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In haste, I swallow my sip of coffee . . . only it goes down the wrong pipe, leaving me in an embarrassingly difficult-to-contain coughing spell.
Without missing a beat, Brenna grabs me a bottle of Evian from the communal fridge, uncaps it, and shoves it into my hand.
“You okay?” She lightly pats my back as I sip the ice-cold water. There’s not a comforting bone in Brenna’s body, but God love her for trying.
“How . . . how did you hear about this?” I ask when I’m finally able to use my voice again.
“Halcyon’s representative sent an email to a bunch of galleries last night. I already wrote back and told them that whatever their best offer is, I’ll top it by fifteen percent.”
Holy shit.
“I might lose money on this in the short run, but can you imagine the foot traffic it’ll drive? It’ll put our little gallery on the map. Well, not that it isn’t already, but you know. You can’t buy this kind of PR.”
“When?” I ask. “When are they wanting to have this exhibit?”
“The email said sometime in the next couple of weeks. It’d be a small collection—ten pieces or so. But in this case, I wouldn’t even bother pricing anything. There’ll be multiple offers on every last painting, I just know it. We’ll have bidding wars upon bidding wars.”
Brenna flits around the break room, starry eyed and talking a mile a minute, manic almost.
“People will be talking about this comeback for years to come,” she continues, though I suspect she’s mostly talking out loud rather than talking to me. A bell chimes, letting us know we have a customer out front. “Hon, would you mind taking that? I need to start lining up a caterer, a press release, the whole nine yards.”
I don’t tell her that there’s a chance Halcyon might not choose our gallery, that it’s likely not about money. But I don’t know those things for sure, and I’m not about to rain on her parade. In the three years I’ve worked here, I’ve never seen Brenna so manically giddy, so tunnel visioned with excitement. She’s like a child about to visit Disney’s Magic Kingdom at Christmastime.
Heading out front to assist a walk-in, I think back to the Halcyon studio tour Roman gave me and all those unfinished paintings. While Roman didn’t confirm or deny that Halcyon was the pseudonym of his late wife, the writing was clearly on the wall. Knowing that losing You or Someone like You mattered to him so much he was willing to have a stranger fired over it, I’m worried he’s not thinking clearly right now.
Perhaps sleeping together last weekend sparked something in him.
Maybe this is his way of ushering in a new era.
A bittersweet closure to his past.
While placing those priceless works into the hands of people who will love and appreciate their splendid beauty is a great idea in theory, once they’re gone, there’ll be no getting them back. Not for a long time. And not without spending a small fortune. In all the years I’ve dealt art, Halcyon resales are as rare and fabled as unicorns.
I just want to make sure he’s doing the right thing.
When those paintings are gone, they’ll be gone forever—like his beloved Emma.
Two hours later, I finally get a reprieve from our morning customer, and I sneak to the back to make a quick call to Roman, only to get his voice mail.
“Call me when you get this, okay?” I say after the tone. “I have a quick question for you . . . it’s important.”
As the rest of the afternoon ticks by in virtual slow motion, I check my phone every chance I get. But he’s yet to call back. I’d just hate for him to make a mistake—to let go of the last of his late wife’s priceless art—all because he thinks he has a future with me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ROMAN
I end my conference call with our Melbourne office and peek my head into the family room. The girls are watching Sesame Street. Harper wasn’t available tonight, so I had to rely on Elmo and Big Bird to keep the girls occupied for the past two hours.
“All right, girls.” I grab the TV remote. “Tell your puppet friends good night. Time to get ready for bed.”
Over the hour that follows, I draw the girls’ baths, dress them in pajamas, and read them a stack of bedtime stories, all the while reminding myself I still need to call Margaux back. She left me a message earlier today, but I spent all day catching up on yesterday’s work and wanted to talk to her when I wasn’t so rushed.
“Good night, Daddy,” Marabel says when I kiss her forehead after we finish the final book.
“Good night, Marabel,” I whisper. Adeline is already asleep, and once she wakes up, it’s almost impossible to get her back to sleep without repeating our entire bedtime routine from top to bottom. “Sleep tight.”
