“Hey!” Nina laughed. “It hasn’t been that long, and I’ve already got a job and a…” She shook her head. “I think I’m doing pretty good.”
“A what?” Robin asked. Nina looked at her. “You said you’ve already got a job and something else but you didn’t finish.”
Busted.
She shifted in the booth and turned her drink in her hand. “I was about to say I have a date, but I’m not sure it qualifies.”
“What are you talking about?” Karen leaned forward. “Tell us everything.”
She sighed and told them about falling outside the restaurant in January, Jack Morgan stopping to help, his arrival on her doorstep earlier that day, the invitation that had felt more like a command.
“Wait a minute…” Amy said. “What did you say this guy’s name is?”
“Jack Morgan,” Nina said.
“Oh my god…” Karen said, stifling a laugh behind her hand.
Amy looked at Nina a little closer. “Older? Hot even though he’s older?”
Nina’s cheeks felt hot. “I guess.”
Amy pulled out her phone and tapped, then slid it across the table. “Is this him?”
Nina picked up the phone, wondering why she had butterflies in her stomach, like she was on the verge of a discovery that would change everything.
The picture that stared back at her sent the same flush of heat to her stomach that she’d felt when Jack had leaned down to speak, his breath warm against her neck. The man in the photograph was staring right at the camera, his brown eyes molten and mysterious, his dark hair sprinkled with gray at the temples.
“That’s him,” Nina said.
Amy took back her phone and Robin started laughing.
Nina looked around the table. “What’s so funny?”
“Sweetie, that’s Jack Morgan, otherwise known as one of the richest eligible bachelors in the city, nay, the world,” Karen said.
“What? That can’t be right.”
“You’re telling me he seemed like an average guy?” Karen asked. “He was in a cab? An Uber? He was wearing a beanie and cords?”
She thought about the car and driver, the smell of money and expensive cologne that seeped from Jack’s pores.
“Well, no, but — ”
“Jack is a legend on Wall Street,” Amy said. “He started from nothing, made his first million before he was twenty-four, made the Forbes 100 before he was thirty, made it every year since. He owns half this city in one way or another — quietly, discreetly, but he’s the one holding the paper on half the luxury apartment buildings, hotels, and restaurants.”
Nina’s stomach turned. A date was bad enough — scary enough — after all these years. She was in no way prepared to play in the league of someone like Jack Morgan.
“Well, I hadn’t even decided to go,” Nina said. “He was kind of…” She searched for the right word. “Bossy.”
Karen didn’t even try to hide her laughter.
“Goddamn it!” Nina said. “What is so funny?”
Amy pressed her lips together before explaining. “Jack has a bit of a… reputation.”
“What kind of a reputation?” Nina asked. “For being a ladies’ man?”
“That, and for having tastes that run to the… experimental.”
“Experimental? What does that mean?”
“Don’t listen to these guys,” Robin admonished. “It’s all a bunch of Page Six gossip.”
“Not all of it,” Amy said drily.
“You would know,” Karen said, obviously a nod to Amy’s line of work, which must put her in proximity to Jack’s world.
Nina looked from Karen to Amy. “What have you heard?”
Amy shrugged. “Nothing too crazy. BDSM, sex clubs, group sex…”
Nina dropped her head into her hands. “Oh my god…”
“Did he invite you to a sex club?” Robin asked.
“Well, no,” Nina said.
“Jack Morgan wouldn’t start there,” Amy said. “He’d at least take you to dinner first."
“Where did he invite you?” Karen asked.
“He said he had to go to some kind of event,” Nina said.
“An event?” Karen perked up. “Wait, when is this?”
“Saturday night,” Nina said.
“Jesus christ,” Karen said, her eyes wide. “I think he invited you to the Amfar Gala.”
“What’s the Amfar Gala?” Nina asked.
“It’s a charity event for HIV/AIDS,” Robin said.
“That sounds nice,” Nina said. She felt a moment’s relief — she’d been to charity events plenty of times with Peter in association with his company — right up until she saw the awe on Karen’s face.
“What?”
“This is big, Nina. Jack-fucking-Morgan wants to take you to the Amfar Gala,” Karen said. “It’s not just any charity event. It’ll be a Who’s Who of the City.”
Nina took a deep breath, swallowing her now-familiar nervousness. “I’m not sure I’m going. He didn’t really even ask. It was more like he… ordered.”
Karen lifted her eyebrows. “From what I hear, he likes to be the boss.”
“Stop!” Robin playfully slapped Karen’s arm and looked at Nina. “I think you should go.”
“You do?”
“It’s an opportunity — to meet new people and do something you’ve never done before,” Robin said. “I never turn those down. You never know where they’ll lead.”
“Oh, you’re definitely going,” Karen said. “No way are we letting you miss a chance to go out with Jack Morgan.”
“I don’t have anything to wear to this kind of thing,” Nina said. It was true, but she was also looking for a way out, trying to escape the sensation that this was a fork in the road, a pivot point that would determine the course of events she couldn’t yet see.
“Which is why we’re going shopping,” Karen said. “I’ll call my girl at Bergdorf’s and have her pull some stuff for you. It’ll be ready-to-wear, but that’ll do.”
“I only have three days,” Nina said.
“We’ll go Friday. I’ll leave work at lunch. Trust me, Julia has great instincts. I’ll tell her about you and she’ll have ten perfect things waiting when we get there.”
It sounded like magic — and intimidating as hell.
It’s an opportunity… I never turn those down. You never know where they’ll lead.
Which was exactly what Nina was afraid of.
10
Nina sat on the floor at the back of the gallery and sorted through the stacks of photographs leaned against the wall. According to Edmonia, they were from the last show, and they needed to be sorted into sold and unsold. The ones that had been sold would be packed for pick up or delivery — depending on the buyer’s preference — and the others would go back to the photographer, a man named Morris Legrange who took pictures of trash that were oddly beautiful.
Nina had reported for work promptly at 10 a.m. after spending half an hour in front of her closet, looking for something that might approximate Edmonia’s simple but stylish outfit the day they’d met. It had been humbling to say the least. When had she stopped wearing dresses and skirts? When had she started wearing mom clothes even though she wasn’t even a mom?
And Karen was a mom. So was Amy. They weren’t always practical dressers.
She’d finally settled on another slacks/blouse combo, wondering if Karen’s “girl” at Bergdorf’s could set her up with a few other things besides a dress for her date with Jack Morgan.
Her stomach fluttered nervously when she thought about it: a date. It had been over twenty years since she’d had a date. She wasn’t even sure she knew how it worked anymore. The idea of kissing someone who wasn’t Peter was absurd. She was forty-five years old. Dating was something twenty-year-olds did in college. It involved sundresses and cute flats, coiffed hair and awkward kisses, promises to call that may or may not actually materialize.
All things that were rid
iculous for someone her age.
On the other hand, a black-tie gala with one of the world’s most powerful financiers was equally absurd.
And yet, Robin’s advice had struck a chord. What was the point of being in the city, of starting over, if she wasn’t open to the experiences that came her way? If she wasn’t willing to experiment with the possibilities?
It was only natural that her instinct was to hole up in the apartment, craft a version of her old life that felt familiar and comfortable. But it didn’t make sense. Looking back, she wasn’t even sure it had made sense when she’d been married to Peter. She’d known they weren’t going to have children for years and years. Had she planned to play house full-time forever? To spend her time searching for the perfect throw pillows and patio furniture?
For the first time, she dared to imagine what would have happened if she and Peter had continued the charade, if Peter hadn’t one day looked at her and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”
Would she have woken up one morning, sixty and still keeping house for Peter, having perfunctory sex a few times a year on special occasions and watching everyone else’s children in the neighborhood grow up and have children of their own?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know a lot of things, but one thing she’d figured out since severing ties with Peter, since throwing herself into her new life, was that she wouldn’t have considered it a life well-lived.
She didn’t even consider the life she’d lived so far to be well-lived.
Which was why she was going out with Jack Morgan on Saturday.
She was nervous, maybe even a little terrified by what she saw in his eyes — the power and authority and uncompromising demand — but maybe she needed to be terrified for a change.
She sighed as she reached the end of the photographs. A little more than half of them had been sold, a percentage that didn’t seem bad for such a small gallery. Nina didn’t like Morris Legrange’s photographs as much as the color-saturated photos taken by Janet Wexler, the photographer who took the sari picture and who would be featured in the gallery’s next show, but she could see why they would appeal to collectors.
Edmonia had a good eye, and Nina was touched with a brand of excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time — the excitement of being on the verge of something, of having a door opened onto something new, something that would require her to learn and grow.
Edmonia had given her a brief tour of the tiny gallery’s workings and had left less than half an hour after Nina arrived. She’d laughed when she’d slipped on her coat and witnessed what must have been a stricken expression on Nina’s face.
“Why do you think you’re here?” She’d smiled. “You’ll be fine. You have my phone number. Call if you have any questions.”
The door had closed behind her with frightening finality, and Nina had looked around the gallery, silent as a tomb. She’d made herself a cup of coffee and gone to work, quickly losing herself in Morris Legrange’s images.
A quick check of her phone told her an hour had passed since Edmonia’s departure. Nina had no idea when she’d be back, but she’d left Nina with several tasks and asked her to stay until four.
She got on her knees and moved the stack of sold photos toward the desk where Edmonia had left a list of buyers and instructions for packing the ones that would be picked up. The others would be professionally packed for shipping, a process Edmonia had promised to show her.
She crawled back to the other stack, the ones that would be returned to the photographer. She was on all fours, preparing to stand and move them, when she heard the door of the gallery open.
A gust of cool air hit her back and she hurried to turn around, hoping to offer the customer — or Edmonia, if she was back so soon — a more appropriate view than her ass, but when she turned around and sat back on her heels, it wasn’t just any customer standing in the gallery.
It was Liam McAlister.
He was regarding her with obvious humor, his blue eyes twinkling, his lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile.
“I promise I’m not always an idiot,” she said.
He smiled. “Idiot isn’t the word that comes to mind, although I’ll admit you have a certain knack for uncompromising positions.”
She laughed and got to her feet. “I can’t deny it. I’ve almost spilled drinks on you twice and now you’ve seen more of me than you probably ever wanted to.”
He grinned. “Not necessarily.”
She tried to hide her burning cheeks by brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “My coffee’s back on the desk, so you’re safe from that at least.”
“I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was relieved,” he said.
Feeling more composed now that she was on her feet, she dared to look at him.
He wore jeans that showcased his muscular thighs, and a T-shirt peeked out from under his jacket. His feet were clad in dirty, well-worn boots.
He was as beautiful — and as young — as she remembered.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked. “It’s my first day, but I’ll do my best."
“Are you working here?” Liam asked. “It’s Nina, right?”
She nodded, surprised he remembered her name. She was almost positive she saw genuine interest in his eyes, but it might have been wishful thinking. Not that she was wishful about such a gorgeous — and young, so young — man.
“I am,” she said. “Just part-time for now though.”
“Good for Moni,” he said.
“You know Edmonia?”
He nodded. “We’ve been friends for years. She’s been looking for someone to help out here, but she’s… selective.”
Nina smiled. “I got that impression, although knowing how to make a cup of coffee doesn’t seem like a high bar.”
“Ah,” he rocked on his heels, “she gave you the kids-these-days-don’t-know-how-to-make-coffee spiel.”
Nina pretended to be offended. “And here I thought that was just for me.”
He laughed. “Hardly. She should copyright it at this point.”
The conversation that had been flowing so well, so naturally, suddenly stalled. A long moment of silence settled between them, Liam’s eyes on hers, before she remembered she was supposed to be working.
“You never said if I could help you with something,” she said.
He straightened and looked around, like he’d been somewhere else and had just brought himself back to the present. “Not really. I drop in every now and then to see who she’s showing.”
He wandered over to the white wall, now populated with a handful of photographs by Janet Wexler.
“These are nice,” he murmured. “Rich, a lot of movement and energy.”
She stood next to him. “I thought so too. In fact, that’s what brought me into the gallery in the first place.”
He looked down at her. “You saw one in the window?”
She nodded. “I’m new in town. I came in for a closer look and ended up with a job.”
“Sounds like it was meant to be,” he said.
She met his eyes. “It felt that way.”
He pulled his gaze away from hers and returned his attention to the wall, taking in the arrangement of photographs. “These look good. Moni’s always had a great eye for curation.”
“How do you know her?” Nina asked.
“She’s the one who shows my work — when I show it, which isn’t often.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. “Your photographs are so beautiful. I loved hearing Vincent talk about the trip to Africa, but it was your photographs that had me mesmerized. I felt… transported. Like I’d fallen into them.”
He looked at her. “You should stop before my ego explodes.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t heard before. I can’t imagine it means more coming from someone who doesn’t know a thing about photography.”
“It sounds like you know more than you realize,�
�� he said. “Professional reviewers are so far up their own intellectual asses they forget that pictures are about feeling.”
She laughed. “Maybe you should diversify, go into writing.”
“Maybe you should go to dinner with me.”
He said it so casually, his eyes still on the wall, that she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
But no. The words were there, lingering in the air, vibrating like a nearly dissipated echo.
“Dinner?”
He turned to look at her. “It’s a bit early for dinner, I’ll give you that, but since you’re working, I assumed we’d do it later.”
She shook her head. “Why would you want to have dinner with me?”
The words escaped her lips before she had time to edit them. She heard the unspoken question in them — why me? — and hoped he didn’t. She wasn’t ready to throw herself at a hot younger guy, but she wasn’t going for pathetic either.
“Why not?” he asked. “The city seems determined to throw us together, and I have to admit, I’m beginning to think the city knows what it’s doing.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know…”
“Not interested?” The question was spoken gently, without a trace of bitterness. He was giving her an out she wasn’t sure she wanted to take.
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just… how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He laughed, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’m thirty.”
“That’s… younger than me,” she said. “A lot younger.”
“Not to brag,” he leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “but I think I can get the Dinner Police to ease up on the rules and let us eat together.”
She smiled in spite of herself.
“What time do you get off?” he asked.
“Four.”
“Want to call it seven?” he asked.
He’d given her an out. He would be gracious if she declined, she already knew that much about Liam McAlister.
But she suddenly very much wanted to go to dinner with him. To sit across from him and watch his expressive eyes and listen to his dry sense of humor.
She drew in a breath. “Seven’s good.”
The Awakening of Nina Fontaine Page 5