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I look over at Myron. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.”
“Always a little hard to tell,” Myron said in a loud whisper.
Ignoring us, Hugh points at the painting directly in front of him. “This. It should be a series. We could do a whole jazz club.”
I glance at it. It’s one of my more recent works, finished in the flurry of productivity since leaving May’s house a week earlier. At the center is a grand piano—white—to contrast with the woman in the red dress seated on the bench, a glass of red wine set on the side of the piano that would probably make pianists everywhere crap their pants. But it creates a moment. Behind the woman is my usual New York City backdrop—evening this time.
“I’ve never actually been to a jazz club,” I admit.
Myron makes a dramatic gasping noise and grabs my arm, as though for balance.
“Both Myron’s parents were bassists,” Hugh says, and I shrug because that doesn’t really mean much to me.
Myron lets out a dramatic sigh. “You don’t know what a bassist is, do you?”
“Um?”
“All right, that’s it. Hugh, we’re taking Gracie to a jazz club.”
“Agreed, mainly because I really do want this to be a set,” he says, peering closer. “An old-fashioned on a stool beside the bass player. The drummer holding a Manhattan.”
“With what, his third hand?” Myron asks skeptically.
“That’s for Gracie to figure out,” Hugh says, waving his hand. Then he turns around. “Of course, that’s assuming you want to paint that. I would never presume to tell one of my artists what to work on.”
Myron snorts. “Since when?”
Hugh makes a face at his partner, then turns to me, giving me a rare smile. “You should be very proud. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
My eyes start watering again. “Can I hug you?”
He opens his arms and makes the slightest beckoning motion with one hand.
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “Thank you for this. You have no idea what a dream come true this is.”
My daydream. My reality. A studio currently showcasing my art.
The day after I met with May, I’d gone back to work, painting with an almost feverish obsession. The paint on my twentieth work wasn’t even dry when I’d texted Hugh as instructed. A day later, I’d arrived with sweaty palms and a portfolio of my best work at his Chelsea Gallery and held my breath as Myron had set each of my watercolors against the wall.
Hugh had paced back and forth, taking in every painting for what felt like an hour before turning to me and telling me he could offer me a better commission if I agreed to sell exclusively with him.
I always imagined that when my dreams came true, there’d be fireworks, champagne, and maybe some glitter.
There was none of that, of course, but the moment was still one of the best of my entire life. And yet I hadn’t shared it with anyone. Mainly because the person I want to share it with hasn’t been in touch since I basically ordered him out of my apartment and out of my life.
He hasn’t returned my calls, and I can’t blame him.
“Thanks so much for inviting me down here,” I say, pushing aside the melancholy thought of never seeing Sebastian again. “I’d imagined, of course, what it would be like to see my art displayed, but actually seeing it…”
Hugh points at Myron. “His idea.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning to Myron, whose hot pink suit and yellow bow tie are somehow the perfect complement to Hugh’s blue-and-white-striped ensemble. I hug him too.
“Thank me by learning what a bassist is,” he says, patting my back. “Now, you said you had another piece to show us?”
Hugh whirls around, pushing his wire-frame glasses higher on his nose. “A new piece? Since yesterday?”
“Two, actually. I’ve been playing around with them for a while,” I say. “They’re both a bit different from my usual work. I wasn’t sure if they would fit with the collection—”
“Show me.” He waves at the black canvas carrying bag leaning against my calf.
I take out both pieces and set them against the blank white wall.
I bite my lip as both Hugh and Myron examine them, one the critical eye of a potential seller, the other the mostly curious examination of a man who I’ve quickly discovered is an over-the-top romantic like myself. I find I want both their approval, for different reasons.
Myron turns away first and draws a heart shape over the left side of his chest, mouthing love it. Hugh says nothing, continuing to stare at them, until he suddenly pivots on his heel. “The only thing I don’t like about them is that I can’t decide which I like more. They’re unexpected, yes, but I think two of your best.”
