by Linda Seed
Later, tired and happy, they made love on the hotel bed until late into the night. Contented, Gen fell asleep in Ryan’s arms. She wasn’t thinking about Antonio Bellini, or about Gordon Kendrick, at all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the days leading up to the gallery show, Gen had a number of errands to do and details to take care of. She sent Ryan off to do more sightseeing—he wanted to take a guided tour and then ride the Staten Island Ferry—while she visited the framer to ensure Gordon’s paintings were being handled properly, met with Bellini again, and talked to an art journalist about a magazine piece he was doing on Kendrick.
When she’d met with Bellini, she’d asked to see the catalog that would accompany the show, but he’d said it wasn’t ready. She’d gotten the feeling that he was putting her off, so she’d nagged him about it, calling him repeatedly to ask if it was finished yet, and when she could see it.
She’d known from his tone, and from his repeated excuses, that there was something wrong with the catalog. Even so, when a messenger finally brought a copy to her hotel and she retrieved it from the front desk, she was caught unprepared for what she found.
“It’s all about Bellini!” she ranted over the phone to Gordon as she leafed through the catalog. “It’s about how he discovered you, and … and how he saw something in you, some ‘spark of genius,’ as he puts it. Apparently, you owe everything to him.”
“We’ve never met,” Gordon remarked dryly.
“I know!” Gen exclaimed. “Of course, there’s no mention of the Cambria residency. Shit. Shit! And no mention of me. Jesus! To read this, you’d think Bellini was standing there holding your brushes as you worked.”
Gordon sighed heavily over the line. “What about the paintings? What does it say about the paintings?”
“Okay, wait. It says … Oh. Oh, no. It says you were inspired by the … wait. The ‘clash between man and industry in a post-global-warming age.’ What the …”
“Trees,” Kendrick said. “I was inspired by trees. And the sky. And cows.”
“This is … They’ve completely misinterpreted your work.”
“So it would seem.”
“You’re calm,” Gen said. “Why are you so calm?!”
“Gen.” Gordon sounded infinitely patient, something she never would have expected from him when they’d first met. “It’s all about the work. None of the rest of this matters. And the work is going better than I ever could have expected.”
“Well, that’s … Okay. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“And no matter what the catalog says, it was you. Bellini didn’t bring this out of me; you did.”
Gen was touched. Her eyes were hot and wet, and she felt a smile come to her lips. “Thank you, Gordon. You know, you’ve changed since you came to Cambria.” She didn’t want to tell him he’d been a mess. But she probably didn’t have to, because he already knew.
“I feel … It’s like I finally know what I’m doing.”
She wished she did, too, but more and more these days, she found herself doubting it.
“Well, you’re going to be doing it with a lot more money when this is over.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Gen was becoming more and more stressed as the date of the show approached. Bellini was an asshole, the catalog was full of lies, the paintings were being misinterpreted, and she had to grit her teeth to get through any meeting with the Archibald / Bellini people without throwing something.
Ryan, on the other hand, appeared to be having a wonderful time.
Every day, he went out into the city eager to take in the sights, excited about whatever he was planning to do that day. If she had a light schedule with the gallery people, she’d go with him. They would eat at a deli, walk hand in hand through Battery Park, or people-watch on Fifth Avenue. They spent an afternoon at the natural history museum, marveling over the dinosaur skeletons and the IMAX planetarium show.
In the evenings, they made love in the hotel bed, or in the shower, or once—memorably—against the wall. Gen drew the line at doing it on the floor, because one could never know what lurked in the depths of hotel carpets.
“Are you having fun?” she asked him late one night when she was naked and wrapped in his arms.
“Yeah. I really am. But I know you’re kind of having a rough time with work.” He kissed her forehead tenderly.
“Work? What work?” she said dreamily as she raised her face to his to be kissed.
It was almost over. She and Ryan were set to be in New York for a week, with the gallery opening scheduled for a Friday night at the tail end of the visit. As Friday arrived, Gen was looking forward to wrapping things up and going home to enjoy her victory. By the time the evening ended, she’d have done everything she’d set out to do. She’d found an artist, brought him to Cambria, coaxed him into producing terrific work, and helped him to get his name known among the power people of the art world. She’d brought her own name to the attention of those same power people. And she also, quite likely, would go home with earnings substantial enough to help her relocate to New York.
Right now, though, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to come here.
It would be easy to tell herself that Bellini was the exception—that he was just one man who lacked integrity, and that the rest of the New York art world upheld higher standards. But she knew that was bullshit. If she moved here, she’d have to deal with one Bellini after another, one self-absorbed, power-hungry, money-obsessed asshole after another. Bellini wasn’t the exception. He was the rule. She would be the exception. And upholding her own ideas about ethics and personal character would place her at a distinct disadvantage here.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the idea that she might learn to adapt, and that adapting might mean that she would become more like him than she would ever want to admit.
“Do I have to be Bellini?” Gen asked Ryan anxiously as she fussed with her earrings in the hotel mirror.
“I certainly hope not,” Ryan said, coming up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to press a kiss against the soft skin of her neck. “That would kind of put a damper on our sex life.”
She smacked him playfully with her hand. “I’m serious.”
“You’re serious about whether you have to become a middle-aged Italian man?”
“I’m serious about … Well, God. About whether I have to act like him in order to compete. You know? He’s successful, Ryan. Really successful. If I want to be successful, do I have to turn into a … a …”
“An insufferable, morally challenged narcissist?” Ryan supplied.
“Thank you. Yes.”
He gently turned her around to face him. His voice softer, he said, “Gen, that’s not going to happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can be sure, because I know you.”
She looked into his dark, liquid eyes and wanted to believe him. “You think you know me, but …”
“I know you,” he said.
And she thought that he did. At least, he knew part of her. He knew her at her best, knew the person she wanted to be. And she realized that the person she wanted to be was very much like him: honest, compassionate, gentle, and strong.
She wanted to be those things not only for herself. She wanted to be those things so she wouldn’t disappoint him.
Gen might have had a lot of complaints about Bellini, but she had to give him one thing: Gordon’s art looked stunning on the walls of the gallery. The framing was perfect; the lighting was perfect; and the order in which the paintings were presented showed them off to the best possible effect. As she moved through the crowd at the gallery, a glass of white wine in her hand, she reflected that maybe she’d been worried about nothing. Maybe this was going to work out after all.
Katya, Bellini’s gallery assistant, stepped up beside Gen, and they both took a moment to look at Cambria Pines III, t
he painting Gordon hadn’t wanted to let go. She could see why he’d wanted to keep it. The colors, the brushwork, the sense of movement—this was the painting that most fully captured Gordon’s transformation from the artist he’d been to the artist he was now. Though she was still steaming over the fact that it had been sold—twice—she could certainly understand why the buyers had wanted it.
“That one’s nice,” Katya said, gazing at the painting. She was a five-foot-ten former model with a willowy figure, heavy black eyeliner, and jet black bangs that looked like they’d been cut with the aid of a ruler. Katya was wearing a skin-tight black dress and heels so high and slim that it seemed impossible they could support the weight of a fully grown adult.
“Yes,” Gen responded. “It’s the artist’s favorite.”
“You can really see his rage,” Katya reflected. “There’s a sense of doom. A sort of swirling madness.” She moved one dramatically manicured hand in a circular motion in the air in front of the painting, to indicate Gordon’s vortex of insanity.
“Rage?” Gen said. “Madness?”
“Oh, yes.” Katya nodded sagely. “There’s a certain desperation to the work.”
“Katya.” Gen turned to face the woman, who was so much taller than Gen that she towered over her. “Gordon almost titled this work Serenity.”
“Ah.” Katya nodded. “Irony.”
“No. He wasn’t being ironic. This painting was inspired by the woods, and the grass, and the … the goddamned serenity of nature!”
“All right.” Katya side-eyed Gen and inched a step away from her. “Maybe you’re the one with the rage.”
Maybe she was. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that it didn’t matter how Katya interpreted the paintings. It didn’t matter if Gordon was misunderstood, as long as the paintings sold. But she knew that was bullshit. It did matter. Art was communication, first and foremost. She felt a responsibility to ensure that Gordon’s message wasn’t getting muddled. But it wasn’t right to take her frustrations out on Katya.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just … this show. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“Look, I get it.” Katya put a graceful, long-fingered hand on Gen’s shoulder. “Antonio has been miserable to be around this entire week.” Katya rolled her eyes extravagantly. “And speaking of Antonio.” Katya shifted her weight to face Gen. “When you get a moment, he’d like me to show you a gallery space a few blocks from here. It’s just around the corner on Grand Street.”
“A gallery space?”
“You told him you were interested in relocating to Manhattan, right?”
“I … uh … yes.”
She nodded. “He has a nice space he’s looking to sublet. He thought it might be right for you.”
“Oh … That’s great.” The idea of moving had, of course, been foremost in Gen’s mind for a while now. But moving, as a concept, was one thing. Actually looking at gallery space was another.
“Just let me know when you get a break in the action,” Katya said. “And I’ll run you over there.”
“All right.”
Katya went to restock the hors d’oeuvre table, leaving Gen standing alone in front of Cambria Pines III. Ryan had been across the room chatting with some middle-aged guy with a gold hoop earring and handmade Italian loafers. Now he’d disengaged from the guy, and he came over to stand beside Gen.
“How’s it going?” he asked. He had a wineglass in his hand, and it was still mostly full.
“It’s okay.” Gen nodded. “Actually, it’s crap. But it’ll be over soon, so that’s good.”
“More trouble with Bellini?” Ryan asked in a low voice so he would not be overheard.
“Not really. It’s just … It’s a lot to absorb.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You must be miserable.”
“Me?” He raised his eyebrows at her. “No, no. I’m having a nice time, actually.”
“You are?”
“Sure. I’m meeting new people, seeing some very good art. Drinking some pretty good wine.” He held up his glass. “And I get to be with you.”
“Well … okay. Good. I did notice that a lot of people have been talking to you.”
“Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “It seems Bellini let it slip that I’m one of ‘the California Delaneys.’ I’ve gotten three pitches for investments that are going to double my money, two pleas from nonprofits that need donations, and two—wait, no, three—women’s phone numbers.”
She smirked at him. “Let me guess. Katya was one of them.”
“Yeah, but I think Bellini put her up to it.”
“He probably did.”
Just standing there talking to him made her stress melt away, and she found herself with a goofy grin on her face. It was funny how he could do that—how whatever had been wrong stopped being wrong as soon as he entered a room. She’d expected that he wouldn’t fit in here—that he would be uncomfortable in the presence of a bunch of pretentious aesthetes who’d spent their entire adulthoods polishing themselves to a high shine. But he’d slipped into the crowd effortlessly, like he belonged there. She was a little ashamed of the assumptions she’d made about him.
“Speaking of Bellini,” she began. “He wants to show me a gallery space.”
“What, here?”
“Yes. Katya says it’s around the corner. He wants to sublet it.”
She saw a moment of hesitation in his face—just a moment—and then he smiled.
“That’s great. You should look at it.”
“Really?” Part of her was excited at the prospect, and another part of her was disappointed that Ryan wasn’t more reluctant about the idea of her moving two thousand miles away.
“Sure. You’ve been wanting this for a long time. It’s an opportunity. You don’t want to ignore an opportunity.”
“But …”
“Look.” He bent a little to kiss the tip of her nose. “This thing with us isn’t going to go away just because you move. I can visit you. You can visit me. When the time is right … Well. If you decided that you wanted me to move out here to be with you, that wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“It wouldn’t?” She was stunned. She’d always assumed that Ryan was as rooted to the Cambria earth as the pines that lined the shoreline.
“Hell, no. It would take some doing, sure. We’d have to find someone to run the ranch. Maybe talk my brother Liam into moving back from Montana. But we’d work it out. It could be done.”
She suddenly felt a little teary-eyed, and she blinked hard. “You’d do that for me?”
“Gen.” He put his fingers gently beneath her chin, raising her face toward his. “For you, I’d do that, and a whole hell of a lot more.”
“But …”
“Just look at the gallery space. It wouldn’t hurt to look.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He was right. It wouldn’t hurt to look.
Gen had some more mingling to do before she could leave. She talked to a few collectors, some people from other galleries in Manhattan, a few B-list celebrities, and a number of artists, a couple she’d heard of and more she had not. She distributed her business card where appropriate, and she tried to gently correct misinterpretations of Gordon’s artwork when the opportunity presented itself.
Finally, as the crowd began to thin out, she approached Katya.
“I guess this is as good a time as any to see the gallery space,” she said.
“Great. Just let me grab the key.”
They got their jackets, and Gen told Ryan to sit tight and enjoy the last of the crab puffs, promising she’d be right back. Then Gen and Katya clicked down the sidewalk and around the corner on their spike heels in the cool evening air.
The space was no more than a five-minute walk away. Katya unlocked the door and let Gen inside, and then she flipped on the lights.
The gallery space wasn’t large—not really—but it was huge by Manhattan standards. Clean white walls and gleaming
honey-colored wood floors immediately made Gen fantasize about the shows she could have here, the artists she would feature, the installations, the world of aesthetic pleasures she could create.
“It’s beautiful,” she told Katya as she walked the length of the main room. “But I’m sure it’s out of my price range.”
“Not necessarily.” Katya told her the monthly rent.
“Really? That’s all?” Gen thought she must have heard wrong.
“I was surprised, too, when Antonio told me. Rents in this part of town usually are much higher.” She shrugged. “I suppose he just wants to see you in here. Create an alliance and all that.”
It was the “all that” that worried Gen. Bellini was more than a little sleazy in his business practices. If she were his tenant, what unethical things would she be expected to do to keep him happy and keep the rent low?
Still, the place was lovely. She wandered into the back room and then into the small office off the main space.
“How soon would he need to know?”
Katya was inspecting the fingernails of her right hand. “You’d have to talk to Antonio about that. I don’t really know the details.”
Gen looked around a little more, and then they locked the place up and made their way back to Archibald / Bellini.
The gallery space was like a gift, beautifully wrapped and tempting. But she worried that there might be something nasty hiding inside, something she’d be better off without.
Chapter Thirty
A few minutes after Gen and Katya left Archibald / Bellini to look at the space around the corner, Ryan was chatting with an artist in front of a painting titled Creekside, Delaney Ranch. The artist, a guy who described his work as “found object” art but who, in Ryan’s estimation, really just made things out of trash, was talking about the inanity of figurative art, an argument that apparently meant art shouldn’t be of anything, or about anything. Ryan nodded his head a lot and made noises of affirmation, even though the guy’s philosophy sounded like a load of crap.
The guy was going into a speech about a particular artist’s “subversive brilliance” when Antonio Bellini came up and put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.