“I’m her fabulous best friend, of course. I’ve been with her through it all. Even the Jessie fiasco.”
“Are you really a professional photographer, Shannon?”
He scoffs. “Professional is as professional does. As the assistant manager of Pathways, a staff of two, pretty much everything falls under other duties as assigned.”
“Really?”
“No, seriously, I took classes in college. And I have a little portfolio. That’s one of the reasons I got so interested in galleries. I always dreamed of having my own showing. I’ve shot some pretty cool photos over the course of my travels.”
“That sounds cool.” I nod, taking in everything he shared about Meadow. I’m grateful because knowing the information helps me to understand her motivation in this life.
My heart breaks at the thought of what she experienced in childhood. All this time, I thought I had it rough, but it sounds like Meadow went through far worse. On many levels, I understand her much deeper now. My parents were overprotective, but only out of love for me. And they supported my art, whether they understood it or not.
But the gap between us widens, and I’m afraid it might be too late for me.
For us.
Chapter 21
Meadow
I stand in the middle of the main gallery at Pathways, pacing the floor. I hold the phone up to my ear. I’ve been on hold for way too long. I’m more annoyed with each passing second.
Shannon walks through the door, holding a brown paper bag. I can smell the sandwiches from a distance and my stomach grumbles. He grins at me. “Last night, I told Josh that–”
I hold up a finger to my mouth.
Finally, a woman on the phone says, “Good afternoon, how can I help you today?”
“I’d like to take out a full-page ad. In color.”
“No problem. I just need your credit card number, and I can process this right away for you.”
“Okay.” I walk over to my purse and take a deep breath. I still can’t believe what I’m about to do.
I hear her typing something on her keyboard. “Your name, please?”
“Meadow Hughes. But this ad is for my gallery, Pathways.”
“Okay. Got it. And it looks like you’ll be able to take advantage of our introductory offer for first-time advertisers. You’ll save ten percent. With that discount, your total is only $145,000.”
I nearly faint. I can’t even remember the last time I spent six figures on anything. I still rent an apartment. Thank God I was able to clear up the credit issues right after the debacle at the restaurant with Henry.
“Ma’am? Are you there?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’m here.”
I reply to the text from AmEx that authorizes the purchase, then go back to the phone call. After she says everything went through, I hang up in a daze. Shannon glances at me. “You look like you could use a glass of water.”
“I probably need something much stronger than that. I just bought a full-page ad in The New York Times.”
His eyes get wide. “Holy shit!”
I sit down in the chair. “I hope it’s worth it.”
“Which artists did you feature? Birdmann? The Swedish twins with the abstract. Please don’t tell me you just spent six figures on a headless chicken wearing pajamas?”
A sigh escapes before I can stop it. One that says everything that words cannot. “Just Henry.”
“Seriously? You’re going to be featuring my photos in a six-figure ad in The Times. Holy double shit!”
I nod. “I emailed the pictures you took of him in his studio to our graphic designer, and he put together an ad for me. It’s spectacular. Want to see it? Instead of a headless chicken, I’m putting all my eggs in Henry’s basket. I believe in him.”
Maybe I believe in us.
“Wow, somebody’s in love.”
“I’m not in love.” I’ve always been good at evasion. “I just don’t want to see Henry’s career ruined by that talentless hack, Silverman.”
“I know you’re trying to even the score, but you would have spent a lot less in the Village Voice and still proven the point with aplomb.”
I shake my head and walk over to my laptop. I double-click to open the image of the ad. “This is way too fabulous for the Village Voice. And I would think the king of fabulous would already know that.”
Shannon smiles. “The color corrections on my pictures look great. I can pass for a professional photographer for sure. And look at your Henry, he’s a studmuffin.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth. “And best of all, it shows off every phase of his creative process.”
“Yeah. For sure.” Shannon takes the sandwiches out of the bag and hands one to me. “You think this will drum up business for the gallery?”
“At that price, it better. If it doesn’t, I’m toast.”
“Well, at least you did what was in your heart. If everything goes to hell in a handbasket, you can be proud that you took the high road.”
I sip my water. “How many times do I have to tell you that this has nothing to do with my heart… it has everything to do with a certain self-righteous bastard who thinks he runs the world because The Times gave him a freaking column without fully vetting him. I wonder which one of his references lied for him.”
Shannon puts his palm between us. “Geez, calm down. You’re making my blood pressure tick up.”
I grab his wrist and check for a pulse. “I know you’re way too fabulous for that.”
“So, when will it print?”
“Sunday. Everybody reads the Sunday edition. That’s the point. Hence the huge price tag.”
Shannon chews and swallows. “Have you told Henry?”
“Nope. He still won’t answer my calls.”
“The poor man is wounded to the core.”
And you’re the one who did it. Shannon’s unspoken words drill through me.
“Maybe, but it just seems so odd how he shut me out. I’m surprised that he even let you take the pictures.”
Shannon sweeps his big hands down the length of his body. “No mortal can resist this fabulosity. Especially, not another man.”
I’m not sure how my six-figure investment will pan out, but I don’t have any regrets. No risk, no reward. The only thing missing is Henry. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice on the phone and see him smile again.
But Shannon is wrong. It’s not love.
It can’t be.
Until it is.
***
Usually, I worship lazy Sundays. The gallery is closed unless it’s a special event, and I find time to head out the door at my leisure to grab brunch at a diner around the corner, home to the world’s most addictive mimosas.
But this Sunday is different. I’m up early, and I’m already on my second cup of coffee. I wait for The New York Times to be delivered. It’s just after dawn.
A few minutes later, the paper arrives with a resounding thump, and I turn straight to the Arts section. I grin at the sight of the full-page ad featuring Henry at the potter’s wheel creating a gorgeous vase. I stare at the image of his intense, handsome face hard at work.
If Greg Silverman was within earshot, I’d tell him to eat shit and die. Shannon’s high road can go fuck itself. I smile at the thought of letting the hateful beady-eyed troll have it all over again. It’s true that the ad was expensive, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. More beautiful than the semester I studied abroad in France. In living color, the ad tempts me to laminate it, frame it and hang it on the wall.
My cell phone chimes with a new message from Shannon that reads: “Love it! Very fabulous indeed! If I do say so myself.”
I text him back a smiley face and head to the bathroom. After a long shower and a good shampoo, I feel renewed. I throw on a sundress and a pair of leather sandals and make my way outside.
The early morning air smells like garbage and cigarettes, but God, I love this city. I’m not sure if I co
uld ever leave this crazy island known as Manhattan. I pass by a few joggers and dog walkers. Some wave and others avoid eye-contact.
I turn the corner and walk into the diner. It’s not crowded, and I’m relieved. This place will be packed by ten o’clock. I check my watch. It’s just after eight.
It’s one of those places where you seat yourself, so I grab a spot by the window. A young waiter with peach fuzz approaches me. “Hi, my name is Roberto. I’ll be taking care of you. Welcome. Can I get you started with something to drink?”
“How about the bottomless mimosas?”
He grins. “Sure. I’ll be right back with that.”
I stare out of the window at an old couple crossing the street. They hold hands and smile. It’s a tender moment. I can’t help but think about Henry. I miss what we had. I wonder if he ever thinks about me.
Roberto walks over and hands me a glass of mimosa. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.” I smile and accept the bubbly beverage. I can’t wait to toss back the first few until I don’t feel quite so miserable. “And how about an egg-white omelet with spinach, tomato, and cilantro?”
As he walks toward the register, my cell phone chimes with a new text message from Edna.
Edna: The NY Times ad is beautiful! Are any of Henry’s vases still for sale?
Me: Thanks and yes. We have four custom pieces available. Please take a look.
I attach images of Henry’s vases at Pathways. Just as I’m about to press send, I see several emails. Then, there’s an explosion on social media. Everyone raves about Henry’s work.
I float on a cloud as I message everyone back individually. I spend the next hour at the diner, sipping mimosas and reveling at how my fortunes turned around. A few days ago, I wasn’t even sure if I could keep the doors open at Pathways. Now, I have a ton of new leads… more than enough to recoup the cost of the ad space, which is tax deductible anyway. When it comes down to it, the ad probably didn’t really cost me much at all.
While I munch and sip, my phone lights up with a text from Shan.
Shannon: Have you seen the NY Times online article? Crazy!
Me: No
He sends me the link, and I stare at it. My thumbs fly over my screen.
Me: Holy shit!
Right there in black and white is a short piece stating that Greg Silverman fabricated details about Henry Garrison’s pottery being commercially produced and Mr. Silverman is no longer employed at The New York Times.
Shannon: Nobu?
Me: Get your fabulous self ready.
Chapter 22
Henry
Outside of my window, a metal clanging floats in through the open window, a noise I don’t immediately recognize. Living in New York, it could be anything. Probably just a garbage truck. I ignore it and keep sculpting. I close my eyes for a moment and center myself, allowing my recent isolation to fade away.
I think about a childhood memory of baking apple pies with my grandmother and the way she always used to smile at me. I think about the first award I won for my pottery and how proud I felt on that day. I think about the first time I saw Meadow and felt love in my heart the moment I looked into her eyes.
I hear the noise again. It’s much louder this time. Turning toward the window, I shout, “Keep it down, would you?” Irritated at being distracted, I walk over to the stereo and turn my music up even louder.
Just then, I hear Verdi mewl at the top of her lungs. I immediately look to all the places she favors, but she isn’t there. My heartrate kicks up a notch. “Verdi? Verdi?”
I hear her again. Her frantic cries sound like they’re coming from outside. I hurry to the window and find it slightly open. Not wide but probably wide enough for a curious girl watching birds to squeeze her way through. I curse myself for not closing it all the way. I’m almost afraid to look. I will be crushed if anything has happened to her.
She’s literally the last thing I care about. The last thing I haven’t lost.
I see Verdi teetering on the edge of the fire escape, just out of my reach. If I try and grab her, she could just go on instinct and try to run from me, losing her balance and falling to her death. If I lose Verdi, I don’t know what I will do.
A creaking noise breaks through the blood rushing through my ears. I look down and see a manicured hand, tense with white knuckles barely hanging on to the fire escape stairs. All the breath escapes my body since I’d recognize that hand anywhere. The rest of her appears, and just as I though, it’s Meadow. She’s wearing a pencil skirt hiked up to her thighs and a pair of stilettos.
What the hell?
Down below, two of the teenage boys who live in the downstairs loft point up her skirt and smile. But there’s nothing to laugh about. If Meadow loses her grip, she will fall eight stories to the concrete below. Her chances for survival would be slim.
“Oh my God!”
Fear propels me forward, urging me outside. I chase it away with a hard no. Even though terror licks at every cell, I have no choice but to jump into action.
I can so fucking do this.
If I could produce a cape and a unitard with an “H” symbol emblazoned across my chest, I would. But a t-shirt and khakis will have to do for this rescue. I open the window wide and slowly step out onto the fire escape. The whole thing wobbles and creaks a protest under the burden of my two-hundred-pound frame. Christ! What if we all fall?
No, none of us are going to fall. Not on my watch. No one is ever going to doubt me again, least of all, myself.
I slowly approach the edge of the fire escape. With each step, it creaks and wobbles. Meadow looks up at me, her eyes wide with terror. I have to save her and Verdi, who screams like a cat possessed. I inhale and draw my courage around me like a bubble of protection. With one more deep breath, I extend my arm as far as it will go. Meadow clasps her small hand in my large one and hangs on for dear life. With a strong tug, I pull Meadow and Verdi up on the platform of the fire escape. As I feel the adrenaline rush through me, I realize I’ve done it.
I saved them both.
Me.
Slamming the window open as wide as it will go, I spin around and envelop them both in a monster hug. Meadow carries Verdi into the loft, and I follow them inside. Just as I step onto the window sill, the fire escape stairs collapse. Outside, the laughter of the teenage perverts turns to screaming their fool heads off, and they dodge the falling metal just in time.
My landlord will be getting a letter from me very soon. Two grand rent hike, my ass.
When I get in the loft, I shut the window and take Meadow and Verdi into my arms again. I look at Meadow. “You saved my cat.”
She tries to smile, but it’s more like a lifting of the corners of her mouth. “You saved my life. You’re my hero.”
“I’m no hero, I just–”
She jumps into my arms and kisses me before I can say another word. It feels so good, I never want her to stop. I curse myself for being a dolt.
“What was that for?” I run my fingers through her hair.
“For being America’s most bad-ass potter. You’re like Superpotter!”
“What are you talking about?”
She takes a deep breath and unzips her purse. “I thought my Prada bag was a goner along with the rest of me.”
I nod. “And I’ll have to give those teenagers a piece of my mind. They should have been calling for help instead of trying to get a peak of your–”
“Never mind that, Henry. It’s over.” She pulls out a newspaper clipping. “Besides, I’m wearing a thong. What could they see?”
I shake my head because they could see her entire ass. And that ass belongs to me. “If it has anything to do with Greg Silverman–”
“Just read it.”
My eyes narrow into slits. “The last time you gave me something to read–”
“Henry, please.”
I take a deep breath and brace myself for the worst. Did this Silverman asshole write another bad review about
me? This guy really needs to get a fucking life already.
As I unfold the newspaper, I’m amazed to see a full-page, color advertisement of me working on my vases, filled with candid photos that Shannon took. They look awesome. I can’t help but smile. But a full-page ad in the Sunday Times? This must have cost a literal fortune. More than most people’s annual salary. After this, I know she truly cares about me.
“Thank you, Meadow.” I struggle to tamp down my emotion.
“You deserved it. By the way, the response to your work has been amazing. The phone at Pathways has been ringing off the hook. In addition to the pieces we sold the evening of the showing, there’s now a bidding war going for the remaining four and a wait list for anything else you’ve got in production. Edna’s leading the charge. You charmed her socks off because she’s firmly in your corner.”
Joy niggles at my chest. Can this really be happening after everything? “Really?”
“Not to mention, a certain Greg Silverman is no longer employed at The New York Times.”
My jaw drops. “They fired him?”
“It’s been all over social media. He was exposed as a liar and a hack after he said your work looked commercially produced. Apparently, he went to your college and wanted to be an artist himself. He couldn’t make it, so he hates you because of your success in his medium. He even assaulted an art professor there.”
I vaguely remember hearing something about that years ago, but never made the connection. The lengths that Greg Silverman went to for revenge against someone who wasn’t even his enemy floors me. “I can’t believe this. And it’s all because of you.”
She winks. “Your talents had a lot to do with it.”
“And by the way, I wasn’t kidding about you being the most famous potter in the country. Everyone has been raving about you online. If you haven’t checked your e-mail today, you probably should. I would be willing to bet you have orders in the hopper from your website.”
I give her a big hug. “Thanks for always believing in me, Meadow. And… and… I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I–”
She presses a finger to my lips. “Shh… don’t worry about it. No need to apologize.”
Mansplainer Page 17
