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And to this day, no one knows.
They only worked through a third-party representative who kept their identity anonymous, and they haven’t produced anything in years.
A cold flush of panic sears through me, and heat creeps along the back of my neck. It was a mix-up over a Halcyon piece three years ago that cost me my job. I’d sold a piece entitled You or Someone like You to a local collector for a sizable sum—the biggest sale my gallery had made that entire year—only to learn Roman had reserved it with another staff member. It was an honest communication mix-up. We didn’t find out until it was too late.
It was a whole thing that I’d sooner wipe from my memory if I could.
“This one?” I ask.
“Yes.” His reply is impatient, pressing. “Where did you get that?”
The yellow key chains with the lover’s knots were made in a limited batch for promotional purposes, and I managed to nab one of only ten in existence. Being that it’s a collector’s item, it’s slightly frivolous of me to use it as an everyday item, but its sunny yellow color makes me happy every time I see it, and it’d be a shame to let it sit in some box in some drawer collecting dust. Besides, it’s a symbol of resilience to me. Mix-up or not, the sale of that piece was (and still is) my biggest to date.
To me, this key chain represents strength and perseverance.
I didn’t let that firing get the best of me. If anything, it only made me tougher and more determined than ever to make it in my industry. I know how it feels to love your career more than anything in the entire world. As different as Margaux and I are, we’re both dedicated, loyal, hardworking professionals. If being on this date tonight helps my sister get that much closer to her promotion, it’s a small price to pay.
“Someone gave it to me a few years back,” I say, feigning a foggy memory in hopes he won’t pry any further. Then again, Halcyon is a popular topic among those in the art-world know. That said, Halcyon hasn’t produced any work in years. Word on the street is that it was some PR stunt or get-rich-quick scheme, and that Halcyon (whoever they are) went back to their day job. I don’t want to believe that, seeing how the paintings Halcyon made were visually stunning and original masterpieces. Guess we’ll have no way of knowing until the faceless, nameless person behind the paintbrush steps forward.
If they ever do . . .
“You like Halcyon?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, I’m sure. Every art collector loves Halcyon. Even if they don’t like their work, they like how much their work is worth. Art that has only appreciated in value sevenfold since Halcyon quit painting.
I stop myself before asking if he owns any Halcyon pieces.
He never revealed during dinner that he collects art—only that he wanted to teach art history once upon a time—and it’s a tidbit I only know because of my profession.
Margaux wouldn’t know any of this.
“How do you know who Halcyon is?” he asks. But before I can answer, he adds, “I told you I was an art history major at NYU, that I wanted to be a professor, and you didn’t mention you were a fan of one of the most obscure artists in the city? Someone only those in the know would . . .”
He stops talking.
I wrinkle my nose. I’m not sure what he’s getting at.
“I’m sorry—I’m terrible at small talk,” I say, hoping that’s an acceptable answer. “I guess I should’ve worked that into the conversation, huh?”
His piercing stare burns into me. I shudder, worried he’s somehow piecing everything together. I should have said my sister is an art dealer and gave me the key chain as a gift. Maybe that would’ve sufficed? Maybe he wouldn’t have thought anything of it and let it go instead of pinning me into place with the weight of his scrutinizing glower.
I’m seconds from accepting the fact that the jig is up when his expression softens, and he waves his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Roman says. “Forget I said anything. Just . . . forget all of this.”
Before I get the chance to reply, he’s making his way up the block.
And to think, I was worried about being the weird one tonight.
Halcyon key chain in hand, I traipse up the steps and head to my apartment, grateful that this night is over and that I’ll never have to deal with Roman Bellisario ever again.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROMAN
“They’re out cold,” my babysitter, Harper, says when I get home. The living room is dim, save for a lamp on the console table behind the sofa. She darkens her phone screen, peels a throw blanket off her lap, and meets me by the kitchen island.
