“How are you going to do that?”
She feigned disappointment. “You’re not even going to open the door for me? I thought you were a gentleman.”
I laughed and pulled open the door for her. The interior of the building was brightly lit, with the look of an industrial loft; a large open space, with several groups of wall partitions that rose partway to the ceiling. Paintings were mounted on the partitions, and I could see about twenty people clustered among the artwork, most holding glasses of wine or champagne flutes. Waiters and waitresses circulated, bearing silver trays of appetizers.
“Lead the way,” I said. “You’re the star tonight.”
Emily scanned the room and we started toward a patrician-looking, gray-haired gentleman. This turned out to be Claude Barnes, the owner of the gallery. With him were two couples, both of whom had driven in from other cities to attend the show.
I snagged a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed one to Emily while we engaged in small talk. I saw Emily point toward a set of partitions in the rear of the gallery and after the conversation came to an end, we ambled over.
I took a few minutes to examine her paintings, thinking to myself that they were not only arrestingly beautiful, but mysterious. While the paintings I’d seen in her home had been abstract, in these, I saw more realistic elements. The colors practically exploded off the canvas, and were coupled with stark brushwork. One painting in particular continued to draw my eye.
“These are spectacular,” I said, meaning it. “I can’t imagine how much work they required. Which is the one that was giving you fits?”
“This one,” she said, pointing to the one that had caught my eye.
I studied it up close, then took a few steps back, examining it from various angles. “It’s perfect,” I said.
“I still don’t think it’s done,” she said, shaking her head, “but thank you.”
“I mean it,” I said. “I want to buy it.”
“Okaay…” she said, at once doubtful and flattered. “Are you sure? You don’t even know how much it costs.”
“I want to buy it,” I repeated. “Really.” When she saw I was sincere, she actually blushed.
“Wow. I’m honored, Russ. I’ll see if I can get Claude to give you the ‘friends and family’ discount.”
I took a sip of my wine. “Now what?”
“We wait and see if anyone comes by.” She winked. “And if they do, let me do the talking, okay? I don’t want be a modern-day Margaret Keane.”
“Who?”
“Margaret Keane was an artist whose husband took credit for her work for years. They made her life story into a movie called Big Eyes. You should see it.”
“Why don’t we watch it together one evening?”
“Deal.”
As the gallery continued to fill, I listened to Emily explain her work to interested patrons. My role, if I had one, was to take photographs using people’s phones. It seemed like practically everyone who came by wanted a picture with Emily, presumably because she was the artist, but after a while I noticed that none of the other artists seemed nearly as popular.
While Emily was chatting with various guests, I wandered among the exhibits of the other artists. A few of the sculptures caught my attention, but they were so large and abstract, I couldn’t imagine how they could possibly look good in someone’s home. I also liked the work of some of the other painters, though in my opinion Emily’s work was better.
Emily and I nibbled steadily on appetizers as the crowds ebbed and flowed. The flow of visitors reached its peak around 8:00 p.m., and then began to dwindle. While the show was supposed to be over at 9:00 p.m., Claude didn’t lock the doors until the last guest left at 9:45 p.m. “I think that went well,” he said, as he approached. “A number of the guests expressed interest in your work. It wouldn’t surprise me if you sold out in the next few days.”
Emily turned to me. “Are you sure you still want to buy that painting?”
“I do,” I said, conscious that it was a luxury I could ill afford right now. But somehow, I didn’t care. Claude frowned slightly, aware, no doubt, that a steep discount request would be coming. The frown vanished as quickly as it had come.
“Are there any other pieces you’re interested in? From the other artists?”
“No,” I said. “Just the one.”
“Can we talk about this tomorrow, Claude?” Emily asked. “It’s getting a little late, and I’m too tired to talk business.”
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for everything you did tonight, Emily,” he said. “You’re always so good at these things. Your personality endears you to others.”
Standing close to Emily, I knew that Claude was right.
“What would you like to do now?” I asked on the way to the car. “If you’re tired, I can bring you home.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I’ve got a babysitter, and I said I wouldn’t be home until midnight. I only told Claude that I was tired so we could get out of there. Once Claude starts talking, it’s sometimes hard to get him to stop. I love the guy, but I only have a babysitter once in a blue moon and I’m going to take advantage of it.”
“Do you feel like having dinner? We might be able to find something that’s still open.”
“I’m stuffed,” she said, “But how about a cocktail?”
“Do you have a favorite watering hole?”
“Russ, I’m the mother of a five-year-old. I don’t get out much. But I’ve heard that Fahrenheit has stunning views and fire pits. And since it’s chilly tonight, sitting by a fire sounds perfect.”
“I just took London there for date night.”
“Great minds think alike.”
Soon thereafter, we found ourselves at Fahrenheit’s rooftop bar, warming ourselves before a glowing fire pit and taking in the carpet of city lights below. I ordered two glasses of wine from a passing cocktail waitress.
Emily sat swaddled in her cashmere wrap, eyes half closed, her expression serene. She looked extraordinarily beautiful in the rosy glow of the firelight, and when she noticed me staring, she gave a lazy smile.
“I remember that look,” she said. “You used to stare at me like that way back when… a million years ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes it gave me goose bumps.”
“But not anymore, right?”
Her coy shrug told me otherwise.
“I know I’ve said that I’m glad you’ve come into my life…”
When I stopped, she raised her eyes to look at me. “But?”
I decided to tell the truth. “I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship.”
For a moment she said nothing. “All right,” she murmured finally, with the faintest echo of regret.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I’ve been calling too much. Maybe leading you to think that I was ready when I know I’m not. I’m still an emotional wreck at times. I still think about Vivian way too much. Not that I want her back, because I’ve realized that I don’t. But she’s still front and center, in a way that’s not healthy. And you’ve been so generous—listening to me when I’m down, offering endless emotional support. And best of all, making me laugh…”
When I trailed off, I could feel her eyes inspecting me. “Have I ever complained that you call too much? Or that your confidences are a burden?”
I shook my head, feeling as if some epiphany were trying to surface in my chaotic brain, like an air bubble rising through water. “No,” I said, “you haven’t.”
“You’re describing a scenario in which you haven’t offered me anything in return. But you have.” The reddish tints in her dark hair glinted in the firelight as she pushed it away from her face. Leaning toward me, she said, “I like hearing from you, whether you’re in a good mood or not. I like knowing that I can talk to you about anything, that you’ll understand because we once shared a history. I like feeling that you know the real me, faults and all.”