by Amber Lacie
I smile and wave, as I step out of the car onto the curb. The driver shakes his head and pulls off into traffic, yelling at someone out his window. New York doesn’t feel as friendly as I thought it would be. Turning around, I take in the glorious sight before me, New York Academy of Arts. I feel so small standing outside on the busy street; large buildings surround me. I am not sure they are the definition of large in New York, but to a small-town girl like me they seem massive.
Taking a deep breath, I clutch my purse as I walk through the doors. I am greeted by Mr. Brighton, who gives me a tour of the facility, while we wait for Mr. Dorsey. I am amazed by all the eclectic artwork surrounding us. I find myself holding my breath in awe on more than one occasion, as he shows me the classrooms and galleries. I am admiring a statue situated in the center of an open room, when a young woman approaches us.
“Mr. Brighton, may I have a moment of your time, please?” She smiles nervously at me, as she tucks a stray brown hair behind her ear. Her brown pencil skirt seems too loose on her bony frame. I am not one to judge, as I have lost way too much weight over the past few months, but she could use a Big Mac or two.
“If you’ll just excuse me.”
I give him a soft smile, letting him know that I am quite fine on my own, while he attends to the mousy brown-haired girl. Their conversation is short and hushed. Despite my best attempt to listen in, I can’t make out anything they are saying. The brown-haired girl gives him a nod and walks back to wherever she came from.
“Miss Winters, it seems there has been a change of plans. Unfortunately, Mr. Dorsey will not be able to make it here today.”
“Oh?” I force my smile to look genuine, when in fact I am screaming on the inside. Does he know what I had to go through to get here? Then he doesn’t even have the decency to show up? Infuriated doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel right now.
“He has asked me to invite you to a business luncheon as his plus one. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to reschedule.” If he says unfortunately one more time, I may lose my mind. Every hope I had of being able to move on with my life, even if it is just the ability to do more than slightly exist, has been put into this opportunity. ‘Unfortunately’. I find the word deplorable of its good intentions. It doesn’t soften the blow as much as one would think. “You would be his plus one. He did want me to inform you it’s strictly professional. He didn’t want you to worry, otherwise.”
Shit. Do I go and possibly risk a horrible afternoon with a man I don’t know, or do I high tail it back to Rebecca’s and catch the first flight back home? My heart thumps lightly at the thought of New York. If this doesn’t work out, at least I can say I tried. “I hope business casual is suitable?” I wave my hands in front of me, as to question my choice of clothes. I unconsciously pull at the sleeve of my gray cardigan.
October in New York isn’t a warm experience. I opted to leave my long jacket at Rebecca’s. I assumed we would be here, so I didn’t think I would need it. I was wrong. My short sleeved navy A-line dress ends just above my knees. The high collar and three buttons at the top will at least keep me modestly covered.
“Yes, you look fine. It’s just lunch. If you will follow me, I have had April call you a cab.” I assume April is the brown mousy haired girl. Mr. Brighton walks in front of me, leading back to the entrance. I walk quickly to keep up with him. For being an older man, he has quite the pep in his step. The yellow and white cab is already waiting for me, as we step outside. He opens my door for me, giving the cab driver my destination, as I slide into the backseat.
I try to keep track of the streets we turn on, as well as make a mental note of the buildings, but everything is so massive and crowded. It doesn’t matter what I would try to remember, I would get lost on my own.
*****
The cab pulls up in front of a restaurant with a large black cursive ‘L’ above the door. At least, it won’t be hard to remember the name. I pay my fare and thank the cab driver for the ride.
“You didn’t just pay him, did you?”
“Excuse me?” I turn around, as the cab speeds off and I find a dark-haired man in a black suit standing with his eyebrow raised.
“Did you pay him?”
“Yes. I can’t expect a ride for free.”
“He was already paid. You just gave him an overly generous tip. Welcome to New York. Miss Winters, I presume?” He holds his hand out for me to shake it. I slip my hand into his and give him my best ‘I’m not sure I can do this, but I’m doing it anyways’ smile.
“You presume correctly. Would I be too bold to assume you are Mr. Dorsey?”
“Bold? No. It would be the logical conclusion, since I knew who you were. Are you correct? Yes.” Have you ever had a teacher or a boss that no matter how hard you worked, they hated you? That is exactly how I feel right now.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try to steel my nerves. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Is it?” Dropping my hand, he raises his eyebrow at me again. It is obvious that I am not going to meet his standards, so I leave my professionalism on the curb behind me. I give it a little kick into traffic, just for good measure.
“Yes, it is. I’m a talented artist with my own gallery, already fully functioning and it’s doing well back in Bloomington. It may seem small in comparison to the bustling city around us, but it must have piqued your interest, since you flew me all the way to New York just for lunch. Now, since the pleasure is all yours, can you please escort me in?”
Mr. Dorsey tilts his head back with a roaring laugh. His long, slicked black hair falls around his eyes. He runs his hands through it, putting each piece back where it came from. Those simple movements, remind me of Holden. I am hundreds of miles away from home, away from our place we had together, with all of our memories perfectly stored, and I still find pieces of him surrounding me.
Mr. Dorsey holds open the large glass door and we step into the restaurant. A waiter in a light green dress shirt directs us to a larger room towards the back, where several people are already being served their drinks.
“You know, Miss Winters, I’m quite saddened my wife was unable to make this meeting today. She would adore you.”
“Perhaps, next time. I’ll make sure to have you pay for that cab, as well.”
He laughs again, as he directs me to my seat. We order our drinks, as another waiter sets hors d’oeuvres in the center of the long rectangular table. A few more people trickle into the room and everyone takes their seat, except for Mr. Dorsey.
“I’d like to start by saying thank you for joining me on such short notice. Our ability to acquire both facilities went a lot quicker than we had anticipated. Most of you consider me unorthodox when it comes to how I handle and pursue new businesses. However, I’m sure you will all agree I have steered this company in new directions. In doing so, I have personally opened our doors to reach a much broader audience through art, music, and production companies.” He pauses with a slight grin on his face.
The murmurs in the room die down and he begins again. “We are in the business of buying failing companies, redesigning their productions and management as to improve the business, and then flipping them back out at three times the cost we have acquired them for. To hold our name in good standing, and to appease the stockholders, one being my wife, I have also invested in the fine arts. Thus, creating an international stamp of approval for our output into normal society.”
The suits surrounding me begin to murmur again. It doesn’t seem to be against him, but more in agreeance with what he is saying. What I don’t understand is how I fit into a luncheon discussing the buying and selling of properties. Business management or sale of properties is not my forte. I can only assume that I am here to represent the art he keeps referring to, however, him nor I have had a meeting to discuss any terms, or anything at all. My stomach sinks, as I look up across the room and stare out across a table full of fancy suits staring straight at me. Mr. Dorsey clears his throat, and I jump in m
y chair.
“Forgive me, I feel I may have put her on the spot. Miss Winters, could you please give everyone a quick overview or explanation, if you rather, of your gallery?”
“My gallery?” The crack in my voice is too apparent to hide.
“Yes, your gallery. It’s why I have brought you here. They would like to see what you have to offer.”
Sweat beads on the back of my neck, as I push my chair back and stand next to Mr. Dorsey. He takes a small step back, giving the attention of the room completely over to me. Clearing my throat, I introduce myself. “Hello. My name is Carsten and I own Escapes Art Gallery in Bloomington, Indiana.” Soft chuckles echo around the small room. There is no doubt they are laughing at me. I sound as though I am attending an addicts meeting and I am greeting the room for the first time.
Mr. Dorsey clears his throat, completely silencing the room. Folding my hands in front of me, I try again. “This may be easier if I knew exactly what you are looking for. Our gallery doesn’t display art and expect you to buy it. We like to give a back-story of the artists we have working with us. A buyer can come to us with a specific vision they have in mind. We like to take their vision and tweak it just slightly, so that we can add color and life to it. We try to pair our buyers with artists we feel may fit them.”
Taking a small breath, I continue, “With that being said, I also give them a choice completely different to their expectations, allowing them to fully consider the wide ranges we have to offer. Art is expressed. It cannot be controlled or dictated to meet a certain standard. Perhaps, a few of you might be able to express what you are looking for, so I can better explain our work.” I clench my hands tightly together holding my poise, while I smile at the faces pondering over my lack of explanation.
“Are you an artist yourself, Miss Winters?” A silver haired woman, sitting towards the end of the table, folds her hands and looks poignantly at me.
“I am. You will find my work scattered among the other artists. My business partner, Janel, handles most of the sales along with scheduling meetings and such with buyers. I’m afraid I deal mostly with the artists and the work they wish us to sell on their behalf.”
“I see. It was my understanding you had a photographer working for you, as well. He documents the artists, does he not?”
My mouth goes dry, as images of Holden, along with black and white photographs, scatter through my mind. I don’t think he was ever documenting an artist. He was taking pictures, capturing the essence of the girl he so deeply loved. They don’t need to know that; they don’t need to know him. I lock the door around my heart, sealing our moments in, allowing no one else to share them with me.
The silver haired woman rests her chin on her hand, obviously tired of waiting for my response. Taking a deep breath, I give her my response. “We do not.”
“No? I was quite sure there were several photographs featured during the grand opening.”
“I’m sorry, but those were a private collection. They were not intended for sale and nor will they be sold. We may display a photographer’s work in the future, but we do not have one. None of the artists are documented with pictures. We simply give you a backstory of the specific piece of art.” The tone of my voice is flat, but my words are sharp. I never want to answer a question like this again.
“Thank you, Miss Winters. I think that will be all we need for now.” Mr. Dorsey holds the back of my chair. I take my seat. Once Mr. Dorsey starts speaking again, I down the cold glass of water sitting in front of me. My anxiety is maxed out currently. The room is warm and increasingly becomes smaller. Thankfully, the tension in the room dies down, as our meals are served.
I have just finished my salad, as Mr. Dorsey leans over, whispering behind his napkin. “For being put on the spot, I believe you handled that quite well. I was going to offer you a chance to run the gallery we wish to open in Chelsea, but I have changed my mind.”
Carefully setting my fork down, I turn to face him. “Oh?”
“I was trying to acquire some new art for the gallery and I was quite infatuated with what Peter had to show me. When he informed me you owned the studio, I was taken back a bit. You are incredibly young to have started such a venture, and to have it doing so well is an amazing achievement. You must be proud.”
“I am.”
“Good, good. I would like you to forget these people you see in front of you today. We will not need someone to run a gallery. What I would like to offer you is a chance to own your own gallery. What do you say?”
“You want me to buy a gallery from you?” I ask in confusion.
“No. I want you to buy one with me. It would be more of a personal investment for me. I’ll have my assistant write up the details and deliver them to you. Are you staying in the city?”
“Sort of. I’m staying with some friends.”
“Right, right. Peter had mentioned that. Well, I’ll get the details over to you tomorrow and we can go from there.” Mr. Dorsey sets down his napkin and begins walking around the room, discussing business matters with the others in the room. I am left to enjoy the rest of my lunch in peace. My mind ponders over what kind of offer he has for us. By the time lunch is over, I feel drained. I am ready for bed. Mr. Dorsey escorts me to the car waiting out front. I slip into the back seat of a black town car and wave goodbye. The car winds through the city and I close my eyes, resting my head against the black leather seats.
I find myself picturing perfect people in their perfect homes, enjoying their perfect lives. I find myself jealous of their easy-going lives. The driver turns onto Rebecca’s street. I shift my feet in my seat, as I watch their apartment come into view. Thanking the driver, I step out of the car onto the curb. My feet carry me up the stairs; I stare at the main door for a moment, before stepping inside and buzzing Rebecca’s apartment.
*****
The smell of Italian food encircles my body, as I walk in the door. Forget going to my bedroom, I am headed straight for the kitchen. It is so narrow. It is basically a hallway with appliances and a sink. Rebecca is standing in front of the stove, cursing at the pan in her hand. “You stupid, son of a bitch.” She sets the pan on two hot pads, resting on the counter.
“What did that pan ever do to you?”
Rebecca jumps, and glares at me over her shoulder. “Just so you know, scaring people is rude. Besides, the pan burnt me.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. This pan you accuse of burning you, has it done this before?”
“No, Carsten. I don’t burn myself all the time.”
“Ah ha. So, it wasn’t the pan’s fault. You admit your blame.”
Turning around, she throws her hands up in defeat. “There is something seriously wrong with you, do you know that?”
“Yes. You made me see a shrink for it.”
“Low blow, Carsten. Low blow.”
“Yet, you still adore me.”
“You’re pushing it.”
Spying the garlic bread resting on the top of the stove, I steal a piece as she swats me away and I head down the stairs to my room. Grabbing some of Holden’s clothes, I head to my private bath for a quick shower. I am wringing the water from my hair, when I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, but no one enters. “Are you decent? It’s Mark?”
Looking down, I glance at the shirt and pair of shorts I have on. They are huge on me, but at least I am covered. “Yeah. Come on in.”
“How did it go today?” He peeks his head around the door. Once he sees me fully dressed, he steps into the room.
“I think it went okay. It was odd and everything felt rushed. I loved the art academy though, it fit me like a glove.”
“Are you going to keep your gallery in Bloomington, then?”
“I don’t know. The thought to sell it didn’t cross my mind. He didn’t offer me a job, though.”
“I caught onto that when a delivery service dropped this off.” He hands me a large m
anila envelope. I carefully bend back the prongs, and pull out a business proposal. As I start flipping through the pages, I notice a deed to an empty building not too far from the academy. None of this is adding up.
“A delivery service?” It couldn’t have been Dorsey or anyone who works for him. There is no way that they could have made it here this quickly.
“Yep. It was a delivery service? How is it I’m a lawyer for a rather large firm, but you’re the one having letters brought to you.”
SNAP! CLICK! The puzzle pieces of today click into place. Dorsey never meant for me to manage a gallery. His intent from the beginning was to be a co-owner of an entirely new gallery. He had to have had all of this pre-arranged.
“If everything was already arranged, why have me put on a show today? Mark, I need a phone.”
“It’s upstairs. If you need a private one, there’s one in my office.”
Shoving the papers back in the envelope, I race upstairs. The soft pain in my side as I open the door to Mark’s office, is a friendly reminder that I don’t exercise. My fingers quickly dial Janel’s number. I rapidly explain my day, as well as the papers in my hand. Janel screams with excitement in my ears. She doesn’t hesitate to say yes, when I ask her if she is okay with everything. Not being able to contain my excitement, I jump up and down a few times before ending my call with Janel.
I try my best to sound calm when I call Dorsey. My tone is pitchy, but I hope I come across as a professional. We spend the next hour on the phone fine-tuning every detail. At first, I was leery to make any changes to the proposal. The longer we talked, the clearer my vision became of what I would like to see at the gallery. Janel and I each held thirty-five percent of the company, leaving him with the remaining thirty. He was signing on the new building tomorrow. Since Dorsey loved what we did with the studio in Bloomington, he thought we should stay the course. Escapes would be opening an art gallery in Chelsea by mid-November, which gave me a little over a month to prepare.
We agreed my current living arrangements wouldn’t be suitable. The first few months, I would be slammed acquiring new artists and buyers, I would need to be as close to the studio as possible. Tomorrow, Dorsey and his wife Kate would meet me in Chelsea to look for studio apartments I could rent temporarily.
