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Don’t ask me why that makes my body tingle like someone is giving me mild electrical shocks. This is supposed to be about business.
I had an epiphany after GameCon. My mother’s anniversary show should be centred around something she loved, something that was totally her. And my most vivid childhood memories are of us crowded around a coffee table, sitting on the floor and eating popcorn while we played Monopoly and Trouble and Guess Who.
They’re of me helping Dom so we could pool our resources in an attempt to beat her, even though we knew she would win anyway. My mother loved to play for real, always being kind but teaching us that we had to seize what we wanted. Because life would never hand us anything unless we did the work.
That was her motto: you get out what you put in. You receive back what you’re willing to sacrifice.
I push up from my chair and jog downstairs to meet Emery. She stands awkwardly by the front desk, arms folded across her chest as she looks around the room. She’s wearing blue jeans with a hole in one knee, a pair of lilac Converse sneakers and a T-shirt that says Choose Your Weapon on the front with images of different types of dice, pawns and other game pieces.
It’s a far cry from how people usually dress when they come here, but I appreciate that Emery doesn’t change herself for anyone. She is who she is.
Her long blue hair hangs in a plait over one shoulder and it reminds me so much of the wig she wore the day we stole away to that room I have to wonder if she did it on purpose.
“Hi, Ro. I was just about to call you down.” Kylie, who works the floor most days of the week, smiles. “I believe you have an appointment with Ms. Daniels.”
“Just Emery,” Emery corrects her and Kylie nods, her gaze sliding over to me as though she’s not sure what to do with the strange tension in the air.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say to Kylie. Then I turn to Emery and give her the smile I use for all the people I’m trying to win over—easy, charming, a hint of flirtation. It comes easily. “Welcome to my humble workspace.”
She jams her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn’t exactly call it humble.”
It’s not, really. The gallery is in an old heritage-listed building that’s rustic and beautiful on the outside and sleek on the inside. It was my mother’s pride and joy.
“Let me give you the tour.” I motion for her to follow me.
The space by the front door is small, with enough room for a desk and the stairway up to my office. We walk through an exposed brick archway into the main room. The walls are white, and there’s a platform in the middle that’s raised about a foot. Currently, it holds a collection of orbs of blown glass in varying sizes. Each is lightly tinted with colour, and it almost looks like someone has blown bubbles and frozen them in place.
“Wow.” Emery stops in her tracks and stares at the bubbles. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Not bad for weird modern shit that looks like something a three-year-old could do. Are you questioning your own existence yet?” I can’t help myself.
To my surprise, Emery holds a hand up as if to signal peace. “I take back my previous statement. This is really special.”
“It’s calledConceptionand it’s supposed to represent the feeling of ideas rising into consciousness.” We continue walking around the platform, so Emery can view it from all sides. She seems enraptured, captivated and that warms something deep in my soul. “We’ve got a few of his pieces at the moment. There’s some pendants hanging over here.”
“He’s so talented,” Emery breathes. “This... I wasn’t expecting this.”
“What were you expecting?” I cock my head.
“Something more pretentious,” she admits with a sheepish grin. “Like those canvases with paint just splashed on them or with a slash through it, or something. But this is almost...magical.”
“My mum always told me that art was magic.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Ineverdelve into my memories of my mother with people. It’s personal and private, and I cling to those flickers of her like Gollum clutching his ring.
“She must be proud of you running such a beautiful gallery.”
“Actually, it was her gallery. My father is a metalwork sculptor and she wanted a place to share his art and pieces by other artisans she knew.” I still remember when she bought this place—it had been neglected, crumbling. And she breathed life into it.
Emery is looking at me with a little crease between her brows, like she can read the undertone in my words.
“She died.” Even saying it now makes it hard to breathe.
She presses her hand to my arm and that simple touch is like a cooling balm over the hot pulsating grief. I almost blink in shock, because I’ve never had that sensation before. Not even from Dom. But maybe that’s because our grief is shared, but with Emery...
She cares for no other reason than because I told her something about my family.
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Emery says, looking up at me with her wide brown eyes. There’s a deep sensitivity there and it surprises me. Who knew there was something soft and tender under all those spikes.
“She was.”
