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I clear my throat and face the first piece down from mine.
“This is from a local artist. The theme has to do with the passage of time in the city, and for her medium…” Off and away. I give these little speeches about paintings whenever someone asks. Robert likes for me to be prepared when someone does come in, so most times I practice them by myself. Sometimes over the phone to Eva. She always pretends to be in the gallery with me, asking ridiculous questions about the art. But she hasn’t called this week. Radio silence from my sister.
Emerson listens to every word I say. He doesn’t ask many questions. Once he asks, “Does the artist have other work?” Another time he says, “Any other showings?” Otherwise he says nothing, letting me lead him around like this is anything to him. I keep waiting for his reaction. Bracing myself for when he responds to a painting that’s not mine.
We stop in front of the display wall. There are a couple more left before mine. “Here we have the pride of Motif Gallery. It’s a Peter Clay original.”
Robert wants me to sell paintings. I get it. What’s good for the gallery is good for me. And it’s a good painting, in a technical sense.
A young woman looks out at me from the frame. She’s nude, her arm placed carefully over her breasts, and she’s crying.
People love this painting. They can’t stop talking about it. When we get customers here, they all have questions about Peter’s work. Any moment now, Emerson will comment on how lucky we are to have a piece like this. Or he’ll talk about Peter’s talent as an artist. He’ll say something. I’ll stand here and nod along. That’s my job. This private showing with this rich, gorgeous man is my job. I look at the woman in the painting instead.
Any second.
Emerson crosses his arms in front of him. I don’t want to see his face, so I only get a hint of the motion out of the corner of my eye.
The silence continues.
Radiators kick on at the back of the gallery. A car passes by on the street outside. The tear on the girl’s face stays where it is with a realistic glisten.
Great. He’s completely taken with this painting, like all the rest of them. The rest of the visitors to the gallery. Everyone who ever came to an exhibition when I was in college. Emerson, the famous Collector, is so head over heels that he’s speechless.
More silence.
The radiators go off. Impatience taps at my ribs. Irritation. I’m not going to stand here all night so he can get his thoughts about Peter Clay in order. I have other things to do. I could watch one of my shows. I could paint. I could text Eva and ask to come over. Anything but this.
I turn my head to tell him so, and the snappy comment I was going to make dives under the floorboards.
He hasn’t been looking at the painting.
He’s been watching me.
For longer than I realized. Much longer. He’s settled into it. Emerson’s eyes hold mine while shivers race down the ridges of my spine. They narrow slightly as it happens. Taking me in. Men have looked at me before, but no one has ever seen me. Not like this. And everything in him—it feels like a response, somehow. He hasn’t moved away but he hasn’t moved in, either. It’s watchful, as if…
As if I’m not myself. As if I’m someone he should take care around. It’s nothing like the way people are with my brothers, Leo especially. For one thing, Emerson isn’t afraid.
“You don’t like Peter Clay’s work.”
“It’s—” Our conversation from the beach tumbles through my head. “The art and the artist can’t be separated.”
Emerson glances back at the painting. No reaction. He’d probably put more emotion into picking bread at the grocery store. And then he’s crossing the last few feet to the opposite wall. Two more paintings. One.
And then we’re in front of mine.
I know I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t watch him approach. It’s that I have to know. I have to see for myself what he thinks of my work.
The Collector pauses between the two canvases, several feet back so we can see them both. Excitement and dread bubble in my veins. There’s a strange pressure that makes me breathe deeper. And the heat—my cheeks, my hands, the back of my neck. I’m embarrassed to have painted this. I’m embarrassed that I stayed up all night to do it, thinking of how much the mysterious Collector might like it. The security people across the street were up, too. Lights on all night, all week. Almost like they knew someone was coming.
It’s none of their business. It’s my business, and I want answers.
“Why?” I round on him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
He shrugs. “I’m no one. And I didn’t want to influence the work.”
“If you didn’t want to influence my work, why did you leave me the address of that beach?”
Amusement glimmers in his eyes. “Because I own it.”
