by Bay, Louise
“Ms. Astor, this is my client, Sam Shaw.” Nina put her hand on the arm of the man standing next to her.
I trailed my eyes up to see a man who was around thirty, with dirty blond hair and deep brown eyes staring back at me. “Mr. Shaw, it’s very nice to meet you.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked bored, as if the evening was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
“Grace, this artist tonight is just on the cusp of breaking out, isn’t he?” Nina asked, while still gazing at Mr. Shaw.
An eye roll nearly escaped me but I managed to rein it in. “That’s right. There’s a real buzz about him at the moment and some very important collectors here tonight.” I slipped into the rhythm I’d developed along the course of the evening. “He’s a very painterly painter who clearly has his roots in abstract expressionism.” Mr. Shaw didn’t meet my eye. He stared at the canvas wearing a confused expression. Nina was wasting her time.
“Gracie,” Steve’s voice boomed out behind me and caught Mr. Shaw’s attention.
I tried not to let the uncomfortableness I felt show. “Let me introduce you to the artist,” I said.
Steve’s arms went around my waist and I squirmed. “Hey, Gracie.”
“Steve, please meet Mr. Shaw and Nina Grecco.” As subtly as I could, I pushed against his chest, trying to break free from his grasp. He ignored me, holding me tightly. “I was just going to tell them about this piece.” I pointed to Nina’s left. “Do you want to give us some more background?” I smiled and caught Mr. Shaw’s eye. He looked between us as if he were trying to figure out what was going on.
Steve began to talk about his inspiration for the collection while I tried to wriggle free from his clutches.
“Ms. Astor, would you please show me around your gallery?” Mr. Shaw asked, interrupting Steve in full flow. I smiled. Intentional or not, I couldn’t have been more grateful for his rescue.
“Do you want me to come?” Nina asked.
“We’ll manage just fine,” Mr. Shaw replied before I said anything. “Lead the way.” Steve released me and I headed to the back of the gallery, Mr. Shaw following.
I stopped as the crowd thinned out and turned to him. “This space at the back has a mixture of artists,” I said, and Mr. Shaw shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. “What kind of art do you like?” I asked taking an opportunity to look at him more closely. Instead of being able to decide whether or not he was handsome, I was struck by his expression—the way he was looking at me. It was almost the way a person might look at a painting—first to get an overall impression and then more closely at what the painting was trying to say.
Our eyes unlocked as he looked around.
A frown formed on his face. “I have no idea.”
While he was otherwise occupied, I looked at him closely but I couldn’t place him. The wealthy in New York was a pretty small number. Everything from the watch hanging heavily on his wrist to his soft leather shoes told me this guy clearly had money—he was an Upper East Sider. But I’d never met him before. I would have remembered. He was tall, well over Steve’s six feet. Broad shouldered, Mr. Shaw filled out his suit very nicely. The slight curl of his hair in his otherwise perfect façade suggested something a little wild about him. The sound of someone’s deep belly laugh made me realize I was staring at him and I turned away.
Mr. Shaw began to walk farther away from the exhibition, toward my secret space, and I followed him as he poked his head around the wall. “Is this part of it too?” he asked.
“Part of the gallery? Yes. But the work behind the partition doesn’t really fit with the rest of the pieces. I just like them.”
He glanced at me and then turned his attention back to my hidden works. I followed his gaze. “This is a La Touche. An impressionist oil painting. And this”—I pointed at the Degas—“is an original lithograph, signed by Degas, who, as you probably know, was famous for painting ballerinas. He was a contemporary of La Touche.”
“And these?” He nodded to the pair of photographs.
“These are recent and not particularly valuable, but the photographer was homeless for a period of time, and I think you can see it in his work. He takes pictures of New York through the eyes of someone who’s slept on the street. He sees the contrast between the beauty and the harshness this city offers.”
He refocused on me, his eyes narrowing slightly just before he spoke. “And you like them because of his story, or because of the photographs themselves?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. “Both.” I shrugged. “The photographs stand on their own—they’re both pretty and gritty at the same time.” I glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still inspecting me. “But I think knowing the artist’s story adds something to them. He knows this city like most of us don’t and I think you can tell.”
I lifted my head a little, not wanting to be found lacking under his inspection.
Silence pulsed between us. Did he like what he saw?
“As I said, these are kinda passion projects for me. They’re not necessarily meant for people to buy. The rest of the gallery is more contemporary.”
“They’re not for sale?” he asked, his tone a little confused.
“Well, yes they are.” Of course it was great if people liked them, I just didn’t expect people who liked the work in the front of the gallery to like this stuff. “I guess it’s not the main focus of the gallery.”
He looked at me again and it was as if his stares had built up into something more—into something tangible and I had to stifle a shiver.
Something in his non-response was intriguing, almost as if he were keeping something back—maybe there was a little Batman underneath the Wall Street façade.
“You don’t like the rest of the work in the gallery?” he asked, looking over my head. “Just this little section here?”
“Of course I like all the things in the gallery. Steve’s very talented and the pieces back here are all very collectable.” Had I talked myself out of a sale?
“But you’re not passionate about them.” His eyes were on my mouth as he spoke, and I swept my finger over my lips, almost feeling the burn of his gaze.
“It’s not that.” Wasn’t it? He’d summed it up pretty well. “I just need to wear a business hat. Everything can’t be about what I’m passionate about.”
He nodded and I smiled awkwardly. I’d not explained myself very well, but I hadn’t been prepared for the question. I hadn’t really expected anyone to come back here.
Silently, we wandered back toward the edge of the crowd where Nina was waiting for us. When she pulled Mr. Shaw back into the exhibition, I went to find my friends. I needed a five-minute break from the constant smiling and I wanted to be able to breathe again after holding myself so tightly under Mr. Shaw’s inspection. When I reached Scarlett and Harper, they both squeezed me tight and congratulated me. Over Harper’s shoulder, I found Mr. Shaw ignoring the art and looking straight back at me, his stare unrelenting. He wasn’t embarrassed to be caught, but the glance wasn’t flirtatious either. I couldn’t decide if he was trying to communicate something or he was simply still studying me. “Do I have my skirt tucked in my panties or spinach in my teeth or something?” I whispered to Scarlett and Harper.
They both looked me up and down. “No, you look perfect,” Harper said.
“Beautiful,” Scarlett said. “Why?”
I shook my head. “Just, that guy over there is staring and I can’t work out why.”
Harper looked around and found Mr. Shaw in the crowd immediately. “That one?” she asked. “The really tall, hot one who wears a suit almost as well as my man?”
“He’s not that hot,” I said. He was handsome, just not someone I found attractive. Normally.
“He’s extraordinarily hot and it looks like he’s hot for you.”
“He looks angry,” I replied. “And anyway, definitely not my type.” Our exchange had been a little odd—less small talk and more existential.
“That’s for sure,” Harper said. “He looks like he pays his own rent and goes to the barber regularly. You wouldn’t want any of that, would you?” Harper’s and my taste in men were polar opposites—a prerequisite of a friendship that was going to survive teendom into adult-hood. Too many friends had fallen over the hurdle of the same man.
“Different strokes,” I said. I’d always resisted the kind of man my parents wanted for me. Someone safe. A doctor, a lawyer from the right family, someone from the Upper East Side.
I’d never seen the appeal of a suit in the way Harper did. While there was no denying Max King, her husband, was handsome, he just wasn’t my type. I liked a guy I could daydream with, who was spontaneous, someone bohemian who could constantly surprise me. I didn’t want some guy who thought they could buy and sell people just like stocks and bonds—or art.
But Batman? He didn’t seem to fit into either mold. He dressed in a suit, but the questions he asked, the way he looked at me—it was as if he wanted to strip away anything inconsequential and dig deeper, into my soul.
Maybe I’d like to let him.
Chapter Three
Sam
One week since the exhibition at Grace Astor Fine Art and I couldn’t remember a single piece of art that had been featured that night. Grace Astor, however? With her full mouth, curving waist and confused smile? Her I couldn’t seem to forget. My office was in midtown so when I’d finished for the day, I decided to take a walk and pay Grace a visit. The only art I did vaguely remember were the pieces she’d hidden away. I wanted to see them and her again.
The bell above the door dinged as I entered the gallery, seemingly at odds with the modern paintings on the wall. Despite my distaste for the work, the little red stickers below each painting told me the exhibition had been successful.
I had no interest in anything at the front of the gallery, so I strode toward the back to find Ms. Astor’s hidden stash.
“Good afternoon,” a woman called from behind me over the clip of heels. I turned to find Ms. Astor walking briskly toward me wearing a tight blue dress that hit just below the knee and thick, black-rimmed glasses. She was like a fantasy Lois Lane, though something about this woman’s frown, the determined look on her face, told me she was the hero of her story, not the sidekick.
“Ms. Astor,” I said, hoping she’d remember me.
She slowed and surprise replaced her frown. “Mr. Shaw, isn’t it?”
I put out my hand to greet her. “Indeed.” I flashed her a grin. Angie had told me my smile could make a woman’s panties drop from ten yards away. Unfortunately, Grace didn’t look impressed, just confused. She took my hand, and I gripped it tightly, holding on a little too long.
“How can I help you?” she asked, as she glanced down to our hands. I released her and she exhaled.
“I came to have another look,” I said, pointing to her hidden collection. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” she replied as we walked toward the back.
“Did the exhibition do well?” I asked, hoping she’d give something away in her response about her relationship with the artist. His hands had been all over her before she’d given me a tour of her gallery.
“Yes, almost everything sold that night or in the following days once the reviews were published.”
I nodded, trying to leave space for her to say something more. Wanting to watch her mouth curl around the words she spoke.
“I have four pieces left if you’d like me to show you?”
“Like I said, not my thing.”
We stood in front of the hidden collection.
“You like your art more classic,” she said as we both stared at the art. It wasn’t a question.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m new to all this.” Ordinarily, I was very careful about what I revealed to people. I’d learned quickly that business and Manhattan were full of bullshitters who didn’t want to be reminded of their own flaws and weaknesses, which meant you couldn’t reveal yours. It was a game—if everyone kept pretending, no one would be found out. As much as I was an outsider, I proficiently played the role of someone who belonged.
“New to what?” Grace asked.
“Art,” I replied. “I’m not sure what I like.”
“But you like these?” She nodded her head toward the paintings we were looking at.
I nodded. “I guess.” I was drawn in by their intimacy and mystery, but I had no idea whether or not they were investment pieces.
My attention wandered from Grace to the art. These works were small, discreet, personal. Although it didn’t seem as though any of the pieces were connected—they were clearly by different artists—they were subtle, almost as if not meant for an audience. The intimacy of them made them all the more compelling because they seemed to tell me about the person who created them. The rest of the gallery was full of loud, attention-seeking pieces that shouted their importance the moment I walked in—there was no mystery in them.
But these told me much more about Grace. Four nudes, all drawings; what looked like a proper painting—Grace had said it was done in oil—of a woman at a desk; a small painting of a harbor and the two photographs of the city.
“It’s a bit of an eclectic collection,” Grace said, tilting her head to the right as she stared at the woman at the desk.
“Yes, but I like that.” It was as if I could sense they were her choices—they felt personal. “They’re for sale, right?”
Grace captured the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth before answering, “Yep, they’re for sale.” She sounded unsure, reluctant. Was it that she didn’t want to sell the artwork at all? Or did she just not want to sell it to me?
I bent to look at the nude on the right.
“Well, like I said at the opening, they don’t really go together. The photographs are the most modern of the selection. The photographer has had some attention recently, but he’s not got a huge following at the moment.”
“Tell me a little more about his pieces?” They were the only photographs in the gallery that I could see.
“Well, they’re beautiful.”
I wanted her reason to be more than that. I liked what she’d told me about the background of the photographer. “And?” I asked. I was taken in by each of the pieces in this section, but the photographs were the most interesting. Grace had liked the artist’s story. Her interest in a homeless photographer indicated an empathy I didn’t come across very often.
She glanced up at me quickly. “I like that he still looks for the beauty, despite having seen such darkness. And I think you can see the tragedy in them but also . . . hope.”
My breath caught. This woman was someone who saw beyond the surface, and I wanted to know more about her.
“And with these nudes . . .” She circled her fingers toward the two on the left. “At first glance, they’re almost carelessly put on the page, but if you look closer, and you notice the turn of her head, the artist is fascinated by her.”
I knew that feeling.
“But I don’t know if they’re any good,” I said.
Grace transferred her weight onto one leg, pushing her hip out and emphasizing the curves of her body, and crossed her arms, almost as if I’d offended her. A small grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Had I managed to chip away at that armor she wore? She shrugged a shoulder. “If you like them, why does it matter?”
I drew in a breath. “Because I don’t want to lose money.”
“Of course,” she said, her tone suddenly more professional. “Well you won’t. Not on any of these.”
“I’ll take them,” I said, straightening up.
“Which?” she asked, her frown returning.
I smiled at her, and I thought I saw a hint of a pink in her cheeks in response. Did my attention make her blush? I could only hope. “All of them.”
“All of them?” she asked, breathless. “Are you sure?”
I tilted my
head. Why was she hesitating? Did she think I wasn’t good enough to buy them? “Is that a problem?”
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she said, “No, not at all. I just thought you’d come to see the Steve Todd exhibition.”
“That was Nina’s idea,” I said, stepping toward her. “Not my thing.” Not that I knew what my thing was. “Seemed like a big gamble to spend money on something I didn’t understand and felt no desire to know more about.” Without thinking, I brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
Our eyes locked and Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she was considering her next move. She was trying to figure me out and I liked that.
“So, you want these instead?” she asked even though we’d established that I did. She stepped back, her eyes flickering from my face to my feet almost as if she were trying to decide whether or not I was coming on to her. As if I wasn’t making it entirely obvious.
I knew from experience what it felt like not to be important to anyone and instead of letting that eat me alive, I used the knowledge to make myself powerful. Attention was seductive. Angie kept telling me I should insure my face, but I knew it wasn’t my looks that made me so successful in the game of seduction. Women understood I’d do whatever it took to succeed—in or out of bed—and were pulled in by the attention and focus. It was the same in business. When I wanted to make a deal, it was flattery, puffing up egos, that got them across the finish line. People liked to feel important—men, women, in business or the bedroom.
I kept my eyes on her and she fiddled with her glasses. Usually I’d elicited a smile by now, a coy tilt of the head. But Grace Astor was still unsure.