There’s a knock at the door, and since I haven’t bothered to lock it, someone walks in.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I call out. “We’re no longer open for business.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the completely empty space didn’t spell that out,” Caleb says.
I swat his head as I pass by to see who’s just entered the shop, thinking it might be a lost tourist or a former customer who didn’t get the memo.
It’s neither. A man I don’t recognize is studying the empty space with a curious, assessing eye, and he continues to stroll around the room as though he’s supposed to be there.
“May I help you?” I ask.
He turns, and I’m certain I’ve never met him. He’s tall and reed thin, with a receding hairline, wire-frame glasses, and an intensity that’s not aggressive or unfriendly, but very purposeful.
He tilts his head, brown eyes looking at me for a long moment. “Gracie Cooper?”
“Yes? Do I know you?”
“About to,” he says, reaching into the jacket of his purple tweed blazer over a black turtleneck and coming out with a deep purple business card.
“Hugh Wheeler,” he says as he hands it over.
I look down at the card, which has his name and beneath it the words Wheeler Art Gallery. I’m not familiar with it, but the address indicates it’s in Chelsea.
“Have we met? If you’re looking for champagne, I’m no longer in that business, but I’d be happy to give you the name—”
“No, thank you. My husband and I visit the Champagne region every spring and rent a wine locker in West SoHo specifically to store it.”
“That’s great.” I smile. “So, what can I help you with?”
“I’d like to see your art.”
My smile freezes. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re an artist,” he says.
“I… no. I mean, I paint sometimes, but… how did you know that?”
“I like to call them spies, though I suppose sources is the socially appropriate term.”
He pulls out his cell phone, taps it, then turns it around so I’m looking at a photo of my art corner here in the store before I took everything down.
“Is that your work?”
My head is spinning. “Yes, but—”
“Do you have any here?” He looks around, disappointment plain on his face as he takes in the blank walls, the empty shelves.
“No—”
“Yes she does,” Caleb says, coming up behind me. He reaches out a hand toward Hugh, who looks torn between dismay at Caleb’s less than urbane clothing and admiration for his obvious good looks.
“Did you forget, sis?” he says, grinning down at me, unabashed. “This big thing over here by the door. You lectured me not to bend it because it had your art in it.” He gives me a wide grin as he easily tears open the packing tape.
“Caleb,” I say in a warning voice.
The mysterious Hugh Wheeler is already pulling out the pieces. There are only three there. Two that didn’t sell, and one—of the man with the aqua eyes—that I never put out on the floor.
Hugh pulls them all out and lines them against the front window, staring down at them for what must be half my life span, not moving, not making a sound.
Even Caleb starts to look a little unsure, and I have to bite my tongue not to say, See, this is why I didn’t want to show him; I’d rather not know if I have no talent.
Hugh slowly turns toward me. “I like these. They make me smile.”
Caleb lets out a laugh but quickly hides it behind a cough. This man hasn’t produced anything close to a smile since he walked through the door. Still, he’s not unfriendly. Just a little awkward and intense.
“Um. Thank you?” I say.
“Do you have more?” he asks.
“One more finished at home. Another in progress.”
He nods. “Good. If you can pull together at least ten—twenty is better—I’d like to discuss the possibility of showing your work in my gallery.”
“I—what? My work’s just for fun, it’s not… art gallery.”
“Maybe not all art galleries. Not the pretentious ones that think it’s only art if it looks like a blob and requires a PhD to decipher. But I show art that people like. That they want on their walls, that they want to give their friends. Specifically, art that people will buy.”
He reaches out and flicks the card in my hand. “Text me when the pieces are done. Don’t call. I won’t pick up, and I never check voice mail.”
Stunned, I manage a nod, and Hugh moves toward the door—I say moves, not walks, because he just sort of whispers along like the wind.
Hugh pauses one last time and looks down at the paintings. “Your signature. What is that?”
“Oh, it’s a shoe. Glass slipper. You know… Cinderella. I was sort of a fairy tale nut when I was younger.”
Caleb gives me an oh come on… when you were younger? look that Hugh either ignores or misses, because he’s still looking at the paintings.
“Huh.” He stares a moment longer, and this time when he looks back at me, there’s an actual smile on his face. “Guess that makes me your fairy godmother.”
I get the feeling that if he had a wand, he’d use it. Instead, he winks, then he’s gone.
“Well, well. Looks like your fairy tale’s the real deal after all,” my brother says as the door clicks closed.
I don’t respond.
I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Twenty
“You need to order more razor blades!”
I look up from the palette where I’ve been trying to get the exact right shade of green I have in my mind’s eye, but the darn thing keeps skewing toward mint when I want moss. “What?”
My brother sticks his head out of my bathroom door, lower face covered in shaving cream. He holds up my pink razor. “I just put on your last fresh blade. You’ll need to order more.”
“Use your own razor!”
“Forgot it.” He pops back into the bathroom, and I shake my head and go back to my mixing.
I love Caleb, and I’m glad he’s staying with me while he’s in town. I’m also a little glad that he’s spending his last night before going back to New Hampshire with his friends.
“Where are you guys headed?” I ask.
“Some new bar down in the East Village. Fred’s girlfriend’s the bartender, so hopefully we’ll get a few drinks out of it.” I hear the swish of water in the sink. “You sure don’t want to come?”
“Positive,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom with a towel in hand, drying his face. “Also, put on some clothes.”
“Adrian will be there,” he says, looping the towel around his neck and tugging on both ends.
“Who?” I ask distractedly.
“My friend Adrian. He thinks you’re cute. Come with. Meet him. It could be good for you.”
I look up. “Good for me how?”
He sighs. “Sis. I’m thrilled that the art thing is happening for you. But you’ve barely left the apartment in days, you’ve only talked to me and Keva, and Lily told me that the closest thing you’ve had to a boyfriend is some dude you’ve never met who probably collects hair.”