by Lara Adrian
Unfortunately, it seems her instincts were off when it came to me.
“Sundays are my only free day right now,” I tell her. “Or I can come by one night before work this week and make arrangements to pick up my stuff.”
“No, don’t worry about that,” she assures me. “We’ve got a lot of events going on at the gallery right now, so honestly there’s no rush. I can keep your pieces in storage for a while until you’re ready to take them. I realize this is a total blindside, and I feel awful about that. Besides, I know you don’t have any extra space at your apartment. Let me at least do this for you.”
Her offer to help stanch this new hemorrhage in my life should be a comfort, but my old defenses kick in, urging me to refuse. I can’t stand the thought of asking her to do anything more for me than she already has. Except she’s right about my furnished one-room studio having no room to spare. It’s small even by New York standards, but that’s not the worst of it. In a couple more weeks, I won’t even have that meager roof over my head.
My building was sold a few months ago and is going condo. I’ve held out as long as tenacity and the law will allow, but my time is almost up now. I’ve got the eviction notice to prove it.
“Say something, Avery. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Sure I am. I’m fine.”
My mouth is on autopilot, my head spinning while my stomach feels ready to revolt. I’ve got a lot of decisions ahead of me—most of which I’m not eager to make. Right now, I just need to get through the night and get home so I can start figuring out what I’m going to do. And in the back of my mind, I know this conversation has just solidified the fact that I’m also going to need to get busy packing up for . . . somewhere.
I feel the walls crushing in on me the longer I stay on the line. I need to be moving. I need to be busy or I’m going to scream.
I clear my throat. “Listen, we’re really slammed over here tonight. I’ve got to get back out to the bar.”
“Oh, of course. I thought I heard restaurant noise in the background. I’m on my way home now, so if you need anything tonight—if you just want to talk some more—give me a call, okay?”
“I will,” I lie.
“Avery, I’m really sorry.”
“I know. I get it, and it’s all right.” I feel awkward and inferior, and I can’t deny that I’m also more than a little heartbroken to hear that my art wasn’t good enough for Dominion’s owner. And I’m pissed at myself for actually thinking it could be. “I gotta run now. I’ll call you in a few days. Thanks, Margot. For everything.”
I hit the end button, then tip my head back against the wall and exhale a curse.
What the hell am I going to do now?
Chapter 3
When I head back out to the floor, Tasha doesn’t give me as much as a second to regroup before she’s bee-lining my way. “So? Tell me! What’d she . . . Oh, fuck.”
My face no doubt tells it all.
“Oh, honey. Come here.” At twenty-seven, she’s only two years older than me, but she slides effortlessly into nurture mode, looping her arm around my shoulders and steering me away from the busier area of the bar. “Tell me what happened.”
“I lost my spot at Dominion. They’re bringing in some better artists and they need the space, so I’m out.”
“What?” Tasha doesn’t hold back her outrage, and to my chagrin, about a dozen people seated at the bar glance in our direction. “That’s bullshit. You’re an amazing artist, Avery. You deserve to be there as much as anyone else.”
I bark out a brittle laugh. “Apparently the gallery’s clientele don’t feel that way. Neither does the owner.”
“Well, they’re wrong.” Tasha’s dark eyes study me with a deepening concern. She puts her hand on my forearm, forcing me to hold her gaze. “Fuck them, Avery. They’re all wrong.”
I shake my head and withdraw from her comforting touch before her tenderness makes me crack. “It’s no big deal. In fact, I knew this day was coming. I’ve only sold one piece all this time. Margot believes in my work, but she’s not running a charity. And God knows, kindness never paid my rent either. Which reminds me, I’ve got customers to take care of—”
Tasha steps into my path to block my escape. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I hold her concerned, too-wise gaze then shrug. “Believe me, I’ve survived worse. I’m fine.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t release me from her stare. Behind her, one of the servers calls to her with an incoming drink order. Tasha holds up her finger to him in response, all of her focus on me. “I’m your friend, damn it. Don’t piss me off by acting like I’m not. Are things that bad for you right now?”
I want to deny it outright, but the words don’t come.
I never can seem to hide much from Tasha, and her expression tells me that I wouldn’t be fooling her even if I tried. But as well as she’s come to know me since we’ve been working together, there are still things she doesn’t know. Things no one knows about me. Not here in this new city, this new life I’m trying to make for myself.
And as much as I’d like to keep my current personal problems a secret from Tasha, she’s obviously not about to let me shut her out right now.
“My building’s being turned into condos and I’m getting evicted from my apartment.” I blurt it out without taking a breath. “I have two weeks before I have to either buy my place or move out of it.”
“Jesus, Avery. A couple of weeks? What are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do—move out. I can’t afford to stay and even if I had the money I wouldn’t want to buy in that roach-infested building.”
“Shit, honey. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. Even though I can feel Pennsylvania tightening its grip on me where I stand, I’m not ready to admit total defeat yet. I’m not ready to give up.
Tasha nods, contemplation churning in her caring eyes. “If you need someplace to stay while you figure things out, Antonio and I can make room for you at the house. We don’t have a spare bedroom, but there’s a sleeper sofa in the living room that’s yours for however long you need it.”
“No.” I’m touched by her generosity, but I can’t impose on her like that. Her house is full enough with her new baby and a mother-in-law who recently moved in. I shake my head. “Thank you, but no. I won’t ask that of you—”
“You didn’t,” she points out. “But then, you never ask anyone for anything, do you.”
It’s not a question, so I choose not to answer. “I’ll manage. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ll get through this too.”
On the other side of the bar, another server arrives and calls to us with a new order.
“Be right there,” Tasha shouts over the din of the restaurant. Her soft doe eyes study me for a long moment, a sad kind of understanding in their depths. “You know, it’s okay to let people help you once in a while. It’s okay to let people care about you.”
I can’t tell her that I agree. I can’t even give a weak nod to appease her.
I learned a long time ago that help never comes without a price tag, hidden or not. And even the people who claim to care about you the most can turn against you in the blink of an eye.
She walks away to fill the incoming drink orders from the dining room, and I get busy bringing fresh rounds to the people seated at the long bar. I notice the woman at the far end is still alone and waiting. Her glass of Pinot is untouched, and her cell phone sits next to the drumming fingernails of her left hand.
As I approach to see if I can bring her anything else, she glances at her phone and picks it up to read what I assume is an incoming text. She frowns, then her jaw drops open in a look of utter exasperation. “No . . . Oh, for the love of fuck! You have got to be kidding me.”
Evidently, I’m not the only one dealing with disappointment tonight.
I’m not the type to pry into other people’s business, so I le
t her outburst go unmentioned. “Do you need anything else right now?”
She huffs out a heavy sigh and lifts her thick-lashed green eyes to me. “How about a miracle?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” Tossing her phone into her purse, she shakes her head. “I was counting on a friend to do something for me, and she just cancelled. Now I’m totally left in a lurch.”
“I’m sorry.” I can see that she’s visibly upset. I also recall that she’s supposed to be catching a flight at some point tonight. “If you’re ready to cash out, just let me know.”
She takes a sip from her glass, then glances at her watch. “I don’t need to leave for a few minutes. I’d much rather stay here than wait around at JFK any longer than I have to. I’m Claire, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply. “I’m Avery.”
“I know.”
I tilt my head. Maybe I’m gaping a bit, too, because she immediately winces and lets out a little laugh.
“I’m sorry. That came out a little stalkerish, didn’t it?” She waves her hand as if to erase any unease. “We haven’t met. I come in from time to time, and I’ve heard some of the other bar staff talking to you.”
“Oh.” I shrug it off with a brief smile. “No worries.”
She’s not someone easily overlooked, yet I can’t say that I’ve noticed her in the restaurant before. Then again, New York is full of beautiful people. I had to train myself early on not to gawk at every celebrity, athlete, and supermodel who crossed my path.
“I have an apartment a few blocks from here,” she volunteers as I pick up a bar cloth and start wiping down a vacated spot a couple of seats away from her. “To be honest, though, I’m never in any city long enough to claim I’m a true resident. I just flew home last week from a gig in Paris. Tonight I’m off to Tokyo for a few months to shoot some commercials and a game show pilot.”
“Sounds exciting.” I’m still small-town enough to feel a twinge of envy at her jet-set lifestyle and glamorous career.
“It’s never boring,” she admits before taking a sip of her wine. “But I don’t like leaving my apartment empty for long stretches while I’m gone. The friend who stood me up tonight was supposed to stay at my place while I’m in Japan. My poor plants just got a death sentence.”
I grimace. “That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t suppose you know of a good house-sitting service I can call? One I can hire for the next four months on zero notice?”
She needs a house-sitter for four months? That desperate part of me I don’t want to acknowledge practically groans at the irony of this situation. I’m soon to be homeless and this woman—Claire—has more living space than she can use.
Even though I’m sure her question was meant to be rhetorical more than anything else, before I can answer, Tasha’s voice sounds from behind me.
“Avery, why don’t you do it?”
Until that moment, I didn’t even realize she was nearby. I swivel to look at her, my eyes wide. What the hell are you doing?
I know she can read that demand in my face—in my mortified glare—but Tasha being Tasha, she’s completely unfazed. She smiles at me as if I’m not fuming and speechless at her interference.
“Think about it,” she says cheerfully, and more than loud enough for Claire to hear. “The timing couldn’t be more perfect. You told me just today that your place is being renovated soon and you can’t stay there once the work begins.”
Renovated? I give a tight shake of my head. “I didn’t say—”
“Yes. You did.” She speaks slowly and gives me that look. The one I’m sure makes even her six-foot-four husband stand a little straighter. I have to admit, it’s working on me right now too.
But I can’t do this. It wouldn’t be right. I’m a stranger to this woman. I can’t imagine she would even consider—
“Is that true, Avery? Do you need someplace to stay?”
I turn to face Claire. “Yes, it’s true, but . . . you don’t even know me.”
She sets down her wine glass and studies me for a second. “How long have you worked here?”
“Almost a year and a half.”
“So that tells me you’re responsible enough,” she points out.
“And reliable,” Tasha adds. “Six days a week, Avery’s here. Sometimes, all seven. Never missed a shift, not even a single sick day in all this time.”
“Impressive.” Claire nods as though her mind is already made up. “You’d be doing me an immense favor. I can’t even tell you how grateful I’d be.” She glances at her watch, then sucks in a breath. “Shit. I have to go or I’m going to be late. If you can do this for me, Avery, I need your answer now.”
Tasha stares at me expectantly while I glance between her and Claire, uncertainty gnawing at my stomach. I don’t believe in luck or cosmic favors, but it seems like the universe is handing me a life line right here. Can I really afford to refuse it? With my apartment being sold out from under me and the odds of making some money off my art anytime soon being next to nil, I don’t exactly have a lot of options.
“I’ll pay you, of course.” Claire discreetly takes an envelope out of her black Birkin bag. “Five thousand for the four months. That’s what I was going to pay my friend.” She holds the cream-colored envelope out to me and keeps her voice low. “It’s in cash. I hope you don’t mind.”
My mind sputters at the idea. Maybe people like Claire can toss around five grand like it’s nothing, but, to me, especially right now, it’s a small fortune.
No, it’s miracle money.
With the added bonus of a four-month stay of execution on my homelessness situation.
The reality of this incredible twist of fate is so overwhelming, I can hardly form words. “I, um . . .”
“She’ll do it,” Tasha interjects. “You’ll do it, right, Avery?”
I think I must have nodded. To be honest, the next few minutes pass in a blur. She gives me her full name—Claire Prentice—and jots her address on the back of her business card before handing me a key to her apartment. She takes down my name and cell phone number, then pulls a twenty out of her wallet and places it on the bar.
“That should cover the wine.” Smiling, she slides off the bar stool and pulls on her coat. “I’ll check in with you from Tokyo after I get settled to make sure everything’s good at the apartment, okay?”
My head bobs automatically. “Ah, okay.” I’m not about to argue. I don’t think she would have waited around to give me that chance anyway.
With a hurried thanks, Claire Prentice sails out the door and ducks into a taxi that arrives at the curb.
I stand there for a moment, dumbstruck, processing everything that just happened.
I have five thousand dollars cash in my hand. On the bar in front of me is a Park Avenue address. Beside that, a gleaming brass key that will grant me four entire months of shelter. Four whole months of mercy.
I’ve just been given a golden opportunity at a time when I couldn’t have needed it more.
I glance at Tasha, shaking my head in mute confusion. A small giggle erupts from my throat. Then another. It’s too much to contain—the amazement, the hope...the incredulous relief.
I cover my mouth, but my joy spills over in a ridiculous snort of a laugh. “Did that really just happen?”
Tasha takes the envelope out of my slack grasp and peers inside. “Well, you’ve got fifty Benjamins in here saying it did.” She grins at me. “Remember what I said about letting someone help you out once in a while? Yeah, you can thank me now.”
Chapter 4
Tasha insists on coming with me to check out Claire’s apartment. I hadn’t even been sure I intended to go tonight, but Tasha refuses to be swayed and I can hardly deny my curiosity either. Suddenly, the idea of waiting until tomorrow morning to see where I’ll be living for the next four months requires a patience I don’t have.
All night, the key to Claire’s apartment has bee
n burning a hole in my pocket—even more so than the money, which I’d reluctantly stowed in the bottom of my purse in the employee locker for the duration of my shift.
After we close at Vendange, Tasha calls home to let her family know what’s going on, then the two of us set out for the Upper East Side address Claire gave me. Ordinarily, I’d think nothing of walking the handful of long blocks, even in the chill of a drizzly April night. But hoofing it a couple of miles after two in the morning with five grand in cash on me is a stupid risk I just can’t take.
As we step out of the restaurant, I motion for Tasha to follow me to the curb. “Come on. We’re splurging on a taxi. My treat.”
Manhattan is impressive at any hour, but there is something magical about this part of the city so late at night. As the taxi rolls along the divided lanes of Park Avenue with its tree-lined median, my artist’s eye greedily soaks in my surroundings. Street lamps and traffic lights spangle the wet pavement with shards of color. The mixture of pre- and post-war limestone and brick buildings on either side of the grand boulevard stand defiant beside soaring glass-and-steel residential towers and elegant five-star hotels. In front of all those buildings, the ribbon of concrete sidewalk ebbs and flows with a steady stream of pedestrians who are wearing everything from formal attire or club clothes to vagabond rags.
The colors, the shapes, the energy, the teeming life even at this late hour . . . all of it stirs the part of me that dreams in light and shadow, the part of me that can only speak with a paintbrush.
Tonight, after Margot’s call, it hurts to hear that voice whispering to me, to see all of the pictures filling the fresh canvas in my mind. I close my eyes against the impulse, but I can’t shut it off. It’s been a part of me for too long. My art has been my escape, the only place I could go—the only place I could live—when everything else in my world was trying to destroy me.
Now I can’t help but wonder how long that part of me will survive if it turns out Dominion’s owner is right and my art doesn’t deserve to be seen.
