to think I was born with a paintbrush in my hand and a palette in my heart. Oils, watercolor, acrylic, it didn’t matter the medium, I just wanted to use it. In my earlier years, while my parents were busy forgetting my existence, I could be found hiding in my room, pouring every emotion my little twelve-year-old heart had into whatever I was creating.
Anything art related always makes me think of my aunt, Jane. I smile thinking of how she’s always pushing me to be better, and I truly owe her for everything I’ve accomplished thus far.
After graduating from college six months ago, I shamefully begged her to help me find a way to make my artistic dreams come true, and being the social butterfly that she is, she remembered a friend from years ago who happened to have a direct connection to Alexandre. He called me personally to tell me that he was moved by my paintings Aunt Jane had sent him and that he wanted to take me on as an addition to his personal gallery.
There it was, laid out before me—my shot to change my life; to become Elizabeth Clark, the poor little bird who came from nothing, and is slowly starting to spread her broken wings.
Of course, there is the small problem of having to actually produce paintings that could ever have a shot at being recognized. Recently, I’ve had a bit of artist’s block, and I’m lacking inspiration. Maybe it’s because I’m overwhelmed with anxiety, or maybe I’m focusing on my boss’s projects too much, but I haven’t been able to create anything new since I’ve graduated.
Letting out a deep sigh at my recounted troubles, I grab my buttered croissants, Alexandre’s coffee—a very specific low-fat-non-dairy-soy-skinny vanilla latte—and my house black, and head back outside toward the studio that Alex and I work from.
Marpines is a large, all-glass, ten-story building stretching high into the sky on a corner not too far from the famous Wall Street. Our studio is nestled on the fifth floor, and the building is a block and a half away from Charlie’s. So, naturally, I’m frozen to the bone by the time I step into the lobby.
The building is fairly new and houses multiple businesses within its ten floors. I’ve always thought it reminded me of a beehive with all the busy worker bees buzzing about.
Floor one, four, and six are the busiest floors of the ten, with floor one being dedicated to the printing and publishing of one of the big-time local magazines, New York Cityscapes. They specialize in providing ‘to-dos’ in the city and boast pictures of all the beauty that NYC buildings and tourist spots hold.
Walking further into the building with my coffee shop bounty, I press pause on my phone to stop the flow of alternative rock, and greet the receptionist with a smile, “Hello, Margaux.”
The beautiful, young blonde sits in the middle of a large glass desk that forms a perfect and complete circle around her. A grand chandelier with long cylindrical lamp-covered lights cascades downward, high above her head, and big white couches with obnoxious fur pillows reside on both sides of the huge lobby, giving the guests and clients somewhere to sit.
My eyes flick toward the steel elevator behind Margaux’s desk as she licks her finger, turning one of the pages of the local magazine she’s reading, thoroughly ignoring my presence. I suppose the November addition of Cityscapes is fresh off the press.
Shivering, I decide that taking the stairs is a great way to warm myself up, and it does the job as I reach our floor, sweating and ready to peel myself out of some of my layers. Walking a little further down the hall juggling our coffees, I feel a rush of excitement hit my stomach when I finally open the door into our space. My boss is pacing the floor, seemingly irritated.
“Ellie!” Alex says in a rush, practically running me over to grab his coffee. He looks to the paper cup and back to me with annoyance because it’s lukewarm.
I laugh at the look of irritation on his pretty face and begin setting my things down at my desk. “Sorry! It was a long walk, and it’s freezing outside.”
Alexandre's dressed in an expensive pressed white dress shirt, complete with a polka dot bow tie, and crisp navy blue slacks that hug his long legs just right. They’re not tight enough to be skinny pants, but not loose enough to wonder what his ass looks like. His gold buckled loafers scream that they are more expensive than an average monthly mortgage.
Alex could make just about any man, or woman for that matter, swoon. Standing about six feet tall, with a swimmer's build, he's lean but muscular, and his lazily styled blonde hair somehow always manages to have a perfectly tousled look. He has a way of brightening any room that he happens to walk into and attracts people to him like moths to a flame—myself included.
I watch him pop the top of his coffee, dipping a finger in to inspect the contents, and I smile to myself as I reminisce on the first moment we met.
That morning, I spent hours perfecting my look. I tied up my long auburn hair into my signature pony and leveled my bangs to precision. Putting on my best T.J. Maxx slacks, blouse, and pumps, I paired the outfit with nothing else but my southern charm.
After shaking his hand, I began rambling on about how different this place is from my home town in Texas, and how I couldn’t imagine it would get any colder than forty degrees here. “I just wouldn’t be able to stand it!” I said, my southern drawl flirting with each spoken word.
