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My windfall from Claire is significantly lighter now, but so is my conscience.
And as I wake up on my second morning in Apartment 501 on Park Avenue, I am struck by a feeling of calm that I haven’t known in a long time. Maybe never.
I am free.
For the next four months, at least, I am free. Released from the worry of shelter or money.
It’s a start. And maybe a new start is all I need right now.
With that hopeful thought filling my sails, I take a shower, then head out the door before noon. I’m determined to spend my day off from Vendange—my first truly free Sunday—exploring and enjoying the city.
After a coffee and a bagel at one of the delis that Manny recommends to me a few blocks down from the building, I aimlessly meander the Upper East Side on foot. It’s brisk but sunny, and I relish the fact that I have nowhere I need to be and no pressure do anything at all. For the next few hours, I content myself with people-watching and browsing the upscale shops and designer boutiques on Fifth Avenue.
While I stroll the area, Claire calls from Tokyo to check in as promised and make sure I have everything I need at the apartment. I’m so upbeat and excited, I’m pretty sure I blather on for ten minutes straight about how incredible her building is and how much I would love to paint the view from her living room windows. She takes my gushing in stride, instructing me to make myself at home while she’s gone.
“If you need anything at all, just ask Manny. He knows the building inside out, and he’s a peach of a guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I agree. “He’s already told me where to get the best coffee and breakfast, and he’s been nothing but kind.”
As I say that, my mind conjures a different face from the affable doorman’s. One that I can’t describe as kind. What fills my vision are piercing, bright blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. A broad, sensual mouth that makes my pulse kick a little faster just recalling it now.
I don’t ask Claire about him—Mr. Baine—no matter how much the question burns the tip of my tongue. After all, it doesn’t matter who he is or what she might know about him. I’m staying at her place to do a job, not ogle her neighbors.
We end our call and I continue my casual tour of the Upper East Side and its intriguing shops and landmarks. I hadn’t intended to visit the gallery when I set out earlier today, but as the afternoon winds down toward twilight, I realize I’m little more than a block from Dominion.
I’ve been meaning to call Margot for days just to say hi and let her know how I’m doing. It bothers me, the way I ended our call the other night when she was trying so hard to cushion the blow about my art’s rejection. I was abrupt when we spoke. She needs to understand that I’ll always be grateful for her trying to give me a shot at the gallery.
And despite her willingness to store my paintings for a while, my failure is not her burden to bear. God knows, there’s certainly enough room for all of my unsold pieces in Claire’s apartment. Hell, maybe I’ll pack them into a taxi and take them back with me today.
I cross the wide avenue at the traffic light and head toward Dominion’s understated storefront on the other side of the street. Soft light glows from within the deep space. I can see groups of people inside, browsing the collections and displays.
It looks busy for a Sunday evening, and it’s not until I’m at the door that I see the gallery is hosting some kind of reception inside. Several dozen people fill the space—obviously more than to be expected on any normal day. Through the window, I spot Margot’s petite form near the front of the gallery. She’s chatting with a stylish older couple at one of the gallery’s premier displays, all three of them engrossed in conversation and sipping from flutes of sparkling champagne.
Loath to intrude on a private event, I immediately start to retreat.
I’m not even half a dozen steps away before I hear her call out from behind me.
“Avery?” Soft classical music and the drone of muffled conversation spills out of the gallery’s open door as she comes outside. “Avery! I thought that was you.”
And now she’s walking after me, leaving me no choice but to abort my escape. I turn around and meet her confused look. She’s dressed in classic New York black, from her chic long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt, to her black stiletto-heeled boots. The look might be intimidating on anyone else, but with her petite Asian beauty, she’s as delicate as a doll, even garbed in head-to-toe black.
“Where are you going?” Her brown eyes narrow as she stops in front of me on the sidewalk. She tilts her head, her sleek bob swishing against her chin. “I’m surprised to see you. What are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off, and I happened to be in the area, so . . .” I shrug. “I thought it might be a good time to take my paintings off your hands.”
She frowns. “I told you that wasn’t necessary.”
“I know, and I appreciate that.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called first. I didn’t realize there was something going on today. We can talk another time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She reaches out to take my hand. “It’s an informal open house for some of the new artists and our best patrons before we open to the public. Very casual and low-key. And you’re always going to be welcome at Dominion so long as I have anything to say about it.”
I trudge behind her hesitantly. I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do than skulk around the gallery like a scorned lover who refuses to accept defeat. But Margot’s tug on my hand is insistent, and I can’t deny that I’m more than a little curious to get a look at the artist’s work that replaced mine in the new displays.
Margot brings me inside and motions for her assistant. “Jen, will you take Avery’s coat for her, please?”
The perky young brunette nods and holds out her hands with a polite smile. I don’t move right away. In fact, I’m tempted to refuse to take my coat off if not for the fact that the combined body heat inside the gallery is several shades past balmy. No one else is wearing theirs, and if I’m hoping to be inconspicuous as an uninvited guest at this gathering, passing out from heat stroke in front of everyone surely isn’t going to help my cause.
Reluctantly, I take my coat off and hand it over to Margot’s assistant. Ordinarily, my day-off clothing choices don’t need to take me anywhere more fashionable than the grocery store or an occasional meal out. Standing in the packed gallery now, I struggle not to feel awkward in my distressed skinny jeans and brown knee-high boots. My slouchy oatmeal-colored sweater and the yards of gauzy white scarf draped around my neck are far more comfortable than chic.
