by Tessa Kelly
Cutting into my thoughts, a black Impala pulled up to the curb and a man got out on the passenger side. I stared at him, knowing my stare was perfectly warranted, perhaps even expected.
In his late forties, he stood a little shorter than six feet. His black eyebrows and full red lips, somewhat feminine, accentuated his pale complexion. He had on a dark suit with a starched white shirt and carried an unlit wooden pipe like it was a ladies’ reticule. On his head, the man wore a bowler hat.
Even for New York, this was eccentric. I frowned at the sense of déjà vu, certain I’d seen him somewhere before.
The man gave me a side glance, probably aware of the effect he made, and turned to the driver with a hard-to-pull-off expression, at once haughty and detached.
“Are you coming, John?”
The driver inclined his head, the smile on his fine-drawn lips just barely this side of sardonic. “In a moment. I still need to find a parking spot.”
His voice sounded familiar but, again, I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.
The man in the bowler hat waved his pipe. “When it comes to great art, my friend, time is of no essence. I’ll be inside.” He stuck the pipe in his mouth and ambled toward the gallery.
My eyes met the driver’s and we smiled at each other, the kind of conspiratorial smile that happens at the expense of a third party. A moment later, he broke eye contact and gave me a polite nod as he pulled away from the curb.
At my side, Felisha watched the bowler-hat man with avid curiosity. “Does he think he’s Charlie Chaplin or something?” she whispered.
Giggling, we followed the stranger to the gallery but at the front doors my merriment evaporated, replaced with a new surge of anxiety.
Felisha was already inside. Seeing that I stopped, she doubled back. “Oh my gosh, Sandie! Quit worrying, will you? If Josh gets mad—and he won’t!—I’ll just tell him I forced you to come. He can be mad at me if he wants to. I don’t care as much as you.”
“I don’t care if he’s mad at me!”
I bit my lip, conscious of my cheeks getting hot. This was ridiculous, blushing like a school girl when everyone knew Josh and I were just friends.
Especially since I already agreed to go on a date with Liam, the hot bartender at Luce della Vita, the Italian restaurant down the street from where I worked.
Granted, Liam asked me out two months ago, and the date still hadn’t happened, but that was not my fault. Things kept getting in the way. First, Dad guilted me into going with him to a family reunion in his native Kentucky. Then Liam went away to visit his sick mother in Connecticut.
And Josh? Sure, he was handsome. And smart. And talented. And the rare moments when he showed apparent interest always left me second-guessing my resolution to just be friends. But that was not the reason for my apprehension tonight.
“You know he and I haven’t always been on good terms,” I said, remembering the tension between us when Josh first started working at my sister’s bakery. “I don’t want to jeopardize our friendship by showing up where I’m not wanted.”
“But I want to see Josh’s paintings!” Felisha twisted her thick dark hair like a rope over her shoulder, pouting. “Everyone else got to see them that time he asked you guys over. It wasn't my fault I couldn't go. And then I had to listen to you gush over them for like a month. It’s not fair!”
That was true. Felisha was home sick the day Josh invited the gang from the bakery to toast his move to a new place. Once the evening was in full swing, Dad and I coaxed him to show us his artwork.
We agreed it was remarkable. The brushstrokes flowed as one organic whole of light and shadow, the green landscapes appearing to be alive and ready to materialize around us. It was only by taking a step back from the canvases that the viewer realized they weren’t landscapes at all, but buildings, fantastical and futuristic.
Josh titled his collection Garden Cities of the Future, and the paintings breathed with a tangible longing, a yearning for a better future. A peaceful world.
No wonder the AGER jumped at the opportunity to showcase his work. Josh fully deserved the attention he would get tonight.
Felisha’s eyebrows pinched in annoyance. “Look, we’re not talking about this anymore. Let’s go!”
She grabbed my hand and dragged me into the gallery, a large, high-ceilinged space of white walls and polished concrete floor. The mezzanine along the back provided an added level for displaying artwork.
Felisha’s mouth dropped. “Wow, look at these pieces! You said Josh was good, but I had no idea. This stuff is so different...and weird. I mean, like, what’s that?”
No kidding. My eyes fixed on the enormous artificial tree she pointed to. Stretching up in the middle of the showing room, its top scraped the high ceiling. Large glass spheres, the biggest the size of an armchair, rested on the tree's branches and were lit up from inside to show fantastic landscapes as they slowly rotated.
I had taken enough classes in literature to recognize the tree on first sight. “That’s Yggdrasil, the tree that connects the nine realms of the Norse mythology. The globes represent planets and I guess, that blue one in the middle is Earth.”
“Earth?” Felisha frowned, then suddenly grinned. “Midgard, right? Like in the Avengers movies? That’s pretty cool!”
Cool. Sure. But what in the world was it doing at Josh’s exhibit?
I took in the rest of the artwork. There were several small sculptures mounted on stands at uneven intervals throughout the showing room. Abstract trees in dark metal. The one closest to me was slightly off-center and my fingers itched to reach out and straighten it.
On the walls and along the mezzanine, large paintings depicted a Scandinavian motif, borrowing heavily from the Norse mythology.
Something here didn’t add up.
“This looks nothing like the art I saw at Josh’s,” I said.
Felisha shrugged. “Maybe he just didn’t show you these?”
“No, it’s the style. Looks all wrong.”
A large plaque on the wall to our right drew my attention. Starkly white, with thick black letters spelling out the artist’s name.
MARCEL BRIGHT.
I groaned. Well, no wonder!
“Felisha, this is the wrong exhibit! We must’ve gotten the dates mixed up.”
“No, you got them right,” Josh said approaching us from the side.
Oh, boy.
I bit my lip as I took in his grim expression, then forced myself to smile. Not an easy thing to do with my heart sunk somewhere in the vicinity of my soles.
We really, really shouldn't have come.
Chapter 2
“I don't understand.” Felisha nodded at the plaque. “Why does it say Marcel Bright on there and not your name?”
Josh put his hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but at us. “The curator canceled my show. Said it was safer for the gallery to go with an established artist at this time, because of the recession. They didn’t want to take a chance on an unknown like me.”
Felisha’s eyes filled with concern. “Josh, I’m so sorry! Is that why you told us not to come?”
When he didn’t answer, she touched his arm, assuming the tone of voice she usually reserved for sick people. “Just remember this isn’t your only chance. You’ll get your break soon, it’ll be okay.”
Josh looked away from her, the unshaved stubble on his jaw accentuating the hard lines of his mouth. He muttered a half-audible ‘thanks’.
I wanted to kick myself. No wonder Josh asked us not to come. He had been in the city for over three years now and spent all that time trying to break into the art world. Just when he thought he finally made it, his big break was snatched away from him. Adding to the injury, as the gallery employee, he was expected to be present at the other artist’s opening night. Our showing up here must’ve only made his humiliation worse.
But...now what? Next to me, Felisha clasped and unclasped her clutch, then side-glanced me with a small shru
g that said she was all out of ideas.
As the silence stretched on, I felt like one shipwrecked, stranded on the high seas with nothing but the empty horizon in sight. Desperate for rescue, my eyes roamed the wide showing room. They landed on the drinks buffet.
Yes! The lifeboat.
I put on a bright smile. “Let’s get some wine!”
We took our glasses and stood to the side of the buffet, watching as the people wandered about the showing room, sharing their impressions, some in hushed undertones, others with loud exclamations of delight. Clearly, the exhibit was an instant success.
“This art is pretty awesome,” Felisha said. Then she grimaced, realizing her thoughtlessness. “Sorry, Josh.”
He shrugged. “No, you’re right. Marcel’s one of the top artists today. Having him is a great boost to the gallery. You can expect half of these pieces to go tonight. There’s no way I could compete with that.”
He emptied his wine glass and asked the cute, pink-haired bartender for another one.
Felisha and I exchanged worried looks. In Josh’s mood, leading him to alcohol might not have been the best idea.
“So, who’s this artist anyway?” I asked, trying to distract him. “Is he here yet?”
Josh pointed his wine glass to a group of people gathered next to the Yggdrasil. “That’s Marcel Bright and his agent in the middle. You can’t miss them.”
I blinked at the bowler-hat man Felisha and I had seen earlier, talking animatedly to his audience.
Felisha snorted into her drink. “What? Him?”
That got a smile out of Josh. “Marcel believes he channels the spirit of a French surrealist painter, Rene Magritte. He says wearing the bowler hat and the pipe improves their connection, helps him with inspiration or something.”
The bowler hat and the pipe. Of course! They were two of Magritte’s most famous images. That much I still remembered from my art history classes.
“Now I know why he looked so familiar when I saw him outside,” I said. “He resembles the man in Magritte’s Clairvoyance painting. Must be why he jells his hair so much, to accentuate the resemblance.”
Felisha’s eyes widened. “That’s so cool! Do you think he, like, meditates to connect with that Magritte guy’s spirit? Or does he use a ouija board?” Her eyes lit on the plaque with the artist’s name. “Ooh, I bet it’s in his biography! I’m going to read it.”
She bounced off. Josh and I exchanged knowing smiles. It was plain Marcel Bright was nothing more than a cultivated eccentric, faking a personality quirk to attract attention to his art. At least, it was working out for him.
Or was it?
Now that I looked more closely, the artist wasn’t talking to his audience. He addressed most of his remarks to his agent, a slightly taller man in an impeccable gray suit that didn’t quite manage to hide his paunchy middle. With soothing gestures, the agent kept trying to persuade his client to calm down, but the other hissed at him and pointed at the sculpture behind them.
Hard to imagine what the country's top artist could have to complain about on his opening night. Unless, it was all part of the act.
I turned to Josh. “Maybe you should pick an artist to channel. Tell people you’re the new Salvador Dali.”
He smirked. “Should I grow a long thin mustache?”
“Of course! You’d look dashing, in a manic sort of way.”
He actually laughed at that. His eyes crinkled in a way that always made me forget my resolution to stay platonic.
I'd made him laugh. A warm feeling spread in my chest. Even though he was upset, I managed to cheer him up.
“I love that you know so much about art,” Josh said suddenly, his eyes fixed on mine.
The rest of the room disappeared under the dizzying spell of his gaze. As if he could see into my most secret thoughts. The space between us condensed and—
“Josh! You came!”
I turned around in time to see an attractive young woman with long red hair hurrying up to us. She flung her arms around Josh’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“You didn’t have to come, I would’ve completely understood if you took the night off. But this is so mature of you!”
Josh shrugged, looking only slightly thrown off balance by the interruption. “Well, I’m here. But I’m not lifting a finger tonight. Don’t care what’s wrong with that installation, I’m not fixing it.” He glanced over at me. “Uh, Sandie, this is Caroline King. She is the assistant curator here.”
Caroline unwound her arms from around Josh’s neck but moved one palm to lie flat against his chest. She acknowledged my presence with a toss of the head.
“Hi, there!”
“It’s...nice to meet you.” I hoped I didn’t sound as stiff as I felt.
Caroline put her other hand on Josh’s arm and smiled at me. He’s mine, her eyes said. But maybe it was just me, feeling blindsided.
“I’ve been trying to get the brass to take this guy on for months,” Caroline said in a confidential tone. “I discovered him, you know. In a way. He’s so talented, I just can’t stand what happened. Right? I’m so disappointed in Alexa for canceling the show!”
She turned to Josh, tracing her index finger a few inches down his chest. “But don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep bugging her until she caves and gives you another shot.”
I took a sip of my wine, grateful for the excuse to hide my flaming cheeks. “So, Caroline, are you a talent scout?”
Josh bent toward Caroline and gave her a playful bump with his shoulder. “I keep teasing that she’s a closeted artist herself. She denies it, but I’ve seen her with paint on her hands more than once.”
“I wish!” Caroline laughed, her light-blue eyes never leaving his face. “I’m an artist like a plumber is a ballet dancer. But it’s fine. I leave art creating to other people and just... admire the view.” She giggled and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “The paint is from visiting artist studios, that’s all. You know Alexa’s been delegating more and more of that stuff to me lately.”
Josh looked around. “Where’s Alexa, anyway? I didn’t see her come in.”
“Who knows? She was supposed to be here hours ago. Marcel’s furious. Dan and I just got an earful from him.”
“Weird.” Josh frowned. “I thought Alexa would be all over this, schmoozing with the buyers.”
“All I know is she better show up. I'm having to do it all tonight. And you know Dan's useless at selling.” Caroline rolled her eyes. “I charged him with sorting out the tree installation, but look at him, stuffing his face over there. Sometimes I think all he knows is how to stress eat.”
She snickered as she pointed out a balding middle-aged man with a stack of brown and pink macarons on his plate. He nodded helplessly as Marcel blustered at him and his eyes roamed the large room as if looking for a hiding place. I felt sorry for him.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Associate curator,” Caroline said over her shoulder. “I mean, I’d be bingeing too if my career was going down the toilet. And he wonders why Alexa was promoted ahead of him. Speaking of Alexa...” Edging slightly to put more space between me and Josh, she said in a confidential tone. “I need to talk to you. You won’t believe what Fabian Morris told me the other day.”
I cleared my throat, feeling like the third wheel. “Why don’t I let you talk? I want to see the rest of the gallery anyway.”
Josh blinked, probably remembering I was still standing there. “Okay, Sandie. Catch you later.”
I tried to shrug off the sting as I moved on. Just friends, remember? A handful of disturbed bees swarmed angrily in my stomach, refusing to get on board with the idea. Stupid bees. Why couldn't they be logical?
I made straight for the Yggdrasil, partly to distract myself and partly out of curiosity. What could be the matter with it? It seemed fine from my vantage point by the drinks buffet.
As I drew closer, though, the problem became apparent. While eight of the glass g
lobes shined brightly from within, the largest one at the bottom remained dark and opaque. Nothing inside it was visible.
Two frazzled gallery workers were busy inspecting something at the back of the installation where the mechanism for lighting and rotating the globes must’ve been located.
“It was thoroughly checked yesterday afternoon, before the preview night,” someone said behind me. “I assure you, the whole thing functioned perfectly.”
Turning around, I saw Dan, the associate curator Caroline had been making fun of. He was about five foot six and probably in his mid-fifties, with a bald patch at the top of his head that was amply compensated by tufts of bushy hair on the sides. He wore a tan suit that had seen better days.
The other man, Marcel Bright, crossed his hands over his chest, probably trying to look thunderous and imposing. It came out petulant at best.
“I don’t care if it was working yesterday,” the artist spat. “It’s not working today and I can’t believe no one’s done anything about it until now. The Yggdrasil is the centerpiece of my collection, it brings the whole show together.” He started to walk away, then stopped and said over his shoulder. “And let me know the first thing Alexa gets here. I need to have a word with that woman about all the lies she’s been telling me.”
Dan shook his head at one of the workers, looking dismal. “It better be up and running before Alexa gets here. She’ll have a coronary.”
“A bit odd, isn’t it?” a man standing at my side said quietly.
I recognized him as the driver who had dropped off Marcel Bright. Probably in his late forties, tall and lean and impeccably dressed in a black tux with a long white scarf. His dark hair was already showing gray, but he had remarkable blue eyes that looked at me with candor and assumed comradeship. He, too, reminded me vaguely of someone, though not anyone I’d seen in a painting. This had to be the night for puzzling out familiar faces.
