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For a few seconds she doesn’t respond, and I hold my breath.
“Let me talk to Nicky, okay?” she says finally.
“Sure, of course. It won’t be hard to get a reservation at one of these places, so just let me know whenever you can.”
“How’s the cat?”
“Oh, she’s good. She seems to have taken a sudden shine to me.... Are you and David ever going to get another pet, do you think?”
“Maybe after we’re settled at the town house. We’ll see.”
The conversation seems so stilted, but I have no clue how to make it better.
“By the way, let me know if you need any help with the move. I could lend a hand with some packing next week, after the show.”
“I think it’s all under control. In fact, I should go. I’ve got a potential buyer coming for the snowblower. But I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Yup, see you then. Bye-bye.”
I set the phone down and drain the last of my Diet Coke. Okay, maybe she’s not bursting with excitement about the show, but at least she’s coming all the way from West Hartford, and taking off early from work, too.
As much as I’ve thought about what next Tuesday night could mean for me as an artist, in the back of my mind I’ve also held on to a vague hope that it could be a turning point in my relationship with my mother. She’s aware I’ve been doing art again, but as far as I know, she thinks I’m only dabbling, engaged in a kind of lark. I’m praying that once she sees my collages hanging at the gallery and hears what Josh says about me in the opening remarks, she’ll discover that I’mnotdabbling, and that I might have a future as an artist.
And maybe that will be the moment she sees I’m not the total screwup she thinks I am. Maybe she’ll even put her hand on my shoulder and tell me how proud she is, something she hasn’t done in a dozen years.
20
Now
ISKIP THE STUDIO THE NEXT MORNING, SOMETHING I PROBABLYwould have done, anyway, because the specs came in for my next graphic design job. It’s the kind of work I have to do at home on my desktop Mac. But beyond that, the thought of being in the studio freaks me out. What if the mystery guy comes back? It’s even more clear to me now that something shady was going on. If the person was an acquaintance paying a surprise visit, and Alejandro had simply misunderstood, why wouldn’t he have followed up with a call or text saying he’d been looking for me?
After spending the morning at my computer and then wolfing down a mug of chicken noodle soup, I set out with my tote bag for the Zara on lower Broadway—because I can no longer put off buying an outfit for the gallery opening, as much as I wish I could. I need to look the part, and at the same time I want clothing that will provide armor and help my anxiety from spiking out of control.
But my heart sinks as soon as I enter the store. It’s bursting with cropped tops, ruched tops, cutout tops, vest tops, lace tops, and camisole tops, as well as racks of miniskirts and Post-it-size dresses,none of which are what I need. Yeah, they might work on the right woman, but I’d feel totally exposed in a skimpy outfit, and if someone asked me a question, nothing more than a squeak would emerge from my mouth.
Finally, after almost two hours of searching, trying things on, and endlessly kicking my own clothes out of the way on the floor of the dressing room, I settle on a dark green ribbed turtleneck—which I can top with an unconstructed blazer I own—and a camel-colored skirt that hits midcalf. It’s not very glamorous or fun, but with chunky boots and the right earrings, I’m hoping it will be okay. And the turtleneck will hide the red splotches that are guaranteed to surge up my chest and neck that night like a toxic red tide. Of course, I’ll just have to pray the weather next Tuesday is cooler than it is today, or I’ll faint from heat exhaustion.
Though I’d planned to stop off at home after Zara, I’ve run out of time, and so I head straight to my five o’clock appointment with theArtTodayreporter. I walk north and west, arriving outside the café just a few minutes ahead of schedule. I wish I didn’t feel nervous, but I do. This is the only validation I’ve had in years that I’m actually an artist—besides Josh inviting me to be part of the show, of course. And I need to sound like one. I tell myself to do my best to be authentic and not put on any artsy-fartsy pretentious airs, not that I have any.
Entering the café, I glance around for a nerdy freelancer type, though I assume I’m the first to arrive. I don’t see anyone who looks like it could be James Tremlin on the ground floor, so I take a short set of wooden stairs to the second level, and as I reach the top step, a guy at a rear table, probably in his early to midforties, lifts his hand in a tentative wave. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, as he told me he’d be, so I snake my way through several empty tables toward him. He rises from his chair with a polite half smile, waiting for me to close the gap.
His appearance is a definite surprise. He’s nice-looking, withdeep blue eyes, a couple days’ worth of scruff, and light brown hair that’s thinning just a little. Besides the expensive jacket, he’s wearing a white dress shirt and a pair of well-cut jeans.
“James Tremlin,” he says, offering his hand. For a second I’d wondered—because of both his clothes and his manner—if he might be British or European, but there’s no trace of an accent.
“Skyler Moore.” I say back, hoping I don’t seem as awkward as I feel.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” he says, waiting for me to take a seat. “What would you like to drink?”
His tone is polite but reserved, telegraphing that he’s not interested in chitchat. That’s fine with me. When my social anxiety first began to develop, I was able to handle one-on-one and one-on-two situations decently enough, but I’m out of practice, and my comfort level with them has diminished in the past couple of years. The section of my brain that handles small talk feels, for the most part, as vestigial as my appendix.
“A cappuccino would be great.”
Effortlessly, he flags the waitress, another skill I’m next to useless at. After ordering two cappuccinos, he reaches into a messenger bag on the floor to fish out a pristine notebook and rollerball pen. He’s not wasting a minute.
“As Josh Meyer probably told you, the piece I’m working on will be a roundup,” James says, returning his attention to me. “So there’s not a lot of space for each artist. But there’ll be enough room to cover some key points.”
I nod. “Sounds good, and thanks for including me. Just curious, who are the other artists in the story?”
