“Damn. Why’d they cancel?”
“Roof leak.”
“On top of everything else and now this.” I swallow the pills without water, something my dad used to do.
“Any other venue ideas?” Andrew tucks his bright yellow shirttail into his white jeans.
“No.”
“What about that new restaurant on Sixth?”
“Too bright. I want somewhere classy and fresh, yet untapped.”
“How about the park with the carousel?”
“No, the ticket-taker guy creeps me out. I swear he angles the mirrors to peek up girls’ skirts.”
“I’ve seen that look before,” Andrew says. “What’s your grand idea?”
“How about Sara’s gallery? It’s a great space. Not too small. Not too large.” Plus, Sean hates stuffy art galleries.
“Definitely classy and hip.”
“I’m sure she has the gallery finished by now. I bet she’d love the exposure. Do I have any appointments scheduled soon?”
He checks his iPad. “Nope, not until after lunch.”
“Great. I’m going to ask Sara in person. Wanna come?”
“Absolutely.”
After a quick stop for a coffee, Andrew and I head toward Sara’s gallery, pausing at the crosswalk for a red light.
“We haven’t talked about it much, but how are you doing?” he asks, and I know he means Sean.
“I don’t know. I’m mad. I’m sad. I’m embarrassed. I’m confused.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
There have been a few times that I’ve forgotten that Sean ended our relationship. Just this morning alone, as I readied for work, several fleeting thoughts about us grilling steaks this weekend and finishing up the yellow peppers from last Saturday’s farmer’s market fluttered through my mind. And without thinking, I almost texted him about catching the new Robert Downey, Jr., movie on Sunday.
But then there are moments when the truth consumes me, when reality smacks me in the face and the images of his pained expression, his parted lips as he mouthed the words “It’s not working” and his eyes narrowed with pity, carve a deeper pit into my heart.
“It helps having the article and even my little fake relationship with Nixon . . . er . . . Nick to take my mind off Sean. But I must admit, I fall asleep and wake up thinking of the past four years and everything I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Maybe not, but I must not have done enough right, either.”
“I’m sorry he acted like such a jerk. Want me to kick him in the nuts next time I see him?”
“Yes.”
“I think Sean truly feels bad for what he did.”
“He should.” We weave between two parked cars and cross the street.
“Yeah, he should. But, I don’t know . . .” He shrugs and sidesteps a newspaper stand. “I’m just saying if he’s that important to you, then don’t close the door. You know better than most, a good relationship is hard to find. Give him some space and don’t let your pride get in the way.”
“Thanks, Andrew. I appreciate it.”
“Speaking of swallowing pride, I called my parents yesterday.”
“Not the spray tan thing again?”
“No.” He laughs. “I asked them to lunch. For real. All this talk about Jo and family has got me thinking, maybe I’m as much to blame as them for our family’s dysfunction.”
“Yeah, how so?”
“Over the years, I’ve thrown our differences in their face, kinda gayed things up, so to speak, just to piss them off.”
I know what he’s referring to. So frustrated with his parents’ criticism for his sexual orientation, Andrew dropped out of college late in his junior year. He cashed in his savings bonds and blew the money on nightclubs and weekends in Vegas at expensive hotels with random guys.
“All it got me was thirty-six credits shy of a degree, broke, a scar on my ankle that I have no idea where it came from, and a dad who can’t stand the sight of me.”
“That’s not true. He just doesn’t understand your choices, that’s all.”
“But that’s the thing. That aspect of my life is not all that I am. And their disappointment in my ‘lifestyle’ isn’t all they are, either.”
“Dang, Andrew, that’s the most profound thing you’ve ever said. Maybe anyone’s ever said.”
“Yeah, well, remind me of that if they slam the door in my face. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Hey, by the way, who were you having lunch with yesterday? At Ryoko’s? The place you hate.”
“Huh?” He bites his lip, buying time.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Oh, c’mon.” I tickle his stomach. “What’s the matter? Parasites swimming around in there?”
He swats my hands away. “Let’s get back to you and your troubles.”
He reveals no more about his sushi lunch and I decide to let it go. Besides, Andrew can’t keep a secret. I’ll find out soon enough.
“What kind of matchmaker can’t keep a boyfriend?” he says with a playful, inoffensive tone.
“Ha. I’m quite impressive, don’t you think?” I fan my hands in the air and call out as if reading a marquee. “Come find love with Bree Caxton and Associates, never mind that she can’t find love herself.”
“If you want to work with a loser, give her a call.” Andrew laughs, then wraps his arm around me.
“You know, sometimes I wish you weren’t gay.”
“Sometimes I wish you weren’t a woman.”
We hold hands all the way until we reach Sara’s gallery.
The tarps have been removed, the artwork hung, the birch floors polished. A series of frameless watercolors line the smooth walls. Dominating the center of the room is a sculpture formed with industrial-style heavy black iron pipe shaped into a flying bird . . . or a hang glider . . . or maybe the movers dropped the figure on the concrete and who’s to know?
All the same, the gallery is modernly sparse and fresh, yet sophisticated and trendy enough that no one will dare admit they don’t understand the art. It’s an ideal venue for my upscale crowd.
“Perfect, isn’t it?” I say.
Andrew gazes up at a sweeping chandelier made of shiny chrome arms and covered with ivory-colored feathers. “This place is beautiful. It has an engaging sense and a great environment for mingling. We can set the bar up in that far corner.”
“Yes, and arrange a few chairs in the other corner for seating.”
“Bree? What a nice surprise.” A bright shade of coral lipstick colors Sara’s lips. She’s twenty feet away and I can see the glow on her face.
“The power of a new love,” I whisper to Andrew, before Sara reaches us.
“The power of Nixon,” Andrew says. “Fifty bucks says she bought new underwear.”
“Hello, Sara. You remember Andrew?”
“Of course. A pleasure to see you.”
“You, too,” he says. “I love those sandals.”
We all peek at her camel-colored double-strapped shoes. “Thanks.”
“Sara, the gallery is incredible,” I say. “I’m impressed you pulled it together so quickly.”
“Thank you.” She bends down to pick a piece of fuzz off the ground, sticking it inside her pocket. “It’s been a lot of work, more than I anticipated, but thrilling at the same time. All I’ve got to do now is get people in the door. So, what brings you here? Did you come to take me up on that offer of Cristal?”
“Yes!” Andrew says.
I still his clapping hands. “Not today, thank you. Actually, I might have an idea to help get people in the door. At least for one night. We’re here today with a proposition.”
She tilts her head. “Really? What is
it?”
“Well, as you know, each month I host a get-together for my like-minded clients to meet and mingle.”
“Yes, I attended the brunch at Hotel del Coronado.”
“That’s right. Well, I planned to host this month’s party at the Gardens, but they canceled. I know it’s last minute, but I’m wondering if you’d consider holding the mixer here.”
“In my gallery?”
“Yes. Thursday night. It’d be great exposure for the new place.”
She nibbles on her fingernail. “That it would be. But this Thursday?”
“I know, not a lot of time to prepare, but I’ll handle all the arrangements: food, bar, wait staff, clean up, everything with the exception of security. I’m sure you have your own firm.”
“I do.”
Andrew jumps in. “We’re keeping the guest list small and intimate, twenty-five to thirty people, maximum. A couple of hours, tops. What do you say?”
“I do have a few pieces from a new expressionist that I’ve been excited to display. This mixer will be a perfect occasion. I say yes. Let’s do it.” She places her hand on my forearm. “First you find me Nixon, who may very well be the one. I had another nice conversation with him earlier today, by the way.”
Yeah, so did I.
“And, now you offer me a fantastic business opportunity. Bree Caxton, you’re my new favorite person.”
A few hours later, after my appointments have been wrapped up, client calls returned, bills paid, my mouse pad wiped clean, pencils pointed east in my desk drawer, tea bags organized in the cupboard, and anything else I can do around the office to prolong the inevitable, Andrew props his laptop on his knees. He clicks open the database. “We need to do this.”
“How’d I get myself into this mess? Not long ago I bounced around happy and clueless. And now, my future rests on Sean falling in love. With someone else.”
“Put on your professional hat and get this over with. What are the parameters?”
“Missing front tooth. Incontinent. Riddled with cold sores.”
“C’mon, now, Bree. You said yourself, the success of Can I See You Again? hangs in the balance. It isn’t going to work if you don’t take this seriously.”
“Fine, fine.” I exhale a long breath. For Jo, for the book, for the house. “Okay, search for a nonsmoker, cultured, snarky, nice ass.” I arch my back and pat my own butt. “But I guess you already knew that.”
“Now there’s the Bree I know and love.”
seventeen
Before stepping inside the Q&A conference room the following evening, I run my fingers through my hair and scan the library one last time. For no reason in particular.
All right, yes.
Fine.
So what if I did walk the long way around, passing by Kid Town? I just wanted to say hi. I’m nothing if not polite. No big deal, really. Besides, I didn’t even see Nixon.
“Hey, everyone,” I say to the gang, setting my purse on the nearby chair.
But they don’t reply.
Gwen and her friend are hunched over Ernie the oldest member’s shoulder. And the two men seated on either side of him crowd close. They’re focused on something in Ernie’s hands.
“Don’t tell me you stole another copy of your grandson’s Playboy, Ernie. We’ll get kicked out again.”
“No, silly,” Gwen says, pointing at what I now recognize as my Close-Up article. “We’re reading about you!”
I feel myself blushing. “Oh, c’mon, put that away. Unless, of course . . . you don’t want to.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Gwen grabs each of my hands and shakes them in the air. “A gal at my water aerobics class kept going on and on about this fabulous new series in the paper, and when she mentioned your name, I nearly sank to the bottom of the pool. I said, ‘Bree Caxton? I love Bree Caxton.’ The other ladies in my class all knew about the article, too.”
“My granddaughter told me,” says Gwen’s friend. “And she lives clear out in Florida. She’s following it online.”
“Everyone’s talking about you,” Gwen says. “You’re famous.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Excuse me.” The door pushes open behind me and in walks a twenty-something woman in a powder-blue tunic, black leggings, and brown Ugg flats. Three more twenty-something women stand behind her, waiting to come in. “Are we too late?”
“Too late for what?”
“For the Fall in Love with Bree Caxton question-and-answer session. We saw the article and read about tonight’s meeting on the blog.”
They’re here for me? Awesome. “Um . . . no, not at all. Please.” I motion them inside. “We’re just getting started. Have a seat, anywhere you like.”
“Told you.” Gwen winks, then pats a chair. “Girls, there’s an open spot here.”
Two of the old guys spring from their seats.
Easy, tigers, don’t pop out a hip.
“Sit here, if you like,” one says.
“Or here.” Ernie slides out his chair.
“Are you Bree Caxton?”
I spin around and face two other women in their midforties.
Before I answer, one says, “It is you. You’re much prettier in person.”
“Thank you. Please come in.”
My goodness. An audience. What a lovely and unexpected surprise. But, crap. Now I have to come up with a discussion topic. Dating taboos? Meeting the family? Boundaries?
Nixon’s nephew knocks on the glass, drawing my attention. He presses his nose against the clear partition and waves faster than a rabbit thumps his foot.
I wave back.
Nixon hurries toward the boy, tugging at his shirt collar and apologizing to me with a crumpled smile.
“No problem,” I mouth.
Whether it’s Nixon’s tenderness with his nephew or his easygoing attitude outside the office, there’s a stirring within me as Nixon’s eyes meet mine. Something that feels sharp and vibrant, cutting through the glass between us. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Is it confidence? Comfort? Wonder?
He waves good-bye and our connection is broken.
But the feeling remains for several moments until an idea pops into my head as I turn toward the group. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming. My name is Bree Caxton and for tonight’s Q&A, we’re talking about hope.”
eighteen
As luck would have it, no giant sinkhole swallowed Sara’s gallery floor. No staff mutiny. No crazed gunman running amok through the streets forcing an evacuation of the entire city block.
My mixer is scheduled as planned.
Sean will be there, polished and positive with his square jaw and deep, thundering voice.
I’m a bundle of nerves, so when my phone squeaks with a text from Andrew, I nearly drop the phone.
Soooo sorry, I’ll be there in 5.
That’s the second time this week he’s been late. Not only was he evasive about his lunch the other day, but just this morning I discovered he e-mailed the wrong person—twice. And I caught him on his phone in the break room. He hung up the moment I walked in, claiming it was a telemarketer. What is going on with him?
Hurry, I type, then tuck my phone into the back pocket of my sleek gray trousers.
Sara greets me at the door of her gallery.
“Bree, welcome.”
“This place looks amazing.”
“Thank you. We barely pulled it together for tonight, but I’m happy with the finished product.” She slides a single diamond pendant back and forth along her gold chain. “I’m nervous. Nixon’s on his way here. Do I look okay?”
I find Candace across the room, studying an abstract painting with Randi. “Here? Like gallery-here?”
“You seem surprised. Oh, no. Have I screwed up? It’s too soo
n, right? I shouldn’t have called him?”
Dammit, Bree. How could you have spaced this? I muster a smile. “No, no. It’s fine. Will you excuse me? I have a couple last-minute details to tend to.”
“Yes, of course.”
I sneak off to a private corner and dial Nixon straightaway.
“Breester, how are you?”
“You can’t come to Sara’s gallery tonight.”
“Were you sick the day they taught etiquette in school?”
I bite my lip, curbing my smile. “Hello, Nixon. How are you today?”
“I’m good, Bree. Thanks for asking. You?”
“Wonderful.” I pause. There’s a moment of silence.
“Fine. Why can’t I come to Sara’s gallery tonight?”
“Because I’m hosting the mixer here.”
“Yeah, I know. Sara mentioned it.”
“Candace is here.”
“Just so I’m clear, you chastised me for not dating and now that I am dating, you don’t want me to.”
“Exactly.”
He sighs. “I’ll look like a jerk, but all right, I’ll reschedule Sara.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a lot more than one.”
I hang up as Andrew strides close.
“Sorry I’m late.” He dabs beads of sweat off his forehead with his palm before studying my face. “My, my, who was that on the phone, making you blush like that?”
“Telemarketer.”
“Touché.” But the little devil grabs my phone and his eyes widen. “Nixon.”
“Shush.” I swat his hand away and slide my phone back into my pocket.
“I knew it.”
“You know nothing. Save your wizardry for someone else. We all set?”
“Yes. Looks like a few more people showed up than anticipated, but I know we’re good with drinks and appetizers. The bartender has plenty of seltzer and the blackest napkins I’ve ever seen.”
“Good.”
He pauses before saying, “And Sean’s girls are here.
Sean’s girls. Puke. “Where are they?”
Andrew points across the room at Chelsea, a mortgage broker with false eyelashes and small ears. Standing beside her is Betty, a dental hygienist with a boob job. They’re chatting with each other next to a painting of an old barn.
Can I See You Again? Page 13