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“Mommy!” Sophie interrupted. “Mommy, look at that one!” She gestured to a smaller, unframed canvas toward the far left of the floor-turned-gallery, depicting a shirtless man with a seductive expression on his face. Instantly I stiffened… it was a painting of Lucas.
“That one looks like—” she began, and I squeezed her hand.
“You’re right, it does!” I interrupted. Then, turning to Lucas quietly, said, “My ex… she remembers a little of him.”
Lucas eyed the painting in question, nodding silently. “Well… he sure was a handsome guy,” he concluded.
“Oh, trust me, I took a lot of liberties,” I retorted, and we laughed. Sophie looked up at me, bewildered, but I pretended not to notice.
“Alright, the gallery is officially closed,” I announced. “Now, let’s get these all packed up.”
But Lucas was still looking at the painting, an almost imperceptible smirk on his lips. “Yes…” he said, his eyes lingering a few moments longer before he turned to me. “Let’s pack them up.”
Did he know?
14
A Helping Hand
Lucas
That night after I helped Natalie move out of her apartment, I couldn’t stop thinking about her paintings. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was—not the technique, per se, or the content itself, but there was an undeniable passion to it, a passion the viewer felt rather than saw. At least, that had been my experience, and I was sure it would be others’ experience, too, if only she put her art out there for the world to see.
These were the thoughts circling through my head as I called Johann, a Manhattan art dealer I’d met in college who dealt with up-and-coming artists. I was confident that if he liked Natalie’s work, then there would be a market for it.
“Lucas?” came Johann’s voice through the phone, slightly puzzled. In our years of knowing each other, I had called him only once or twice.
“Hey, Johann. I hope you’ve been alright.”
“As alright as I can be. And you? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
I had contemplated how I would pitch this to him. I didn’t want him suspecting I had any intimate connection to Natalie, lest he should question my judgment about her work, but I also didn’t want him thinking we were merely acquaintances, otherwise why would he even offer his assistance? But what I settled on was, “An old friend just showed me some of her paintings, and I think you’d love them.”
I heard a shuffle on the other end. “Yeah?” Johann said. He sounded intrigued.
“Yeah. I was thinking, if you could get away from the city for a couple of days, I could fly you into Minnesota, and you’d be staying with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Johann echoed, almost jokingly. Then, after a pause, “I’m not so sure this weekend is good for me… I’m repping a new artist who promised a full collection by this Friday, and so far he’s only submitted three pieces, all of which look identical to one another, mind you. I mean, I can appreciate the female form, but, come on,threeof the exact same—”
“Johann,” I interrupted. “It’s perfectly alright. I understand.” But then, feeling impatient, I added, “But, you know… if you came, I’d let you drive the Bentley.”
“Oh?” Johann’s voice betrayed a sudden eagerness. “Well, I suppose I could move some things around… When did you want me there?”
“There’s a flight out of JFK on Friday at 7p.m. I’ll call you a private car.”
He exhaled audibly. “Alright, you sold me. Send me the itinerary and I’ll let you know where to send the driver.” Then, after a pause he added, “I guess I’ll be seeing you Friday.”
“I guess so. See you then.” And I hung up the phone.
An inexplicable joy washed over me, not that I had helped Natalie, but that I had secured a path through which she could help herself. I knew she was struggling, she was, after all, a single mother working multiple jobs, and what little furniture I’d helped her pack showed clear signs of wear. And yet, despite this, I knew why she had lied to me. She was too proud to ask for help, or money. But I was certain she wouldn’t mind accepting this little push. After all, painting was what made her happiest, who would deny an opportunity like this if it were handed to them? I wanted only the best for her, of course I’d help her how I could. How I knew she’d let me.
But even so, I couldn’t help but wonder, would Natalie question why I was helping her? Would she suspect an ulterior motive? After all, we didn’t know each other all too well, we’d met, in all our lives, only a handful of times. Of course, I’d been thinking about her, but who’s to say she hadn’t been thinking about me? And that portrait, of course—I didn’t even have to hear what Sophie was going to say to deduce that it was of me. She’d even remembered the birthmark on my chest, a detail so minute that even the most prolific of artists might have overlooked it. Surely whatever it was I felt for her, she felt for me, at least in part. And so, I pushed my anxiety aside. I would introduce her to Johann, and we would take things from there.
Are you free to meet downtown this Saturday?I texted her.There’s somebody I want you to meet.
Sounds lovely—I’m in,she responded, less than five minutes later.
I found I had trouble sleeping that night, and the night after, consumed by various hypotheticals: Natalie discovering what I’d done, and resenting me for it; Johann taking an interest in Natalie’s art, and propelling her into artistic stardom; Natalie taking an interest in Johann, or Johann taking an interest in Natalie, though I knew this was irrational as he was gay. I struggled to push these thoughts aside, but finally I did, and managed to get a few hours of sleep before the morning.
