Page 148 of ClickBack

“You ready?” he asks.

“Bracelet.” I hold out my wrist.

He takes the clasp between his fingers and fastens it. Then he turns my hand over, kisses the inside of my wrist, and looks at me while he lowers it.

“There.”

I had several things to say before he did that. Now I check that I have my phone and step outside.

“Have you eaten?” I ask Graves as we reach the car.

“Yes. And I have plans while y’all eat again.”

“Good. I didn’t want you waiting around.”

“He knows,” Jarrett says, opening the door for me. “He helped make the arrangements.”

Graves waits until Jarrett goes around the SUV before adding, “He has checked every one of them.”

I am still smiling when Jarrett gets in beside me.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He looks at Graves in the mirror. Graves pulls away from the curb.

The gallery occupies a warehouse with its old lettering still faintly visible above the entrance. People are moving in and out through open freight doors. Inside, steel beams cross the ceiling, and temporary white walls divide the paintings from tables of prints, ceramics, and jewelry. The music is loud enough to enjoy without having to shout over it.

Jarrett gives our names at the entrance. When the woman checks us in, she tells him the artist is doing a short conversation later, but he can find her near the main display now.

“Her?” I say as we move away.

He looks pleased. “Come on.”

We stop first at a table of small prints. In one, a Black woman sits on a porch surrounded by orange flowers. Her slippers are halfway off, and she has a newspaper folded on her lap. I like the fact that she looks entirely unavailable to whoever might be standing outside the frame.

Jarrett picks up the display copy.

“Those marigolds?” he asks the artist.

“Yes. My grandmother had them all around her porch. She said they kept pests away.”

“Sounds like something my mother would appreciate.”

“Does she garden?” the woman asks.

“Not if she can pay somebody. She does like getting rid of pests.”

The artist laughs. He buys the print and waits while she wraps it between sheets of cardboard. I am looking at a smaller drawing when he notices.

“You like that?”

“I do.”

He reaches for his wallet again, but I have already taken out my card.

“Let me have this one,” I tell him.