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“I ran into him at the Brass Whistle,” I carry on into the gallery and slide behind the reception desk, using it as a barrier. “I saw the time, left in a hurry, and realized when I got here that I’d left my purse behind. I’ve been calling Georgie but she hasn’t been picking up.”
Jada comes to lean on the driftwood countertop, stretching out her back like a cat. “Come to think of it, he didn’t actually say she’d left it at his place. He just said, ‘I was with her this morning,’ or something like that.”
“Then why did you tell us he’d said she left it at his place?” Serena looks mortified, as she stops to fashion her long, russet-brown hair into a bun.
Jada shrugs. “The words got muddled.”
“Or it was wishful thinking,” Daisy cuts in, before disappearing into the tiny closet that I’ve done my best to transform into a staff room. I hear the grumble of the coffee machine steaming to life, and she pokes her head back out of the dividing velvet curtain. “Who wants one?”
The other two raise their hands.
I smile. “Decaf for me.”
“You really aren’t feeling well, huh?” Daisy smiles back. “There’s an ancient box of peppermint tea if you want one of those instead?”
I shake my head and open the cash register.They just want you to be happy,a voice in my head murmurs softly. It’s not the voice of my inner monologue, who could do with being quiet sometimes; it’shisvoice. My version of how he sounded, though it’s fading with every passing month, like a radio that’s losing battery. The tone and inflections that I knew so well are distorting, and I would do anything to hear a recording of him, so I could remember again.
Serena grabs a broom and starts to sweep the already pristine hardwood floors, painted in the same buttery cream color as the cake box. For a moment, I think the interrogation is over, until she tosses a comment over her shoulder: “I guess it’d be weird if you started dating Lyndsey’s brother, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I remind her sternly, closing the cash register.
“No, I know, but… it’d be weird anyway.” Serena leans on the broom, her expression pensive. “Or would it be easier? I mean, you wouldn’t have to work up the courage to explain about—”
“You’ve got that meeting with Anthony Frost at eleven!” Jada interrupts, gesturing wildly at the vintage railway clock on the wall—a gift from Georgie that she’d thrifted from a flea market, and couldn’t cram onto the wall of the café. It always makes me imagine that I’m standing on a train platform, but I can never decide if I’m departing or arriving.
My stomach sinks further into the pit of my abdomen. “That’s today?”
“Monday the 23rd.” Jada nods, and I’m so grateful I could hug her. She’s not technically my assistant, but she knows my schedule better than I do, and with my memory like a sieve, I’m glad she’s around.
“I’d better make the office look half-decent, then.” I take a breath. “Actually, scratch that. When he arrives, take him out onto the terrace, and if he asks for something we don’t have, just buy some time and run to the store to get it.”
Jada and Serena salute, and I laugh my way up the wrought iron staircase to the second floor. From there, I climb the last spiral staircase up to the attic, which I’ve converted into my office. Well, one side is converted; the other side is packed to the literal rafters with gallery supplies, a thousand different picture frames, and stored artwork, carefully packaged in about twenty layers of bubble-wrap.
Still carrying the cake box, I open the door to my actual office: a cube of white-painted chipboard that allows me to ignore some of the clutter in the attic beyond.
As soon as the door is closed, I sink down into the embrace of my desk chair and stare out of the leaded window to savor the pretty view of the neighbor’s garden. We’ve been trying to get Anthony’s work into the gallery for a year-and-a-half, to no avail. He’s notoriously grumpy, famously rude, and a bit of a recluse, by all accounts, so the fact I’ve managed to set up a meeting is nothing short of monumental. I’m dreading it, to be honest, but if we could get just a couple of his pieces for the gallery, we wouldn’t have to worry about selling anything else for the rest of the year.
“Okay, Anthony Frost, let me see what you’ve been up to lately.” I open my laptop and type his name into Google, as I open up the cake box and freeze… It’s a pain-au-chocolat, shining with the bronzed glaze of perfectly baked pastry.
An apology…I remember Jada’s words, and my tensed muscles loosen. He must’ve known he’d spooked me. Certainly wouldn’t have meant to. Seeing the pastry, my lips curve into a smile, and my brain’s tailspin catches an updraft that rights it again. All is well. It was just a clumsy second meeting that he clearly wants to forget, reaching out with this peace offering. I take a bite, and my stomach growls with a renewed gnaw of appetite, hoping that this day is going to end better than it began.
* * *
“Sorry to keep you waiting,Mr. Frost.” I rush out onto the terrace, clutching portfolio binders of past events.
He’s sitting at one of the three little tables we have out back, for those who want to enjoy the installations that we’ve recently put into the tiny courtyard garden. Mostly, me and the girls just use it on a Friday night, to drink wine and decompress after a busy week.
Anthony doesn’t even acknowledge me, as he absently dips a teabag in and out of his cup. I pray to God it’s not the ancient peppermint Daisy mentioned.
He’s as frosty as his name, but he’s younger than I thought he’d be, despite doing a deep dive through his Google history. The internet says he’s thirty-four, but I wouldn’t guess he was a day over twenty-five. It appears he doesn’t photograph well, either, as the pictures I saw don’t really look like him. He’s neither attractive nor unattractive, but somewhere snugly in the middle, with an edge of mystery that I imagine some women lose their minds over: long black hair, tied back in a meager bun, with almost-black eyes and admittedly enviable, glowing skin.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re a hard man to pin down.” I chuckle softly, putting on some of my finest charm.
His dark eyes narrow at me, scanning me from head to toe. His nose wrinkles as he takes in my bottle-green sweater, and the ring that hangs from a silver chain like a pendant. The matching one is on the fourth finger of my left hand, where it belongs.
“I was curious to see the woman behind the desperation,” he says drily.
At first, I’m sure he’s joking. “I didn’t sendthatmany emails, and I only spoke to your assistant once or twice.” I laugh, but my smile aches in my cheeks.
