by Foster, Lily
A couple approached then and I went back to selling tickets as I moved about the gallery, looking for his third canvas. I made two loops and came up empty. I was just about to go find Andie when I came upon it. It was small in comparison, no more than two feet square, entitled My Friend. It was two kids…No, it was me and Jeremy at around age twelve. Our foreheads were almost touching and we were looking into each other’s eyes, smiling in a way that was nearly imperceptible. My glasses were sliding down my nose. He was reaching a finger up, looking as if he was about to right them. There was such an intimacy in what passed between the two.
“His work takes my breath away, Carolyn. I hope someday he decides to pursue this. He’s more talented than most people I know.”
“He says the same thing about you, Andie.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, well we have a long-standing mutual admiration society-thing going. But really, his style has changed. When I last saw his work, he was drawing portraits and figures, but they were bland. These are powerful and stripped down—raw in their intensity, you know?”
She was looking at me, gauging my reaction. I did my best to hold myself together. I simply nodded. “Well, the auction ends in an hour. I have to work the room and get some of these people to part with their cash,” she said, winking at me. “Oh, and by the way, two people have already bid on your butterfly but you can still snag that for a song. True Beauty, though, is commanding some nice bids. I don’t know about you, but if I was the subject of that piece, I’d want to look at it hanging over my mantle when I turned old, wrinkly and gray. A nice reminder of what once was, you know?”
Before walking away, I looked at the bid sheet for My Friend. Three bids so far, with Beth Peterman topping the offerings at nine hundred. Making my way around the room, I noticed she also was among the several bidders for Blue Gingham but not the top bidder. Under the guise of approaching patrons for raffle ticket sales, I stopped at each canvas. Funny, but her name wasn’t on any other bid sheets. I stopped at Thomas’s butterfly then, smiling as I put my name last on the list, outbidding the closest potential buyer by fifty dollars. Hopefully, no one else would want this and I could snag it for the eight-five dollars I’d bid. A few people were standing in front of True Beauty as I approached. An older couple stood close together, speaking in hushed tones that I strained to hear.
“I really think we should snag this, dear. I mean, have you ever seen such a sensuous rendering?”
I blushed, knowing that it was my body they were looking at. But I realized in that moment that I didn’t feel one ounce of shame. I looked at that girl and saw someone who was beautiful—someone who was in love. That was me and I had no sense of shame over the person I had been when I was with Jeremy.
“Someone’s young lover,” he replied, smiling wistfully.
“I’m upping the last bid,” she whispered conspiratorially. Geez, this woman keeps outbidding me by a hundred dollars. Who is Beth Peterman?” she asked to no one in particular, annoyed.
“No idea, dearest.”
After they walked away, I perused the bids. Yep, Beth had bid on this piece four times so far. My sympathy had evaporated—was not liking her so much anymore. The highest bid was now two-thousand, eight hundred dollars.
For a brief, foolish moment, I contemplated writing in a bid of $2801. Fact was, I only had one third of that amount saved in tips from my job so far. It was out of my reach.
The thought also struck me in that moment that Jeremy had given them all away. I acknowledged sadly that his willingness to part with his art, with these reminders of me, surely meant that he didn’t want me.
“Hey, where you been?” Ava’s bright smile drew me out of my funk.
“Hi. I was just working the gallery room. How did you do in sales?”
“I have no idea, but it has to be a lot. I kept going back to your mom with stacks of twenties and hundreds. These people don’t mind dropping it, you know?”
“I think having beautiful girls selling the tickets doesn’t hurt,” I teased.
“I was thinking the same thing,” she said, giggling. “We all look smoking hot tonight. I mean, Taylor is workin’ it. She has to have raked in a million dollars over there,” Ava joked.
I looked over to see two tuxedo-clad, middle-aged men flirting shamelessly with Taylor as she laughed and batted her eyes while they dropped handfuls of tickets into various raffle bags. I shook my head, smiling. “She’s too much.”
There was a break in the dance music announcing that less than ten minutes remained before all silent art auction bids and raffle tickets sales were closed. I smiled at Ava. “Duty calls,” I said, as I went back to working the perimeter of the room, selling more tickets.
A few minutes later, I noticed Beth come back into the main room, a scowl marring her face. Maybe that older couple had beaten her out. I really hoped they had. The idea of Beth owning that piece, owning something that was Jeremy’s—something that was so intimately mine, burned me. In comparison, the idea of those older art lovers owning the piece comforted me.
I stayed with my mother for the next twenty minutes. All of the volunteers were in a back room, recording the winners for the baskets and fifty-fifty drawings as names were picked out in a surprisingly formal and official manner. A different person was called up to pick a ticket from each raffle bag and the name was announced out loud for all to hear. My mother asked Ava to write the names of the winners on the large display board. Ava beamed, adding flourishes to the names as she wrote them. The girl had sick penmanship.
Beth was called up to pick the Spa Getaway basket winner. She hesitated before announcing my name. Her warm smile from before was gone. Yep, now her lip was curled into a barely concealed sneer. What the hell? And, hello, I didn’t buy any raffle tickets.
“Yay!” my mother exclaimed. “Girl’s getaway, Carolyn!” I laughed, nodding, realizing my mother had purchased tickets in my name. She was awesome.
Dancing was still in full swing as desert was being served. After distributing the baskets, I wandered back into the gallery, my curiosity getting the best of me.
I purposely avoided Jeremy’s pieces, first checking to see if I’d won Tom’s butterfly. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” said a voice from behind me.
“Mateo, right?” I asked, smiling, and he nodded. “I’m so glad I won this. Would it be bad to lie to Thomas and tell him I plunked down a thousand, ending a fierce bidding war?”
“I’m sure he’ll just be psyched you wanted it, no matter what you paid. Do you want me to box it up now? Most of the canvases are being delivered tomorrow but you could save me one trip,” he said, cocking his head with a hopeful expression.
“Sure, I’ll take it now.”
“Great. I’ll be back in five,” he said, as he carefully lifted the piece from its display.
Bidders milled about, looking to see if they had won. My Friend had fetched twelve hundred. I didn’t recognize the winner’s name. Some large, modern abstract piece by a current student named Travis went for three thousand. He went by his first name only so I’m guessing he was already a pretentious artist in the making. I was happily awestruck as I looked to the winning bids on each canvas as I passed by. All went for substantial amounts. Andie must have been thrilled. I stopped at Blue Gingham. This name I recognized, as I saw the older woman’s scrawl as she bid on True Beauty. She won over Beth’s most recent bid of nineteen hundred. When I made my way over to True Beauty, now overcome with a burning curiosity, I saw that the wall space was blank. A note was taped over the bid sheet that read: The artist has requested that this piece be removed from the auction. We are truly sorry for any inconvenience this last minute change has caused.
I saw Andie standing off to the side, speaking with the older couple, smiling. When she saw me, she excused herself and made her way over. “Well this was a smashing success, don’t you think?”
“You should be really proud, Andie. I can’t believe how much money you raised with thi
s.”
“I know! I feel like giving myself a giant pat on the back!”
“Um, did Jeremy—”
“No,” she answered, cutting me off. “All said, I think we raised close to thirty-thousand in the gallery alone. I held that piece back for you.”
I took a deep, grateful breath but then I was apprehensive. “Andie, I can’t just take it. That wouldn’t be right.”
She nodded, thinking. “You’re right. I want twenty bucks for it. I won’t take a penny less…or a penny more.” She looked at me pointedly. “I don’t know the story behind that or the others, but I know that you are supposed to own True Beauty.” She added, “You must be very special to Jeremy.”
“I think I was at one time.”
She smiled, her eyes sparkling with happiness and mischief. “Someone will be delivering it tomorrow,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she walked away.
The next day I took a long run. My feet hit the pavement in a steady, rhythmic beat and my breath came in and whooshed out softly, another soothing sound. My breath and my steps were the only soundtrack I needed when I ran. I never ran with headphones, never needed the distraction of music. Running was my time for peaceful reflection. I believed, over the course of the past three years, that my return to running had done as much, if not more for me, than my hours of therapy and the medication combined.
As I ran today, my thoughts were focused on the Gala…on Jeremy. Last night was so confusing. I was glad that I was now the owner of that painting but I worried over what it all meant. Why did he donate those particular pieces? Was he trying to send me a message? I mean, he knew I’d be there. He knew I’d see them. If so, what message was he trying to send? Did he want me to know that he still felt something for me? That’s what I hoped. The work, all three pieces, were so emotional and conveyed so much…love. Could he still love me? Or, I wondered sadly, was he trying to show me he could let go? That he was fine with the idea of a stranger owning pieces of us because I no longer meant anything to him.
As usual, I felt better after my run. I could face this, no matter what. I decided that tomorrow morning I would pay Tori a visit at the coffee shop at exactly eight-thirty. Tomorrow I wouldn’t be startled by a surprise meeting or distracted by Todd’s prying interest, as I had been last week. Tomorrow, I thought, psyching myself up, I would talk to Jeremy. For the first time in years, I would really talk to him. I felt determined and happy, looking forward to tomorrow.
I had a bounce in my step as I tied my apron around my waist at the beginning of my shift at La Viola that evening.
“What’s got you so chipper?” Marco, one of the line cooks, asked.
“Nothing,” I said, coyly. “Just happy to be here.”
“She’s happy because she knows she’s going to make some fat tips tonight, Marco,” Connie chimed in. Connie had trained me my first week. She was older than me, mid-thirties, I guessed; a little rough around the edges but sweet. Connie was a single mom with two kids, raising them without any help from their father. I guess that alone would toughen you up some. Although we couldn’t have had less in common, she and I had forged a friendship. In the few months I’d known her, I had watched her kids a few times for her in a pinch, and in return, she’d cooked me some fabulous dinners. I enjoyed her company and her two boys were adorable—young, rambunctious versions of Thomas.
“We are going to do well tonight,” Nicholas, the other waiter, added. “The reservation book is full.”
After the three of us had finished prepping salads, filling bowls with freshly grated parmigiana-reggiano cheese, and setting up the coffee station, we sat for our pre-shift meal—my favorite part of the evening.
The chef poured us each a half glass of Chianti, which I now loved, and then plated a tasting menu with all of the night’s specials. We studied the specials board as we tasted each offering, this way we were able to answer questions and recommend our favorites to customers. Tonight we feasted on duck breast with a balsamic cherry reduction, pear and pecorino-filled ravioli, roasted Maine diver scallops, and sautéed calf liver over polenta. Add sautéed calf livers to the list of things I was surprised to discover I liked.
Nicholas’s younger brother, Sal, who ran plates from the kitchen and bussed tables, joined us right before we sat down to eat. “Nice of you to join us,” Connie dripped sarcastically, her eyes fixed on the reservation book.
“Come on, Connie, after what we shared together last night, I’d have thought you’d be in a better mood,” Sal teased.
“In your dreams, lover boy.”
Sal set his sights on me then. “So, Carolyn, you gonna put Nick out of his misery and go out with him?”
“Seriously,” Nicholas said, looking at me smiling, “you have my permission to slap him.” I laughed, now able to take the good natured teasing and quick banter that passed between the wait staff, surly cooks and the bartender.
Connie stabbed her fork in Sal’s direction as she chewed on a piece of the ravioli, which was freaking fabulous in my opinion. That was definitely going to be a top recommendation for my customers tonight. “Hey, listen up, Sal. No goofing off tonight and no wasting time flirting with the female customers…or Carolyn,” she added, winking at me. “We’re going to be slammed…fully seated from, let’s see…five-thirty on. We’re going to be running anywhere from six to ten checks at a time, all night.”
“Five-thirty?” I asked, surprised. Usually we weren’t full until half-past six, nearly seven.
“Who the hell eats dinner at five thirty?” Nicholas asked.
“Grandma,” answered Sal.
“Mr. and Mrs. Brandt, the Goldbergs, poor old Mr. Finch,” I added.
“I think Mr. Finch is looking to make you his sugar baby, Carolyn.”
“That wouldn’t be half-bad, Sal. He’s loaded,” I joked.
“You’ve succeeded in grossing me out and that’s not easy to do. Now I won’t be able to get the picture of you making out with Mr. Finch out of my mind all night.” We all laughed. “I’ll be obsessed with the details,” he went on. “Does he leave the dentures in or do you lovingly remove them for him, dropping them onto the nightstand before you ravage him?”
“Ugh, enough. Leave my Mr. Finch alone,” I said, holding back giggles. I sobered then. “Really, though, he’s such a lovely person. He’s always telling me about Mrs. Finch. It’s sad how much he misses her. My heart breaks watching him eat alone.”
“You’re such a softie, Carolyn,” Connie said, smiling warmly at me as she stood up and started clearing our plates.
By seven o’clock the four of us were running on auto-pilot, a well-oiled machine. I served my early-bird regulars, like Mr. Finch, who always ate the same thing, week after week: hot antipasti, veal parmigiana with spaghetti, slice of cheesecake for desert. I didn’t even give customers like him a menu; they appreciated the familiarity of La Viola, that we knew them like family. As usual, the later crowd brought both familiar and unfamiliar faces.
Nights like this, you didn’t let your mind wander. You focused on details: drop salads on table twelve, a couple was just seated at three—get their drink order, the large group at five needs more bread. Keep working, keep moving.
When the hostess passed me and said, “I just seated you two new four-tops…tables eight and three,” I took it in stride. I wrote down the dinner order from an older couple that was seated first and then made my way over to get drink orders and recite the specials.
I went to the first table, parents with their two teenaged daughters, and then made my way towards the other table, two couples. The two girls were facing me and look slightly annoyed as I approached. “Hi, welcome to La Viola,” I said, looking down to find the pen that had decided to go AWOL in the depths of my apron. “Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menu?”
“That would be nice,” the girl closest to me said—a little sarcastically, I might add. What the hell? The hostess said they’d just been seated and you coul
d see the place was jammed. I smiled and met her eyes. Kill them with kindness, the customer is always right—yeah, all that other crap. “I’ll have a Cosmo,” she said, dismissing me. Of course you will, you sophisticated gal, I mused.
I looked to the redhead next to her. “And what can I get you?” I asked, taking both girls in. They were attractive. Cosmo girl was especially pretty but she kind of ruined the effect by wearing an obscenely low-cut top. Trying too hard.
Her friend was indecisive—tick-tock, tick-tock. I was looking behind her, checking my other tables and gesturing to Sal to clear my six-top, which looked ready to order desert. “Um, I’m not sure,” the girl said absently, nibbling on her lower lip between each word. “I’ll give you my drink order when you come back.” Great, two trips to the bar.
“And what can I get you guys?” I asked. When I looked up from my pad, I saw two wide-eyed people who looked mighty uncomfortable. Make that three of us. “Frank…Jeremy…um, hi.”
“Hey, Carolyn,” Frank spoke first. Shaking his head and smiling kindly, he asked, “How have you been?” He glanced to Jeremy nervously when he added, “I didn’t know you worked here.”
From Jeremy’s tight expression, it was obvious that he wouldn’t have come within ten miles of this place had he known I was here. “Yep,” I answered. “I’ve been here for a few months.” A brief, awkward silence ensued. “What can I get you guys to drink? And sorry for the wait,” I said, looking to the very busty chick who was now eyeing me with curious suspicion. “It’s really busy tonight.”
“That’s no problem,” Jeremy said, recovering. “I’ll have a Bud.”
“Me too,” Frank added. He looked to the girl across from him; I gathered that one was his. “Do you know what you want, Sadie?”
