Now as I drive toward Butler Cove, I don’t know what to say, how to say it, or if she’ll care. I mean, it’s been two months since I last saw her. Since I stood in the back office in that club in Savannah, half drunk, and let her walk out of the door, and out of my life. Again.
Her eyes. Fuck, her eyes—the look in them just about kills me every time I let it creep into my mind. Watery, with the unshed tears she was failing to hold back. Blue. Blue like rough denim, and they always said exactly what she was thinking. And right then it was disappointment. In me.
That thought shudders through me, and I pull over. I need to check my directions anyway. I lay my forehead on the steering wheel for a second and take a deep breath, then reach for the map. It’s attached to a magazine. Hilton Head Monthly. I pull the stapled map off and fling the magazine back to the passenger seat where it lands face down.
Holy shit!
I grab the magazine again and stare at the back cover. Then I check the map again and drive not to Butler Cove, but to a gallery.
The elegant, female curator at the Picture This Gallery reminds me of my eleventh grade Lit teacher and she is madly trying to place me. Southern politeness, perhaps, precludes her from asking. I guess. I don’t really care. I can tell she’s taking in my rumpled attire and trying to work out if I can afford anything. Not in a mean way. Just in an efficient way. Or maybe she’s wondering if I’m trouble, what with my bandaged hand and perma-scowl.
What I am interested in is what I am staring at, transfixed. In the center of the room, … and perhaps there are other things around it, but I don’t see them, … is a wave. Seriously. A wave. If I deconstruct it, if I take what I see down to its elements, I don’t see it. And if I step around to one side, I don’t see it. But right now, where I’m standing, I have the perfect view. A swell, no, a forming barrel of a wave, made up of a huge piece of ashy driftwood, carved back to its pale beige core in parts, and rising up to spill its breakwater in a cacophony of beach. Beach stones and sticks and broken shells and a single piece of red sea glass that glares so bright it’s like a wound.
I’m unable to tear my eyes away.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” The curator’s voice jars me back to my surroundings.
Clearing my throat, I manage to nod. “Yeah. Is it for sale?”
“Unfortunately, no. The artist just dropped it off this morning, a few hours ago in fact. Her exhibition doesn’t technically open for another two weeks. And frankly even if it was for sale, I wouldn’t be able to let you have it until her show is over. It is the star piece, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Keri Ann was here, in this room, mere hours ago. I breathe in, as if I can still smell her. Which, of course, I can’t. I step closer to inspect the piece of red sea glass. “So once the exhibition starts, it will be for sale?” It seems odd that the curator won’t take a presale on an item. She is a business owner after all.
“I’m afraid that is the one piece that won’t be for sale. I wish the artist would change her mind.” Her voice is filled with disappointment. I’m disappointed too, and of course, satisfied she’s not selling it. The idea that someone else could potentially own this doesn’t sit right. I wonder …
I turn to look at her. “Just out of interest, would you mind calling the artist and asking if there was a hypothetical price tag on it, what it would be?”
I can tell my question surprises her, but she also looks intrigued. Not greedy, but she is a businesswoman, and it looks like she just realized I am the real deal despite my wrinkled shirt, unshaven jaw, and probably blood-shot eyes. Oh, and … there it is, she just realized who she’s talking to. Her eyes widen fractionally, and she flushes a deep crimson, her breath coming out in a small gasp.
“Oh, um. Y—Yes, sure.” She’s flustered. I wish I could put her at ease, but it’s always this way. I just have to keep talking and wait it out.
“I mean, everyone has a price, right?” I say quietly, weighing the words. “So you’ll call her?”
She nods.
“Now?” I raise my eyebrows expectantly, and she snaps into focus.
“Y—Yes, of course. I’m sure if the artist knew who—”
“No!” Christ, I didn’t think of that. Shit. “Sorry, but, and this is important, you can’t reveal to anyone who I am or that I’m here. Not even the artist. Are you able to do the purchase anonymously if she’ll sell?”
She furrows her brow. She’s disappointed. I can tell she thinks that my name would be good publicity for her gallery, not to mention going a long way toward making Keri Ann amenable to selling. Little does she know it would probably do the exact opposite.
“Yes, it can be anonymous. It happens quite a lot in the art world. Although, I can safely say that if it happens here at my little gallery, it will be the first time in my history.” She seems to have recovered. Her tone is amused.