Gen might have had a lot of complaints about Bellini, but she had to give him one thing: Gordon’s art looked stunning on the walls of the gallery. The framing was perfect; the lighting was perfect; and the order in which the paintings were presented showed them off to the best possible effect. As she moved through the crowd at the gallery, a glass of white wine in her hand, she reflected that maybe she’d been worried about nothing. Maybe this was going to work out after all.
Katya, Bellini’s gallery assistant, stepped up beside Gen, and they both took a moment to look at Cambria Pines III, the painting Gordon hadn’t wanted to let go. She could see why he’d wanted to keep it. The colors, the brushwork, the sense of movement—this was the painting that most fully captured Gordon’s transformation from the artist he’d been to the artist he was now. Though she was still steaming over the fact that it had been sold—twice—she could certainly understand why the buyers had wanted it.
“That one’s nice,” Katya said, gazing at the painting. She was a five-foot-ten former model with a willowy figure, heavy black eyeliner, and jet black bangs that looked like they’d been cut with the aid of a ruler. Katya was wearing a skin-tight black dress and heels so high and slim that it seemed impossible they could support the weight of a fully grown adult.
“Yes,” Gen responded. “It’s the artist’s favorite.”
“You can really see his rage,” Katya reflected. “There’s a sense of doom. A sort of swirling madness.” She moved one dramatically manicured hand in a circular motion in the air in front of the painting, to indicate Gordon’s vortex of insanity.
“Rage?” Gen said. “Madness?”
“Oh, yes.” Katya nodded sagely. “There’s a certain desperation to the work.”
“Katya.” Gen turned to face the woman, who was so much taller than Gen that she towered over her. “Gordon almost titled this work Serenity.”
“Ah.” Katya nodded. “Irony.”
“No. He wasn’t being ironic. This painting was inspired by the woods, and the grass, and the … the goddamned serenity of nature!”
“All right.” Katya side-eyed Gen and inched a step away from her. “Maybe you’re the one with the rage.”
Maybe she was. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that it didn’t matter how Katya interpreted the paintings. It didn’t matter if Gordon was misunderstood, as long as the paintings sold. But she knew that was bullshit. It did matter. Art was communication, first and foremost. She felt a responsibility to ensure that Gordon’s message wasn’t getting muddled. But it wasn’t right to take her frustrations out on Katya.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just … this show. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“Look, I get it.” Katya put a graceful, long-fingered hand on Gen’s shoulder. “Antonio has been miserable to be around this entire week.” Katya rolled her eyes extravagantly. “And speaking of Antonio.” Katya shifted her weight to face Gen. “When you get a moment, he’d like me to show you a gallery space a few blocks from here. It’s just around the corner on Grand Street.”
“A gallery space?”
“You told him you were interested in relocating to Manhattan, right?”
“I ... uh … yes.”
She nodded. “He has a nice space he’s looking to sublet. He thought it might be right for you.”
“Oh … That’s great.” The idea of moving had, of course, been foremost in Gen’s mind for a while now. But moving, as a concept, was one thing. Actually looking at gallery space was another.
“Just let me know when you get a break in the action,” Katya said. “And I’ll run you over there.”
“All right.”
Katya went to restock the hors d’oeuvre table, leaving Gen standing alone in front of Cambria Pines III. Ryan had been across the room chatting with some middle-aged guy with a gold hoop earring and hand-made Italian loafers. Now he’d disengaged from the guy, and he came over to stand beside Gen.
“How’s it going?” he asked. He had a wineglass in his hand, and it was still mostly full.
“It’s okay.” Gen nodded. “Actually, it’s crap. But it’ll be over soon, so that’s good.”
“More trouble with Bellini?” Ryan asked in a low voice so he would not be overheard.
“Not really. It’s just … It’s a lot to absorb.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You must be miserable.”
“Me?” He raised his eyebrows at her. “No, no. I’m having a nice time, actually.”
“You are?”
“Sure. I’m meeting new people, seeing some very good art. Drinking some pretty good wine.” He held up his glass. “And I get to be with you.”
“Well … okay. Good. I did notice that a lot of people have been talking to you.”
“Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “It seems Bellini let it slip that I’m one of ‘the California Delaneys.’ I’ve gotten three pitches for investments that are going to double my money, two pleas from nonprofits that need donations, and two—wait, no, three—women’s phone numbers.”
She smirked at him. “Let me guess. Katya was one of them.”
“Yeah, but I think Bellini put her up to it.”
“He probably did.”
Just standing there talking to him made her stress melt away, and she found herself with a goofy grin on her face. It was funny how he could do that—how whatever had been wrong stopped being wrong as soon as he entered a room. She’d expected that he wouldn’t fit in here—that he would be uncomfortable in the presence of a bunch of pretentious aesthetes who’d spent their entire adulthoods polishing themselves to a high shine. But he’d slipped into the crowd effortlessly, like he belonged there. She was a little ashamed of the assumptions she’d made about him.
“Speaking of Bellini,” she began. “He wants to show me a gallery space.”
“What, here?”
“Yes. Katya says it’s around the corner. He wants to sublet it.”
She saw a moment of hesitation in his face—just a moment—and then he smiled.
“That’s great. You should look at it.”
“Really?” Part of her was excited at the prospect, and another part of her was disappointed that Ryan wasn’t more reluctant about the idea of her moving two thousand miles away.
“Sure. You’ve been wanting this for a long time. It’s an opportunity. You don’t want to ignore an opportunity.”
“But …”
“Look.” He bent a little to kiss the tip of her nose. “This thing with us isn’t going to go away just because you move. I can visit you. You can visit me. When the time is right … Well. If you decided that you wanted me to move out here to be with you, that wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“It wouldn’t?” She was stunned. She’d always assumed that Ryan was as rooted to the Cambria earth as the pines that lined the shoreline.
“Hell, no. It would take some doing, sure. We’d have to find someone to run the ranch. Maybe talk my brother Liam into moving back from Montana. But we’d work it out. It could be done.”