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“Sure,” she says, just as I’m wondering if I even do want the pictures. I’m touched that Nicky remembered my connection to them, but my mother knew I loved them, too, and she hadn’t thought to set them aside.
“Look, I’m just pulling up to the gallery,” I say, though I have another block to go. “Can I give you a call later tonight?”
“Do you promise? I want to hear more.”
“Of course.”
I do my best to clear my mind as I tap on the door of the Meyer Gallery, and I even try to savor the moment. Not only am I having a show, one where people might actually purchase my work, but this is one of the galleries I used to wander into regularly when I first began to summon the nerve to create art again.
From the window I can see the gallery assistant, Nell, sitting at the reception desk, typing on a laptop. After several knocks, I manage to grab her attention and she’s soon unlocking and opening the door. Nell’s got short, jet-black hair, shaved on the sides, and silver rings in both her nose and her lips, and though she’s at least ten years younger than me, I’ve felt ridiculously intimidated by her every time we’ve met
“Hey, Nell.” I say, after clearing my throat. “Is Josh around?”
“Yup,” she says, with her typical cool. “He’s expecting you.”
I follow her into the front room of the gallery and set the wrapped collage down on the floor, leaning it carefully against the closest wall.
Nell turns and apparently starts to go in search of Josh, but before she’s gone far, he comes striding out from the rear of the gallery, with a day-old scruff and his longish, black-brown hair pushed behind his ears and away from his face. He’s wearing tight jeans, a white shirt with a few buttons undone at the top, and an unstructured dark blue blazer, the kind of downtown-meets-the-Upper-East-Side look he usually seems to sport.
“Skyler, welcome,” he says, grinning. “You made it!”
“Yeah. Sorry, it’s a little later than I planned. Something came up this morning.”
“I can’t wait to see the collage.” He flashes me a mischievous grin. “Are you hiding it behind your back?”
I smile a little and point my chin toward the brown paper-covered rectangle leaning against the wall. “No, it’s over there.”
“Shall we look together?”
I shake my head. “No, no, you can take your time. Besides, I need to run anyway.” I can’t imagine many things more excruciating than watching him assess it right in front of me.
Josh chuckles. “Okay, I’ll wait until you’re gone. Do you have one minute, though, to review the space for the exhibit?”
“Sure,” I say, glancing around. “But isn’t this it?”
“No, I decided that we’d hang all your pieces in the rear.”
Though I had no reason to assume this, I just always pictured my collages hanging in the front area of the gallery. Is it bad that they’re being herded to the back? I wonder. Is Josh regretting giving me the show?
“Follow me,” he continues, and I trail behind him into the back area. He’s tall, about six two, and obviously in good shape.
“Your collages will have a better chance to breathe in here,” he says, coming to a stop in the center of the rear space. The walls are currently lined with abstract paintings, done in acrylics, which will obviously be coming down soon. “And because this room is larger, people will be able to step back and really see how they work almost as a series.” He runs his gaze across the walls as he speaks.
“I see what you’re saying,” I tell him, though I can’t help but wonder if he’s just making this up to spare my ego.
Now he turns and looks right at me, his hooded brown eyes so dark they almost read as black.
“You know what else? The front exhibit next week will consist entirely of black-and-white photographs, and I love the idea of people seeing those first and then wandering back here and having their jaws drop when they get a look atyourpieces.”
“Thank you.” I feel my cheeks redden. “That’s so nice of you to say.”
“The official opening of the show isn’t till six, as you know, but I hope you can come by Tuesday morning and take a look at the collages once they’re hung. Maybe at eleven, just after we open?”
“Oh sure, yes. I appreciate that.”
We’re standing really close to each other now, so close I can pick up the almondy scent of his soap, and I feel slightly flustered. I have little experience, at least these days, of being around guys as attractive and polished as Josh.
“I hope you realize how stunning your collages are,” he says, “and I can’t wait for people to see them. And speaking of that”—he starts walking again, slowly returning to the front room of the gallery—“a hundred and thirty people have now RSVP’d yes for the opening party.”
