“Thank you,” he said.
My eyes slowly picked out Tania, Dena and Oscar, Jonah’s parents and Theo within the crowd. Then Eme Takamura spotted us. Without a word she pointed, waited for the gazes to follow, then she began to clap. The rest of the crowd joined in as they realized the artist was with them. Soon the space was filled with applause and Jonah took a step back, overwhelmed. I gently nudged him forward.
“It’s all for you,” I whispered. “Go get it.”
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. Dena, Oscar, and Theo stuck with me, as Jonah, Tania, and the Fletchers were ushered around by Eme, meeting various artists, collectors and critics. My eyes couldn’t get enough of Jonah being greeted and congratulated for his beautiful legacy. Then friends from UNLV approached and Jonah was surrounded and embraced, again and again, by people he hadn’t seen in almost two years.
“His work is astonishing,” Dena said, admiring a large, egg-shaped sculpture filled with geographic shards, like a prism, pastel gemstones floating among them. “We’ve seen his work at UNLV but this… He’s taken it to a whole new level.”
“He’s a damn genius,” Theo said. He was less dressed up than anyone else, still I thought he looked extremely handsome in a black button-down shirt rolled up to just below his elbows, revealing his inked forearms.
“No date, T?” Oscar asked.
Theo shook his head.
“That’s a first.”
Theo shrugged and muttered something unintelligible against the mouth of his beer bottle.
“Is Chihuly here?” I asked. If Jonah’s idol arrived, the night would be complete.
Dena scanned the crowd up and down the long L. “I don’t think so. At least not yet.”
“He’ll show,” Oscar said.
“He’d better,” Theo said.
No sooner had he said it than the crowds parted, and a man walked through, flanked by an entourage of four. He was short, rotund and jowly, dressed all in black. His silver hair brushed his shoulders and a black patch covered his left eye.
“Theo…?” I whispered, grabbing his hand.
“It’s him,” Theo said.
My hand in his squeezed tighter and my breath caught as this man, this master of glass, this legend strode up to Jonah and tapped his arm. Jonah turned. His face turned inside-out, morphing through awe, shock and reverence.
“Jesus, look at him,” Theo said softly.
I blinked away tears as Dale Chihuly offered Jonah his hand and Jonah shook it. I was standing too far away to hear any words, but Chihuly was animated as he spoke, his arms gesturing, fingers pointing at different pieces. Jonah’s head bobbed. His mouth shaped thank you over and over. Then he and Chihuly moved around the bend in the L and disappeared from our sight.
“Oh, my God, Theo,” I whispered.
I looked up to see him blinking hard, his jaw clenched so that muscles twitched beneath. He glanced down at me, his pupils dilated, now just letting the tears accumulate.
“He came,” Theo said. “And he likes Jonah’s work. We saw it happen.”
I nodded, fighting back tears.
“We saw it,” he said. “You know what I mean?”
I knew. Jonah met his idol. His hero praised the work. Theo and I witnessed it. It would forever be one of the most precious moments of our lives.
For an hour, Jonah and Dale Chihuly sat on a bench in front of the glass waterfall, deep in conversation as the crowd thinned out around them. Finally, the master stood up, shook hands heartily with Jonah, then with Eme and Tania, and left the gallery with his small entourage.
“Sold out,” Eme said, consulting her iPad. “The entire show sold out. Every last piece. Gone.”
Jonah ran a hand through his hair, looking around at his work, his face happy, dazed, and a little bit weary.
“Congratulations,” I said, embracing him tight. “But I need a better word. A bigger word.”
“Even she doesn’t have words,” Oscar said, jerking a thumb toward Dena. “Not even a Rūmī quote.”
A hand half covering her trembling smile, Dena shook her head. “I’m at a loss.”
Oscar gaped. “You hear that, ladies and gents? Jonah reunited with old friends, sold out his entire show, met his idol, and—wonder of all wonders—rendered Dena Bukhari speechless.”
Dena shoved him. “Unfortunately for you it was only a momentary loss.” She raised her wineglass. “Rūmī said, Let the beauty of what you love be what you do. I toast to our dear friend, Jonah, whose exhibit is the embodiment of those words. You’ve created so much beauty, my friend, the world cannot help but be grateful to you for it.”
In the limo on the ride home, I sat with my temple resting on Jonah’s shoulder. “Dena’s right, you know,” I said. “The art world is going to lose their minds over you. And you deserve every bit of it.”