“For Cherry Street?”
Mal looked up at Evelyn and nodded. “Yeah. I like it, but not for here.”
“I thought you might.”
Mal wondered at that, how this woman could know him so well. Better than anyone, probably. Before, he would have said anyone but Josh.
He continued to look through the pages when a pop of color caught his eye. Broad, sweeping lines of swirling motion were layered upon a pool of crimson and deep purple suggesting chaos. But the lines themselves were in soft blues and creams, and the colors lightened as the viewer’s eye traveled north. It was the suggestion of emotion. The suggestion of discovery or of just . . . surrender. Of giving in to something.
Mal didn’t know what the fuck it was, but the work called to him. Aroused something in him. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from it.
“Really?” Evelyn reached down and spun the print to face her. “Hmm. It’s . . . different, that’s for sure.”
“That’s the one.” Mal’s own certainty surprised him. “Get it.”
“What if it’s too small for the space?”
“If it is, I’ll choose something else, but I want that painting regardless.”
Evelyn stood and gathered up the prints, all but the one Mal couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from.
“On it.” She rose and turned for the door but hesitated. “By the way, Cohn called. He said he has a box of your things. You want to have them delivered here or at the penthouse?”
Mal’s mood, which had lifted a fraction, darkened immediately. “Tell him he can burn it for all I fucking care.”
Evelyn gave the barest roll of her eyes. “The penthouse it is.”
His attention fell back onto the print of the painting he’d chosen. It was damn compelling.
“Ev?” Mal called out just as she disappeared from view.
She poked her head around the doorframe. “Something else?”
“If you find other pieces by this artist, I want to see those too.”
Evelyn raised her eyebrow but nodded. “Yes, boss.”
CHAPTER TWO
There was inky, midnight blue paint under Pell’s fingernails. That was the only thing stopping him from clawing the eyes out of the woman who stood in the middle of the broom closet she’d rented to him. Too much evidence. That and his desire not to get blood on his still-drying canvases.
“Mr. Lindt,” the woman started with a tone so polite it couldn’t possibly be sincere. “You assured me that this month’s rent would be on time.”
Mrs. Thorn looked around at Pell’s various works in progress. Her face was pinched and narrow, like a bird’s, and her expression filled with distaste. If Pell were still drawing caricatures at Cherry Street Pier, it would have been a challenge to depict her as any less of one than she already was. The word hawkish came to mind.
Pell stifled a laugh at the thought. He hadn’t hidden it completely because her withering glare returned to him.
Her lips thinned into nothingness, and the look on her face would have wilted him if Pell hadn’t just made the sale of his career.
“I promise, I’ll have your money for you first thing Monday morning.”
The shrew smiled, and it was all teeth. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that. I need you to move out immediately.”
Pell tilted his head. He wanted to shake it, clear his ears or something. He couldn’t have heard her correctly.
“You want me to what?”
Mrs. Thorn reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. “You’ve violated the terms of your lease on multiple occasions, Mr. Lindt, leaving me no choice but to insist that you vacate the premises.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her thin mouth. The old witch was actually enjoying this.
“But I’m only a few days behind this month, and I can pay you for the next three months up front as soon as the money clears my account.”
Surprised, she seemed to consider Pell’s offer. Then she shook her head, placed the paper with the words EVICTION NOTICE emblazoned in red across the top on one of the few clean spaces he had on his work table, and turned for the door.
“Aside from your delinquencies and this . . . mess, you’ve been a model tenant. I’ll give you until the close of business today to vacate. After that, I’ll be forced to return with the Sheriff.”
“The Sheriff? Are you fu- . . .? You can’t be serious.”
“Quite, Mr. Lindt. I am not running a charity here. I’m not going to give you a pass on timeliness just because you fancy yourself the next Franz Kline or whatever famous German artist you aspire to be.”
“I’m Belgian.”
Thorn shrugged. “Six P.M., Mr. Lindt, and I’m being very generous. You have eight hours to gather all your pots and brushes and whatnot. Oh, and I will be keeping your security deposit.”
She looked around the small room, no doubt noting the blotches of color splashed all around the work sink. Pell had covered the hardwood floors with canvas tarps, but the place was still a kaleidoscopic mess.
“Goodbye, Mr. Lindt.”
Thorn didn’t bother to close the door behind her, and Pell didn’t bother to right the pot of cadmium red he kicked over after she left.
* * *
“Can she do that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Bitch!”
Pell sat in the back corner of Sassafras Coffee and stared down into his chai latte. Across the table from him, Amelia Frazer fumed on his behalf.
“I knew there was something off about that woman.” As best friends went, Amelia was the cream of the crop.
Pell eyed her curiously, though. “In what way?”
“In that nineteen-fifties, Stepford matron kind of way.” She groaned at Pell’s confusion. “Christ, I sometimes forget you weren’t born here. You have no accent to speak of, and you’re just so . . . normal.”
Pell laughed, used to her ridiculousness. “Uh, thanks I guess? Are we foreigners not usually normal?”
Under the table, Amelia kicked him. “You know what I mean. You usually get all of my pop culture references, but then we’ll run into one you don’t get, and I’m reminded all over again you’re not one of us.”
Pell’s jaw dropped.
Amelia’s light brown skin paled. “I-I-I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, shit. I’m so sorry. I know that’s a sore spot for you.”
She reached across the table and covered one of Pell’s hands with her own. It was warm and a little damp from being curled around her own latte.
“Shit, babe. Just ignore me today. I can’t seem to keep my foot out of my mouth.”
“It’s fine,” Pell assured her. “Really. It’s been a weird sort of day. First, I sell a bunch of work—”
“Wait,” Amelia interrupted. “You did?”
Pell smiled. “Yeah, enough that Brianne offered me a spot in the next show. She had someone drop out last minute. And then the buyer agreed to let her display the pieces they plan to buy. Well, except for one.”
“Oh my God, Pell!” Amelia jumped out of her seat and launched herself at him. Settling her petite frame onto his lap, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and they hugged tightly. Then she sat back and punched Pell in the shoulder.
“Ouch! Fuck.” Pell rubbed the sore spot, never prepared for her violent ways. “What was that for?”
“Way to bury the lead.” She grinned, clearly proud of him.
Pell returned her grin and wrapped one arm around her waist.
From the outside, Pell and Amelia’s relationship probably looked very different than it actually was. Their casual affection often bled into romantic territory, or at least the appearance of it. And though Pell was bisexual, and the thought might have occasionally crossed his mind, two things prevented their relationship from ever taking another path. One, Amelia was very much a lesbian. And two, Pell was loathed to do anything that would jeopardize what they
already had.
He had never known anyone like Amelia-never-Amy Frazer. She loved big, laughed hard, and took no shit from anyone, either on her own behalf or on behalf of the people she cared about. Which were few.
Pell considered himself lucky to be counted among them. He didn’t know how he would have coped without her. Amelia had been there for him when he’d lost his parents. She’d been there for him when he’d lost his first real home. She was his biggest advocate.
If it weren’t for Amelia and the endless network of contacts she’d made from managing the hottest coffee spot in Old City, Pell wouldn’t have met Brianne Mayer. He wouldn’t have a painting hanging in the Emerging Artist section of her gallery. And he certainly wouldn’t be preparing for his first real exhibit. Pell owed everything to Amelia. She kept him fed, kept a roof over his head, and kept him sane. More or less.
“I would have called you as soon as I found out, but I knew you’d want to hear it in person.”
Amelia smiled. “Damn right.”
She kissed him on the forehead and stood.
Pell watched as she grabbed a handful of raw sugar packets from the counter and sat back in her chair. She ripped open one pack and poured a little on her tongue. It was bizarre, but then so were most of Amelia’s food habits. Always drank her coffee black, no sweetener or cream, but give her sugar on the side and she was a happy girl.
“So, tell me about this big sale. Who bought the stuff?”
Pell shrugged, his excitement and curiosity returning in tandem. “I have no idea. All I know is that the buyer saw a print of Closer and requested to see more. Brianne sent over photos of five of my smaller canvases, and they put three of them on hold.”
“That’s fucking amazing, Pell. And I so love that piece.” Amelia’s voice vibrated with all the awe and respect Pell would ever need.
He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming an important artist years ago, while he was still a student at the Fine Art Institute of Philadelphia. Back then, he’d harbored thoughts of being a diamond just waiting to be polished and discovered. But he hadn’t fit in at FAIP. Pell didn’t fit in anywhere, so it made sense that his art would suffer the same fate. Only now, he had validation in the sale and the show. He had to admit, it felt damned good.
“I am curious, though,” Amelia mused. “Maybe you’ve landed a mysterious benefactor. Or a patron! Do artists still get patrons?”
“Je ne sais,” Pell responded, exaggerating his accent. As expected, Amelia melted. He grinned. “But I don’t care, as long as they show the work to all their friends, and all their friends come looking for Pellam Lindt originals of their own.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” Amelia dumped another packet of sugar onto her pink tongue. “And then I can say I knew you when. That is if you don’t dump me once you’re rich and famous.”
Pell balked at that. “Never, mon ami. Not for all the money and fame in the world. Besides, it looks like I’ll need to borrow your couch for a while.”
“Of course! You know you’re always welcome. I told you before you didn’t need to sleep in that rat trap you called a studio.” She picked up another packet but seemed to think better of it and dropped it just as quickly, scowling at the sugar as if it had forced itself into her mouth. “This is a nasty habit.”
“It is.”
“Why don’t you make me stop?”
Pell laughed. “I’ve tried.”
Amelia stuck her tongue out at him, and Pell laughed again. Someone might think they were both twelve instead of twenty-five.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Amelia stood and scooped up the remaining pile of sugar packets. “You need something to eat? A sandwich?”
“No, I’m all right. I’d better finish packing. Brianne said I could store my shit in the back room of the gallery until I find a new space.”
“Good, I didn’t want to say anything, but I was worried about having it in my place.” Amelia smiled with relief.
“I’d never do that to you.” Pell placed his hand over his heart. “Sketchbooks and pencils only.”
“Oh!” Amelia exclaimed, batting her eyelashes at him. “Will you draw me like one of your Belgian girls?”
CHAPTER THREE
The box had been waiting on his doorstep when Mal returned from the office on Tuesday. For two days, he’d walked by it without the slightest desire to examine its contents. Now, on Friday morning, he found himself frozen outside his front door staring down at the fucking thing as if it were about to sprout tentacles and snatch him up.
Josh’s name glared up at him from above a goddamned PO box address, as if Josh didn’t want Mal to know where he was living now.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” he growled. “Man up, Zaha. Shit.”
Mal opened the door and pushed the box inside with his foot. It was heavier than he’d anticipated, and he checked the front of his Prada boot to make sure he hadn’t scuffed it. He stalked into his galley kitchen and grabbed one of the Shun steak knives he rarely used. He should have cared about desecrating such a precision instrument on a cardboard box, but anger clouded his ability to give a fuck.
The damned box had been taunting him.
Mal flipped open the flaps and peered inside. Two sweaters sat folded on top, soft cashmere blends he and Josh had picked up on a ski trip in Switzerland. One mocha brown and the other cornflower blue. His and his. Mal took a surprisingly difficult breath, shoved the garments aside and froze. The box was filled with memories, their memories. A framed photo of them on the beach in Maui. The pewter cup Josh had won in grad school from their circle of friends for having the highest GPA among them. The leather jacket Mal had given Josh on his thirtieth birthday. At the bottom lay a small burgundy box that contained what would have been their wedding rings.
He glared at it, anger, hurt and disbelief warring inside him, and stormed out of the apartment, shutting the door with a satisfying bang.
During his commute, Mal’s tolerance for shitty drivers was at an all-time low. On a less drama-filled day, he would have hopped on the train but stuffing himself into an overcrowded subway car would have been a recipe for disaster. He’d nearly popped a blood vessel yelling at every asshole that got in his way on the road.
Stopped at a red light, Mal read a text message inviting him to yet another dinner party he had no desire to attend. He quickly and politely declined. Mal knew he needed to quell his natural tendency toward solitude or he’d lose what few friends and colleagues he had left. His only other option was to withdraw emotionally from everything and everyone and, unfortunately, he was exceptionally good at saying ‘Fuck the world.’ Something Evelyn had tried to help him unlearn.
Stepping off the elevator onto the 17th floor of the Liberty Building, Mal spotted his new receptionist. He stood in front of . . . Mal didn’t know what it was.
“Kevin!” Mal’s volume hurt his own ears, but that only stoked his bad mood. “What the fuck is that?”
Mal pointed at the enormous, ugly brown package leaning against the wall. It was flat, square, and at least six feet across. Even before the sputtering young man could explain it had been delivered from the gallery, Mal realized what it was.
“It’s, uh, Quentin.”
Mal’s gaze snapped to the boy. “What?”
“My name. It’s Quentin, not Kevin.” He swallowed hard. “Sir.”
Mal reassessed the young man.
He was short but slim and lean, with dark hair and eyes, and fair skin. He seemed a little too demure for a high-pressure law office. But despite the fear etched in his expression, he held his head high as he corrected Mal about his name. That earned him some points.
Mal gave him a short nod. “Quentin suits you better anyway. When did this arrive, and why hasn’t it been installed?”
“I, uh, I think Ms. Magill wanted your final approval on it first.”
Mal stepped up to the parcel. Finding a seam in the paper, he tore a
strip away, revealing a shade of red so deep it bordered on violence. Mal kept ripping, and enlisted Quentin to help him. Between the two, they uncovered most of the artwork.
It was stunning.
“Wow.” Quentin’s awed reaction mirrored Mal’s.
The photocopy hadn’t done justice to the work itself. Scaled up, the painting threatened to swallow you. Drown you in its possibility.
Mal could make out the individual brushstrokes and realized now why he’d sensed so much movement in the print. The painter, whoever they were, had suffused motion into the piece with every stroke.
Suddenly, Mal needed to see the whole thing, unmarred by the remnants of paper and twine.
“I want this mounted within the hour.”
Beside him, Quentin jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. He scurried to the front desk and picked up the phone.
“This is Mr. Zaha’s office. The painting in the foyer needs to be installed right away.” He frowned, shaking his head. “No, that won’t do. Have someone here in thirty minutes, or we’ll find someone else to take over the contract.”
The corner of Mal’s mouth lifted to form the beginning of a smile. He should have trusted Evelyn to find the right person for the job. Clearly, there was more to Quentin than met the eye.
When Mal got to his desk, he was surprised to find a piping hot double-espresso waiting for him. There was also an email from Pazzo Shoes in his inbox.
Pazzo had been an early client of Josh and Mal’s, but they’d lost the account several years ago. Mal never got a straight answer out of Josh when he asked him why.
According to the email, which was congratulatory, Pazzo was interested in meeting with Mal about possible representation. Securing an account that large would effectively be a seal of approval for Mal’s new practice.
Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology Page 23