by Lexi Whitlow
“I know,” I interrupt. “I know. I screwed up. I want to fix it.”
“Some things can’t be fixed,” he says. “Sometimes trying just makes it worse. She seems like she’s in a better state of mind the last couple weeks. Things are going well for her. Don’t mess that up.”
The Mary Boone Gallery is one of the hottest contemporary art spaces in Chelsea. Mary, who incidentally is a friend of my mother’s, represents established artists with international reputations from her mid-town gallery on 5th Avenue. From the Chelsea gallery on West Street, she introduces new and up-and-coming artists. Getting Mary Boone’s endorsement is a fast-track to fame. She launched the careers of Julian Schnabel, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Damian Loeb, among other superstars of the fine arts world. She also represented Guy Harvey, but theirs was an unusual arrangement. Guy wouldn’t sell his originals. He licensed reproduction right through the gallery, for everything from key-chains to t-shirts and coffee mugs, which probably made more money for both of them than the traditional fifty percent commission on original art work. Except for the pieces he gave to friends, he kept all his own work.
Now Tess Burgwyn is selling it off to the highest bidder at auction.
The gallery is packed when I arrive. I recognize a few faces, but not the ones I’m looking for. I do a quick loop through the crowded rooms scanning for Scott, Dan, or Chloe, but they’re not here. It’s still early. I get a drink and start checking out the exhibition in the main hall, keeping one eye on the door for new arrivals.
My wait is not a long one. I spot Dan first. He’s hard to miss. Five feet five inches of hardcore body-builder muscle with long salt-and pepper hair tumbling down his back like a waterfall. He’s dressed in black leather, sporting a handlebar mustache straight out of the Village People era. Scott is right behind him. They’re a couple, but no two men could be any different from one another. Scott is a textbook example of the squared away, successful business type, dressed in a custom-tailored silk suit and a two-hundred-dollar haircut. He looks more James Bond than design studio owner, but who am I to judge? I’m standing here with a drink in my hand, wearing clothes my mother picked out. Good thing my mother gets paid handsomely to style film stars, billionaires, and royalty.
And there she is… paces behind Scott, striding in head up, confident.
What has she done to her hair?
It’s Chloe, but she hardly looks like herself. Those long, whisky colored tresses are gone. Her hair is short. Really short. Straightened, and bleached platinum blond. She’s wearing make-up too.
I heave a halting breath. Good lord she’s beautiful, dressed in a red and black Scottish plaid miniskirt, white lace leggings, and black English riding boots. She’s got on an oversized leather biker’s jacket that looks for all the world just like the one her father wore.
She fits in here. She looks like New York. She’s completely transformed herself.
I feel my heart pounding like mad in my chest. My hands tremble. No one else in the world makes me feel like this. From fifty feet away, she causes me physical distress.
“Oh my! Hayes, darling! Look at you!”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn. It’s Mary Boon, the gallery owner. She gives me a warm smile and a hug.
“How is Kendall?” she asks. “We had lunch three weeks ago, she said you were down south—Richmond? Teaching at a University,”
I nod. “Home for Christmas break.”
“You look wonderful,” she says beaming. “Who are you here with?”
“I’m actually by myself. Hoping to run into a friend. You might know her. Chloe Harvey, Guy Harvey’s daughter?”
She gives me a quizzical expression. “I don’t. At least not anymore. I haven’t seen her since she was a girl. Is she in the city now?”
I nod. “Yeah. She works at The Foundry with Guy’s old partners, but she’s also a talented visual artist. Her work is a little like her father’s, but different, still developing. You should check her stuff out. I’ll introduce you if I run into her.”
“Do that. I’d love to meet her—and see her work. Do you think she’ll be here tonight?”
“I think so. I’ll try to bring her around.”
Mary dips into the back pocket of her expensive, designer slacks. “Tonight is busy and I’m getting pulled in fifty different directions.” She presses two business cards into my hand. “If we miss each other, give her my card and tell her to call me. I’d love to see her work.” She smiles. “I’ve got to go mingle. You tell your mother to call me—soon.”
I promise Mary I will while I pocket her cards. This night is getting better and better.
It’s good to be in my city, among my friends, where I know how things work, and can make things happen with just a word.
My hands aren’t shaking anymore.
Chloe is near the bar talking to a good-looking, gender-bent, rock-n-roller guy who looks like he just stepped out of a thirty-year-old Van Halen concert video. He’s got a gleam in his eye as he chats her up, and I’m pretty sure I want to break him in half.
When I’m still five feet away she looks over, and her expression just flips. Her jaw slacks. Her eyes go saucer-wide. It’s clear Scott did not give me up. I’m the last person in the world she expected to see tonight.
“Excuse me,” I say to the long-haired rock-diva who is suddenly failing to command Chloe’s undivided attention. I elbow him to the side. “Chloe and I have some catching up to do.”
She looks up at me, her face flushing pink. She’s adorable, even as a stylish, coiffed, blond.
“What… Why… What are you doing here?” she asks me, stumbling for words.
“Looking for you,” I tell her. “Hoping to god you’ll talk to me.”
I wasn’t sure about the make-up, but now that I see it up close, I kind of like it. The dark charcoal eye-liner emphasizes the delicate beauty of her pale, gray eyes.
She blinks as if she can’t process me standing before her, as if she’s too shocked to speak.
It’s now or never.
“I meant it,” I say. “I love you. And I’m sorry. If I could do things over again, I’d do things differently. I’d protect you. I was naïve and arrogant. I had no idea what Liza was capable of or what she put in motion.”
Eddie Van Halen takes the hint and moves on, leaving me and Chloe alone in this moment I’ve been plotting since the day she put that key in my hand and drove away.
Chloe is struck dumb. She’s holding a red cup in her hand and her hand is shaking.
I’m glad I’m not the only one.
“I’m home for Christmas break, until the end of the year.”
She’s still barely said a word.
“Will you walk outside with me? Can we talk, for just a few minutes?”
Chapter 17
Chloe
My heart is pounding out of my chest. What is he doing here? What is this?
We’re outside of the gallery on the busy sidewalk with tiny snowflakes falling from the sky. Hayes steps near me. “Chloe, I fucked up. I’m so sorry.”
He seems different somehow. Older? Maybe just… different.
“Why are you here?” I repeat, my voice tense.
“For you,” he says again, taking my hands in his. “I knew you had to leave Richmond. I understand why. I wanted to make you stay, but that would have been selfish, and my selfishness is what caused all of this. Chloe. Angel. Can you please give me a second chance?”
Seeing him again, it’s painful. I was just beginning to move past thinking of him every moment of every day. I’ve spent all my time here trying to forget my old life, trying to invent something new for myself. And now this, he’s here in all this grand state, trying to reel me back in. Seeing him, I realize I’m in danger of loving him even more than I ever did.
“I can’t… we can’t… It just won’t work,” I say, feeling the wind on my neck, the cold slipping into my bones. The only thing warm about me are my fingers, wrapped in Hayes�
� hands.
“We can make it work. I think you feel the same as I feel. I’m not going to quit trying until you tell me you don’t love me.”
I can’t tell him that. I can’t lie.
“Hayes, I… You… You’re in Richmond. And I’m staying here. I have a job, a really good job… and…”
“And none of that stuff matters if we’re both miserable. I love you. The rest is just logistics. We can figure it out.”
I see in his expression that my hesitation is boosting his confidence. He’s reading me like a book. I can’t hide it from him, the way I feel. I have been miserable, despite everything good that’s happened since I got here.
Hayes steps closer still, pulling me to him, close enough so that I feel the warmth of his body and catch the scent of his aftershave in my breath. So close that a spark fires between us, stirring a memory of what we briefly had, sparking the promise of finding it again.
“Hayes…” I try to protest, half-heartedly pressing him back.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he insists, slipping a hand under my coat, around my back, lifting my chin up to face him. He tips down and parts my lips with a kiss, his warm lips gently teasing me to open to him.
I’m done for. His kisses melt every feeble defense I have. I can’t help but return them, surrendering to him, admitting with my lips and tongue what my mouth can’t form into words. He pulls me tight and the cold winter wind is blown back by the bubble of concentrated heat we create.
“Jesus. Get a room!” a passerby on the sidewalk calls out, snapping us back to the moment.
Hayes laughs, licking his lips, blinking against the building flurry of snow.
He takes my hands, pulling me toward the bright lights of the gallery, into the warm air of the over-crowded, loud rooms.
“I want to know everything that’s happened since you got here,” he says, leaning in close. “Can we get out of here and go somewhere so we can talk?”
“Where?” I ask. I’ve been in New York long enough to know there’s hardly anywhere private. Even intimate little restaurants are elbow-to-elbow on Saturday night. I don’t want the things we need to discuss broadcast to the whole West Side.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, his expression hopeful.
“Not much. But any place near here is gonna be packed.”
Hayes smiles. “I have an idea, but first there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Hayes leads me through the tight assembly of people toward smaller rooms, deeper inside the gallery space. I wonder at the art on the walls; huge paintings, cartoonish. Not my thing.
It’s so strange, being with him, here. I’ve been tagging along with Scott and Danny for weeks, playing the third wheel, trying to connect with the city. More than anything I’ve just been working. I haven’t made any real friends.
Hayes obviously sees who he’s looking for, as he changes our course toward the far corner of the room, a room packed so tightly with people, the air is degrees warmer and dense with moisture.
A stylish older woman dressed all in black, with long, dyed hair is in the corner surrounded by clutch of young, hipsters, all of them with a fashion sense on the bleeding edge of extreme. This part of town is full of artists, so I’m becoming inured to the style decisions some make, but the confidence of these three earns my respect.
A guy with fire-engine red hair piled on his head in a teased-up beehive, wearing diamond encrusted, platform chucks takes the evening’s prize.
Hayes approaches this crew with his hand wrapped around mine, pulling me alongside and then pushing me forward. I have no idea what he intends.
“Mary,” he half-shouts over the noise toward the woman in black. She has the air of someone important.
She looks up, then smiles at him, excusing herself from her hangers on. She steps forward to us.
“Mary, this is Chloe Harvey, Guy’s daughter.” He turns to me. “Chloe, this is Mary Boon. Your dad and she were friends, and she used to show his work right here. She owns this gallery, and another one uptown.”
She smiles at me, and I realize I’ve heard the name before. She puts her hand out, then rethinking it, she gives me a New York hug, which is the warmest greeting you’ll ever get from a Manhattan native.
“You look like Guy when he was in his twenties,” Mary says, her smile crooked and amused. She’s got dark, shrewd eyes and an implacable expression. “Hayes tells me you’re an artist.”
I blush, dissembling, telling her I’m attempting to be an artist, then I give Hayes a look.
“She’s being unusually modest,” Hayes says to her. “She’s got some stunning print and photography work.”
Mary Boon asks me a few questions about my training and if I’ve shown before. I tell her I’ve only been in the city for a few weeks, and haven’t really made any connections yet.
“Now you have,” she says smartly. “Hayes has my card. I want you to call me on Monday morning. We’ll make an appointment. Bring me your portfolio. We’ll chat about your father. We’ll go from there.”
Holy shit. Is she talking about representation?
A few moments later Hayes makes our apologies after complimenting the show. “We’re headed to Soho House to get a bite.”
“Enjoy, thanks for coming,” she says, smiling broadly at Hayes. “Tell your mother about the show and tell her to come buy something. I have rent to pay.”
I’m stunned into silence as we make our way toward the front. In less than two minutes of chatty conversation, Hayes Chandler has just arranged for what might be the most important connection I’ll make in New York. If Mary Boon is who I think she is, and if she likes my work, it could completely change the entire game for me. I need to process this. It’s way too much to think about right now.
Hayes makes two calls, shouting into the phone while parting the crowd for us to pass through. I spot Scott in the corner. I need to tell him I’m leaving with Hayes, which should prove momentarily awkward. Aside from telling him and Danny what happened between us, I haven’t mentioned Hayes’ name again since arriving in the city. Both were angry, blaming him for what happened. I thought it was best to let it go, to try to forget him. I didn’t expect him to show up like this, over-flowing with declarations and grand gestures.
I tug on Hayes’ hand, slowing him down.
“I need to let Scott and Danny know where I’m going,” I say. “I’ll be right…”
“I want to go with you. To talk to them.”
“Why?” I shake my head. “No... They’re… I need to explain…”
“No, I need to explain,” Hayes insists. “I want to talk to them. Scott knows I’m here. I’m sure Dan does too. Scott told me you’d be here tonight.”
I don’t know what to think. Everything is happening so fast. I think they both pretty much hate him, and I don’t want them to think I’m being stupid again.
Hayes sees Scott and without pausing, moves toward him before I can react. Scott looks up, sees him, then his eyes search the crowd for me. Finding me, his expression shifts to something forming a question.
“I’m okay,” I say, knowing he can’t hear me, trying to catch up with Hayes.
Hayes puts out his hand to shake, but Scott just crosses his arms over his chest, squaring off.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” I hear Hayes say as I step up. “You’re a good guy, and a good friend to Chloe. You know I’d never intentionally do anything—”
“Intentionally?” Scott snaps back. “You didn’t intentionally mean to fu—”
“Scott, don’t!” I shout more loudly than intend, cutting him off before he can speak those damning words.
People lingering around us quiet and turn. I feel my face flush red.
Scott looks at me, then shakes his head. “I just want you to be okay,” he says. “You’re still just a kid and you—”
“Scott, I love her,” Hayes says, not caring about the audience hanging on the entire conversation. “I know you and Dan love
her too, so I’m just going to ask the same of you that I asked of Chloe. Please forgive me. I screwed up. Give me a chance to prove to you that I deserve her. If she’s willing to risk it, can’t you?”
I don’t know whether to shrivel up and die with humiliation or burst with pride at this shameless display of devotion.
“Scott, please,” I say. “We’re just going to dinner and talk. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
Scott reaches out, catching my hand. He squeezes it tight. “Call me when you get home, okay?” He asks. “And don’t take the train anywhere.”
“I’ve got a driver coming around. We’re not going far.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “Of course, you have a car and driver,” he retorts, a caustic smile creasing his eyes. “Let me guess, you’re going to… either the Norwood or Soho House?”
“Soho House.” Hayes returns the same caustic smile. “And yeah, I’m trying to impress the girl. Pulling out all the stops. I’m just getting started.”
Scott cuts his eyes at me, then looks back to Hayes. “Good luck,” he says, eyebrows raised.
I have no idea what that exchange was about, but as soon as Hayes’ car and driver pull up, I start to put it together. The car is a Mercedes sedan; long, sleek, black, with dark tinted windows, and the softest, warmest leather seats I’ve ever put my ass on. The driver is a silent, well-dressed man with a high-and-tight haircut, and the build and bearing of a combat soldier.
“Soho House,” Hayes says to him as he pulls off the curb, then adds, “Taylor, this is Chloe Harvey. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of her—I hope. Chloe. This is Mike Taylor. He works for my mom and dad.”
Mike Taylor glances at me from the rearview, politely acknowledging the introduction.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say. He nods, staring straight ahead into traffic.
In almost a month in the city I’ve seen plenty cars like this one, with drivers like him, but everyone I know either takes the train, hires a car, or walks. I think I knew that Hayes’ parents had money. I don’t think I knew they had this much.
