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10
Nina saton the floor at the back of the gallery and sorted through the stacks of photographs leaned against the wall. According to Edmonia, they were from the last show, and they needed to be sorted into sold and unsold. The ones that had been sold would be packed for pick up or delivery — depending on the buyer’s preference — and the others would go back to the photographer, a man named Morris Legrange who took pictures of trash that were oddlybeautiful.
Nina had reported for work promptly at 10 a.m. after spending half an hour in front of her closet, looking for something that might approximate Edmonia’s simple but stylish outfit the day they’d met. It had been humbling to say the least. When had she stopped wearing dresses and skirts? When had she started wearing mom clothes even though she wasn’t even amom?
And Karen was a mom. So was Amy. They weren’t always practicaldressers.
She’d finally settled on another slacks/blouse combo, wondering if Karen’s “girl” at Bergdorf’s could set her up with a few other things besides a dress for her date with JackMorgan.
Her stomach fluttered nervously when she thought about it: a date. It had been over twenty years since she’d had a date. She wasn’t even sure she knew how it worked anymore. The idea of kissing someone who wasn’t Peter was absurd. She was forty-five years old. Dating was something twenty-year-olds did in college. It involved sundresses and cute flats, coiffed hair and awkward kisses, promises to call that may or may not actuallymaterialize.
All things that were ridiculous for someone herage.
On the other hand, a black-tie gala with one of the world’s most powerful financiers was equallyabsurd.
And yet, Robin’s advice had struck a chord. What was the point of being in the city, of starting over, if she wasn’t open to the experiences that came her way? If she wasn’t willing to experiment with thepossibilities?
It was only natural that her instinct was to hole up in the apartment, craft a version of her old life that felt familiar and comfortable. But it didn’t make sense. Looking back, she wasn’t even sure it had made sense when she’d been married to Peter. She’d known they weren’t going to have children for years and years. Had she planned to play house full-time forever? To spend her time searching for the perfect throw pillows and patiofurniture?
For the first time, she dared to imagine what would have happened if she and Peter had continued the charade, if Peter hadn’t one day looked at her and said, “I can’t do thisanymore.”
Would she have woken up one morning, sixty and still keeping house for Peter, having perfunctory sex a few times a year on special occasions and watching everyone else’s children in the neighborhood grow up and have children of theirown?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know a lot of things, but one thing she’d figured out since severing ties with Peter, since throwing herself into her new life, was that she wouldn’t have considered it a life well-lived.
She didn’t even consider the life she’d lived so far to be well-lived.
Which was why she was going out with Jack Morgan onSaturday.
She was nervous, maybe even a little terrified by what she saw in his eyes — the power and authority and uncompromising demand — but maybe she needed to be terrified for achange.
She sighed as she reached the end of the photographs. A little more than half of them had been sold, a percentage that didn’t seem bad for such a small gallery. Nina didn’t like Morris Legrange’s photographs as much as the color-saturated photos taken by Janet Wexler, the photographer who took the sari picture and who would be featured in the gallery’s next show, but she could see why they would appeal tocollectors.
Edmonia had a good eye, and Nina was touched with a brand of excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time — the excitement of being on the verge of something, of having a door opened onto something new, something that would require her to learn andgrow.
Edmonia had given her a brief tour of the tiny gallery’s workings and had left less than half an hour after Nina arrived. She’d laughed when she’d slipped on her coat and witnessed what must have been a stricken expression on Nina’sface.
“Why do you think you’re here?” She’d smiled. “You’ll be fine. You have my phone number. Call if you have anyquestions.”
The door had closed behind her with frightening finality, and Nina had looked around the gallery, silent as a tomb. She’d made herself a cup of coffee and gone to work, quickly losing herself in Morris Legrange’simages.
A quick check of her phone told her an hour had passed since Edmonia’s departure. Nina had no idea when she’d be back, but she’d left Nina with several tasks and asked her to stay untilfour.
She got on her knees and moved the stack of sold photos toward the desk where Edmonia had left a list of buyers and instructions for packing the ones that would be picked up. The others would be professionally packed for shipping, a process Edmonia had promised to showher.
She crawled back to the other stack, the ones that would be returned to the photographer. She was on all fours, preparing to stand and move them, when she heard the door of the galleryopen.
A gust of cool air hit her back and she hurried to turn around, hoping to offer the customer — or Edmonia, if she was back so soon — a more appropriate view than her ass, but when she turned around and sat back on her heels, it wasn’t just any customer standing in thegallery.
It was LiamMcAlister.
He was regarding her with obvious humor, his blue eyes twinkling, his lips pressed together like he was trying not tosmile.
“I promise I’m not always an idiot,” shesaid.
He smiled. “Idiot isn’t the word that comes to mind, although I’ll admit you have a certain knack for uncompromisingpositions.”
She laughed and got to her feet. “I can’t deny it. I’ve almost spilled drinks on you twice and now you’ve seen more of me than you probably ever wantedto.”
