Chapter Three
Jonathan didn’t slamthe second drink as quickly as the first, and by number three, he was willing to nurse it. The liquor seeped into the cracks of sympathy that formed when Bailey broke down, and helped him find his balance again.
The wind howled through the trees. Small branches banged into the building, but no rain fell. As long as the gusts died by morning, he’d be back to his hotel, catching up on work, and riding out this auction thing from a location where the roads didn’t randomly close and he didn’t have to worry about being caught in a hurricane.
He watched Bailey watch her cup. What was he supposed to say?
“She was really proud of you.” Bailey broke the silence first. “Bragged to everyone who would listen about how brilliant and successful her grandson was.”
He took another swallow of his drink and let it warm his face and throat.
She clinked the ice inside her glass. “She only had one fear for you—she was terrified you’d turn out like your dad.”
“A humorless fuck, who let his ego drive him into failure and shut down because he made a mistake?”
“At least the two of you are as close as ever.” Bailey’s laugh was sarcastic. “But no. She was worried you spent too much time working. That you’d lose track of life and the things you enjoyed.”
“What I enjoy is the job I built for myself. I’m fucking incredible at it, and I’ve always known it takes long hours. I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Which is why your phone is on the table next to you. I was gone for... ten minutes? Fifteen? Did it give you time to check in? Sorry. I didn’t mean to be snippy.”
This wasn’t pleasant reminiscing about the good things, and he wanted to enhance the buzz of liquor, not destroy it. “What about you?” He kept his tone curious and kind. “Appraisal and auction is specialized work. Not quite Indiana Jones, but I see the parallels.” When she was younger, she wanted to be a world-renowned archaeological adventurer.
He missed the fun they had when they were teenagers. The thought hit him hard. Not just the wild, unattainable dreams, but the friendship. Would they ever be able to find that again? The question came from left field, but he liked the sound of it. This felt like a good start, but it was rocky. Every other sentence, he misstepped.
“No, it’s not the same. But I see more variety in the antiques than your standard archaeologist, and there’s a lot less risk of me breaking something before it’s completely unearthed.”
“I bet you’re amazing at what you do.” This was better. He liked the way a smile lingered on her face.
She tugged on her ponytail, a sparkle dancing in her eyes. “I like to think I’m good at spotting both the valuable antiques and the things that have sentimental value—the art that fills people’s hearts with passion. I...” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yeah.”
Curious.“What aren’t you saying?”
“So much more than we have time for tonight.” She knocked back the rest of her drink. “That’s a big question.”
“I’ll be more specific. What aren’t you saying about the art?”
“It’s silly.”
There was a crash outside, and they both jumped. Gusts whistled against the wood siding. She laughed and shook her head. “You’d think I’d be used to the thunder and other sounds by now. Gets me every time. Probably for the rest of my life.”
“I promise not to laugh.” He didn’t want to lose this thread of conversation. “You’ve always wanted to discover the rare and the beautiful and share them with the world. Is that what your job is about?”
“It’s exactly that, and not at all in the way you’d think.” She fiddled with the whiskey bottle but didn’t pour another shot.
Silence stretched between them, spanning seconds and then minutes. He didn’t want to jar her from wherever she had drifted to.
She shook her head and looked at him. “I want to uncover new talent, not antiques. There’s a gallery on Main Street. I help move some of their pieces when I can. The owner is sweet—I adore her—but she’s selling the place, to move to North Carolina and take care of her father, rather than put him in a nursing home. I know it’s whimsical, but I wish I could buy it. Fill it with talent from everywhere.”
“It’s a lovely dream. You know places like that rarely make much money.”
She scowled at him. “Not everything is about the cash flow.”
“An investment like buying an art gallery is.” He didn’t want to offend her, but the thought of her wasting her time on a venture that would leave her broke... How could he explain his concern?
The doorbell rang, saving him from having to push the harsh truth. He stood faster than he intended, and his chair screeched across the Spanish tile. He cringed. “That’s probably Greg’s. Be right back.”
Bailey’s frustrated and wounded expression drilled into his mind, as he made his way into the living room and answered the door. The kid outside winced against the wind and thrust a paper bag at Jonathan as soon as the opening was wide enough. “Eight sixty-two,” the teenager said.