“Okay, sounds perfect.” I’m about to walk away when she continues, “Can I just mention how much I admire your mother and what she’s done for the art world? She’s so generous, and has such a smart eye. You’re lucky to have learned so much from her.”
I hear this a lot, but rarely does anyone include me in the equation like she just did.
I stand a little taller, feeling proud.
“Thank you. I’ll let her know you said that,” I tell her before I walk away.
Kirstin’s words stick with me as I stop in front of the first painting, staring at it blindly. It doesn’t feel like I’ve learned anything from my mother. Well, I must’ve learned some, but mostly from observing her and what she did, not because she actually took the time to teach me anything about art and collecting. Everything I know I mostly self-taught, with my father interjecting here and there with his own opinions.
He collects, but she’s the true collector. He pays for it all, but she’s the one who chooses almost every single piece they own. They’ve been a complimentary pair throughout their marriage, though lately things seem a little—off between them whenever I’m around. Like they’ve lost interest in each other.
And me.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I wander through the gallery, stopping in front of each piece and contemplating it with a critical eye. They’re all striking. She paints with bold strokes and vivid colors. Bright imagery that leaves nothing to the imagination, the pieces are mostly of people. Women. Men. Pets. One cityscape, though it’s already sold, probably because it’s the lone painting in that style.
I envy the person who purchased it.
I keep coming back to one painting in particular. The background is a rich, deep green, and there’s a woman sitting on the floor, a cat lying just out of reach beside her. The woman’s arm is stretched out, abnormally short, and the cat is looking directly at me while the woman stares at the cat.
It’s almost unnerving, the image conveyed in the painting, and I walk away from it every time.
Only to find myself standing in front of it once more.
“I think you like this one the best,” says a deep, familiar male voice.
I go completely still, my breath stalling in my lungs as I slowly turn to find…
Crew Lancaster standing next to me, his gaze on the painting in front of us.
Why is he here? How did he know? Where did he come from? I didn’t even notice him enter the gallery. I guess I was too wrapped up in looking at each painting.
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly.
“Heard there was an exhibit in Tribeca now until the end of the year. Thought I’d come check it out.” He slips his hands into his pockets, glancing over at me. “You’re here for the same reason?”
I sort of want to punch him. Or hug him. I feel like I conjured him up in a dream. Is this moment even real? “Yeah. Actually I am.”
As if he didn’t know.
“Funny coincidence.” He returns his attention to the painting, quietly studying it before he takes a step forward to read the information card posted next to it. “Hmm. Interesting. This one’s called Two Pussies.”
“No.” I move toward the painting, shoving past him to read that the name of the painting is…
Two Pussies.
He’s chuckling when I turn to face him, my shock obvious, I’m sure. “I can’t believe it’s called that.”
“Oh, I can. Isn’t art supposed to be stimulating?”
I stare at him in disbelief. I also still can’t believe he’s here. Standing in front of me. He looks so good, dressed in jeans and a charcoal gray sweater, with a black jacket over it. Nike Blazers on his feet and a beanie on his head, which he tugs off and shoves in his coat pocket, leaving his hair in complete disarray.
I’m tempted to straighten it for him. Run my fingers through it. See if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Why do you think I like this piece?” I ask him.
“Because you keep coming back to it.”
“How long have you been here?”