“Sure, if you’re Botticelli living during the Renaissance. I’m trying to get out of the daydream, not sink further into it.”
May taps her finger against her cup very gently, studying me. “What about the Chelsea art dealer?”
I look at her in surprise. I haven’t told anyone about that.
She grins. “Caleb will tell you just about anything if you feed him a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and bacon.”
“Weak-willed traitor,” I mutter.
“More like a loving brother. But what’s the status with the art guy? Did it fall through?”
I slouch a little on the couch. “No. I haven’t really pursued it.”
“Really? Your brother said you were painting around the clock.”
“I was. Then I found out…” I exhale. “The art dealer only sought me out because Sebastian Andrews told him to.”
“Sebastian Andrews.” She blinks. “The insanely good-looking businessman with the good butt?”
“That’s him,” I say grumpily, draining my tea and setting it back on the table. “Apparently, this is all part of his MO. He shuts down businesses, then tries to make himself feel better by inserting himself in his victims’ lives.”
I regret my words instantly. They sound petty. They feel untrue.
“So, just so I’m understanding the whole story,” May says slowly, reaching for my saucer and beginning to fix me another perfectly sweetened cup. “A very handsome man came into your life. Offered means and opportunity to finally detach yourself from a legacy you never really wanted. Then he introduced you to someone who could turn those daydreams you’re so fond of into reality. And we hate him?”
I accept the cup she hands me and stare blindly down at the tea. “Oh hell. When you put it that way, I’m the bad guy.”
“Well, if you didn’t like hearing that, you’re definitely not going to like this,” she says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs.
I look at her warily. “It gets worse?”
“You said yourself the best parts of your life are your daydreams,” May says gently. “I imagine this includes your mysterious pen pal? The fantasy of what he could be?”
I nod.
“Would you say that the fantasy of one man is keeping you from seeing the reality of another man?”
I narrow my eyes, already knowing where she’s going with this and not liking it one bit.
Or maybe… maybe I like it too much.
Maybe I like him too much.
All of a sudden, I know what comes next—what May means by embracing the uncertainty of the future.
I scowl down at my tea, then up at May. “Any chance you’ve got something stronger?”
She’s already on the move toward the kitchen. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Twenty-Two
Hugh Wheeler’s partner is the complete opposite of the lanky, irritable art dealer. Short, round, friendly, and flamboyantly dressed, Myron Evans has gone from being a complete stranger a week ago to what feels a bit like my best friend.
I take the tissue Myron’s waving at me. “Thanks. How’d you know?”
“Honey. I’ve witnessed lots of debut artists seeing their art displayed in a gallery for the first time. I’ve yet to see one who didn’t cry, and that includes an impressionist who looks like Thor.”
“Oh God, he was gorgeous,” Hugh says, coming out from the back room, iPad in hand. “Sold well too. Shame he works so damn slow.”
Myron wags a finger at his partner—a status that applies both professionally and personally—and chides him gently. “You know the rules. We never judge the artists.”
“That’s your rule,” Hugh says grumpily. “Shane may be beautiful, but he is a lazy piece of shit.” He looks over at me and grins. “Not like you. You are a delightful firecracker of a workhorse.”
“Though, I notice I don’t get the gorgeous label like the lazy impressionist,” I tease.
“Your features are nicely arranged. For a female,” Hugh says distractedly as he notes one of my paintings on the wall is crooked and goes to straighten it.
I look over at Myron. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.”
“Always a little hard to tell,” Myron said in a loud whisper.
Ignoring us, Hugh points at the painting directly in front of him. “This. It should be a series. We could do a whole jazz club.”
I glance at it. It’s one of my more recent works, finished in the flurry of productivity since leaving May’s house a week earlier. At the center is a grand piano—white—to contrast with the woman in the red dress seated on the bench, a glass of red wine set on the side of the piano that would probably make pianists everywhere crap their pants. But it creates a moment. Behind the woman is my usual New York City backdrop—evening this time.
“I’ve never actually been to a jazz club,” I admit.
Myron makes a dramatic gasping noise and grabs my arm, as though for balance.
“Both Myron’s parents were bassists,” Hugh says, and I shrug because that doesn’t really mean much to me.
Myron lets out a dramatic sigh. “You don’t know what a bassist is, do you?”
“Um?”
“All right, that’s it. Hugh, we’re taking Gracie to a jazz club.”
“Agreed, mainly because I really do want this to be a set,” he says, peering closer. “An old-fashioned on a stool beside the bass player. The drummer holding a Manhattan.”
“With what, his third hand?” Myron asks skeptically.
“That’s for Gracie to figure out,” Hugh says, waving his hand. Then he turns around. “Of course, that’s assuming you want to paint that. I would never presume to tell one of my artists what to work on.”
Myron snorts. “Since when?”
Hugh makes a face at his partner, then turns to me, giving me a rare smile. “You should be very proud. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
My eyes start watering again. “Can I hug you?”
He opens his arms and makes the slightest beckoning motion with one hand.
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “Thank you for this. You have no idea what a dream come true this is.”
My daydream. My reality. A studio currently showcasing my art.
The day after I met with May, I’d gone back to work, painting with an almost feverish obsession. The paint on my twentieth work wasn’t even dry when I’d texted Hugh as instructed. A day later, I’d arrived with sweaty palms and a portfolio of my best work at his Chelsea Gallery and held my breath as Myron had set each of my watercolors against the wall.
Hugh had paced back and forth, taking in every painting for what felt like an hour before turning to me and telling me he could offer me a better commission if I agreed to sell exclusively with him.
I always imagined that when my dreams came true, there’d be fireworks, champagne, and maybe some glitter.
There was none of that, of course, but the moment was still one of the best of my entire life. And yet I hadn’t shared it with anyone. Mainly because the person I want to share it with hasn’t been in touch since I basically ordered him out of my apartment and out of my life.