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“Seventimes, and I wouldn’t know about your emails—I don’t read them,” he replies, taking a sip of his tea. He pulls a face. “This isn’t peppermint. This is spearmint.”
“I could have one of the girls fetch you something different, if you like? We’re coffee people, so I wouldn’t know a spearmint if itspearedme in the chest.”
He’s not impressed by my attempt at wit and, right now, I don’t care. I’m not even sure why I bothered pursuing this guy, when he’s clearly just here to entertain himself.
“What are those ghastly things?” He nods to the stack of binders.
“A portfolio of what we offer,” I reply.
He smiles, but it’s a cruel kind of smile. “You understand that I’m only here as a favor, don’t you? There’s no need for portfolios. I won’t be selling any of my pieces here.”
My hackles rise but I play along. “As a favor to whom?” He clearly wants me to ask, so he can boast.
“A mutual friend of ours. He was interested in finding out how you were faring. I suppose I can tell him that you are… hanging on by a thread, muddling through the art business though you are woefully unqualified.”
Anger flares my nostrils as heat burns in my cheeks. “There are at least thirty artists in these binders who would disagree,” I say coolly, opening the first book to our biggest hitter. “Laurent St. James is holding his third show with us in August.”
The arrogance slips from Anthony’s face for just a moment, his brows twitching, a muscle spasming in his jaw. “Laurent St. James?” he repeats, his tone almost reverent.
“He’s a good friend of mine, and his paintings always sell for top dollar, though he’s the kind of artist that likes to keep a selection of affordable works because he understands that not everyone has six figures to throw at a painting,” I feel my chest puff up with satisfaction. I have Anthony Frost on the ropes, punching his ego until, with any luck, he buckles.
“I was informed that this gallery was nothing more than a bored widow’s pet project.” He tries to rally, but he doesn’t sound nearly as cocky as he did before.
“Then, you were misinformed. We do very well, and we hoped to add you to our roster of high caliber Southern artists, but if this isn’t your thing, I understand.” I smile sweetly, closing the portfolio.
His hand shoots out to grab the binder, hauling it into his lap, where he flicks through the pages with ever-widening eyes. Laurent’s last show was phenomenal, if I do say so myself, and the pictures speak for themselves.
“Well, I’ll have to consider it,” Anthony says, at last, setting down the binder with shaky hands. He looks even paler than he did before. “I’ll have my assistant send you an email later in the week, to discuss a possible… opening in my diary.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Don’t feel obliged, Mr. Frost. I thought July might be a good time to hold a show for you, but we’ve got other interested parties, so don’t worry if you think it’s beneath you.” I can’t resist one little jab.
“No, no,” he insists. “July would be… doable. I’ll have Melissa call you tomorrow morning, once I’ve had chance to… conceptualize.”
Now, he sounds like the desperate one, and I can’t deny it’s satisfying. The kind of win that I needed today.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
His cheeks have the decency to flush with pink. “You’re not what I anticipated, which is a fortunate thing. Indeed, I might have to have some words with our mutual friend about this. He didn’t say you were… successful. I’m not sure how I could’ve missed this place.”
“We’re small, but we’re mighty.” I stick out my hand, and he takes it. “I hope it’ll be a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Frost.”
He shakes my hand limply. “Yes, me too.”
As he gets up to leave, practically snatching his bag off the ground and finishing the last of his tea, my voice halts him on his way to the terrace doors. “Mr. Frost, can I ask you one thing before you leave?” I say, glad that I now have his full attention.
He twists around, wild-eyed. “Of course.”
“Who is this mutual friend of ours? I might have to have a word with them, too, if they’ve been slandering the gallery.”
Anthony pauses, visibly takes a breath. “Levi Montrose.” He adjusts the collar of his sweater, like the heat is trying to slither underneath. “He’s not really a friend, truth be told, just a recent acquaintance. Another thing to consider. Or, reconsider.”
The world around me bends and compresses, changing the gravity until my limbs are like set cement, my lungs fighting for air that has become syrup, my entire body threatening to crumble, so it’s fortunate I’m still sitting. I grip the edges of the wooden chair until I feel splinters biting flesh. The pain anchors me for long enough to watch Anthony Frost offer a hurried goodbye, before he darts out of the gallery like the art police are giving chase.
I haven’t heard that name in two years. I thought I’d never have to hear it again, but I guess leaving that little town by the Gulf wasn’t enough. I should’ve known it wasn’t. The past always has a way of catching up.
8
ROWAN
