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I’m currently in my office, finishing up a conference with the directors of some of my other galleries. I’ve got good people on my staff all across the country. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been really picky about who I hire, and during the process it seems like such a pain in the ass, but this is when it pays off; when I can be here in what I consider my “home” gallery, and know that with very little supervision from me, my other galleries will just keep humming along.
I step out of my office and into the loft area that overlooks the gallery floor. I can hear Poppy from up here. Not her exact words, but the hum of her voice. She’s working with Roberto again today; preparing the gallery for the upcoming show. I had her on administrative tasks for the first few days, but her talents were totally wasted there.
Not that she complained.
She reminds me a bit of her father, Bruce, in that way. He seems to have passed his tireless work ethic on to his daughter. That would serve her well, and it made her a valuable person to have on a team. They clearly have a strained relationship from the little bits and pieces I’ve heard from Poppy about her father. I wonder what happened there?
As I watch, she listens to something Roberto is saying. Roberto seems to enjoy having her around. Now he has someone whose ear he could talk off about whatever his current obsession is. If Roberto weren’t happily married, I’d be bothered by how much time they spend together, but it was him or me, and I’m having a hard time keeping my head when I’m near her. I avoid her for the most part, and when we do talk, I try to keep it distant and professional. And quick.
The thing is, I want to be the one down there, talking to her, teaching her. But she’s just too damn tempting, and my control seems to start lacking the second she walks into a room.
I watch her a while longer. I start at her feet, in another pair of sky-high heels, up her shapely calves and thighs, her hips. From where I’m standing, I can appreciate her pert, round breasts without her knowing. Yeah, I feel like a perv, but I also feel like I’m goddamn drowning in my need for her. I’ve only been like this about one other woman in my life.
And that unsettles the hell out of me.
A long time ago, I made a vow to never love again. To never dare to imagine that I could find another Danneel. She was my high school sweetheart and best friend. We’d suited each other in every way, and the memory of her perfect, model-like face the night that our baby was born, is bittersweet.
I’ll never forget the first cry that came out of Micah’s mouth… the feeling of his tiny swaddled body in my arms… the ear-to-ear smile Danneel gave me as she watched me carry Micah across the room so I could lay him on her chest… then the way that smile had drooped just before I reached her… her eyelashes fluttering right before her head crashed back onto the pillow.
A flurry of doctors and nurses were suddenly clotting around her bed. The two words that I did manage to hear in the chaos of it all gutted me on the spot and told me all I needed to know.
Brain aneurysm.
At that moment, I knew my darling Danneel was gone, and that the baby in my arms would never know his mother.
When a single tear slides down my cheek, I swipe it away with more force than necessary, beating the memory back again.
Below me, Roberto has now gone off to do something, and Poppy is arranging a few of the sculptural pieces. She has a flair for utilizing space; a combination of a natural eye for details and attention to her studies. It’s not every day you find both things in a curator.
Maybe I should hire her for real? Bring her on staff? If not here, then in one of my other East Coast galleries.
I immediately toss the idea away. She’d want to stay here. I’ve heard her saying to Roberto that she never intends to move out of the city. And I can’t have her here all the time, even if I had a full-time position to offer her. The temptation is already nearly overwhelming, but knowing she’d be here permanently would drive me nuts. Not a chance.
It’s more than just admiring her and wanting to do all manner of filthy things to her sweet little body, though. There’s something about her…
I’ve started painting again, for the first time in years. I completely lost the desire to even try, after Danneel—
No. I’m not going to think about that again now.
In any case, Poppy walked into my life, and now I’m painting again. No matter what else she is, or what else I want her to be, she appears to be my own little muse, and there is no amount of thanks I’ll ever be able to give her for that. I’m caught, at the moment, between wanting to stand here watching her, and finishing up for the day so I can get back to painting.
