Caper Crush: a feel-good, opposites-attract, slow-burn romantic comedy (New York Friendship Book 3)

Chapter 1

Pushing up my fake glasses on my nose, I shuffle closer to the two other women to listen in on their conversation about the ultramarine abstract painting in front of them. I resist the urge to touch my straight, gray hair. I’ve learned that once I put on a wig, I shouldn’t touch it.

This art gallery is a square, white-walled room in Tribeca with paintings hung a foot apart, about twenty colorful pieces in total. Between the cold air-conditioning and the pops of color, I feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of a vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. Next to the entrance, the gallery owner sits behind a shiny, white-laminate counter, typing on her laptop. Two large paintings are spotlighted in the storefront windows. My ultramarine painting, unfortunately, didn’t merit that prime real estate.

These two women are a mismatched pair. One looks like an Upper East Side matron, immaculate, brown hair, clearly professionally blow-dried that morning, armored in a crisp, two-piece skirt suit. The other woman has wild, gray hair and is wearing a long, flowing skirt, turquoise and gold bangles covering her wrists.

“Is this the one Jade recommended that we look at?” Coiffed Woman asks.

Bangles Woman peers at the label. “I think so. She said to look at the works by artist Miranda Langbroek.” She steps back, her multiple bracelets jangling as she puts her hands on her hips and stares at the painting.

“I don’t see what’s so special about it,” Coiffed Woman says. “Doesn’t it look like every other abstract painting out there?”

I cough. And that’s why people say no good ever comes of eavesdropping about oneself. I need to armor up, but I still take criticism about my work personally.

The two women look over at me in concern.

“Are you okay?” Bangles Woman asks.

“I’m fine. Got something lodged in my throat.” I clear my throat. “I think what makes this painting unique are the brushstrokes here building up the paint, almost like waves of color washing over you.”

“Oh, interesting,” Bangles Woman says. “I see that now.”

“Are you thinking of buying it?” Coiffed Woman asks me. Her perfume smells of honeysuckle.

That’s a tough question to answer. Some buyers like competition and, if someone else is interested, will buy it immediately to scoop it up. But others back off. Plus, I don’t want to actually lie and say I’m going to buy it when I’m the artist trying to sell it. I never know if my disguise will actually work. But I really do need to sell this painting. I need the money. And my agent, Jade, will stop representing me if I don’t take off soon. I didn’t sell anything at the last little show she got me into.

“No,” I say. “I love it, but I don’t have the budget to buy it.”

“Our dealer said we should get in now before this artist becomes popular after the Vertex show,” Coiffed Woman says.

“But I don’t know.” Bangles Woman frowns.

This is torture. Why did I think covertly persuading art patrons to buy my work was a brilliant idea?

“You should only buy it if you love it.” I don’t want my painting abandoned in a closet.

“I love the colors,” says a male voice to my left. “Do you know the price?”

A tall, lean guy with thick, ruffled, black hair glances over at me.

William Haruki Matsumura.

William is the nephew of my uncle Tony’s partner, Takashi Matsumura. What is he doing here?

Our glances meet.

He’s good-looking, if you like the Secret Service type. I don’t. I never know what he’s thinking, which bothers me. He’s quiet, so he could be full of deep thoughts. Or not.

Don’t let him recognize me.He’ll probably give the game away if he does. But there’s no way he could. I’ve aged my skin with shadows and highlights to look like a sixty-five-year-old woman, even adding a bump to my nose. Straight, silvery locks hide my wavy, red hair, and I’m wearing glasses. It’s not like we see each other that often. Once a year, if even, at Uncle Tony’s parties.

Bangles Woman looks at him, and her eyes widen in appreciation. She steps closer.

“Do you like it?” She puts her hand on his arm suggestively.

He smiles, looking down at her hand. “Yes, very much.”

Ugh. He’d better still be talking about the painting. Keep your attention on my painting. That’s what’s important here.

“What do you like about the painting?” I ask.

“I feel like it shows movement, almost like the ripples of water.” He sweeps his hand across the canvas.

That’s exactly the effect I was going for.

I stare at him. He actually gets it. “And the cadmium yellow?”

“The yellow and orange give it warmth.”

“Yes. The lemon yellow and Naples ye—uh, peach—here are like a warm hug from a hot, sandy beach.” I almost said Naples yellow red instead of peach.

“It makes me feel happy,” he says.

My chest feels all full. I tear up and look away—at some black, red slashes and barbed wire painting next to mine. I shudder. It provides a good contrast. I smile at William.

“You should buy it, then,” I say. Put your money where your mouth is.

“Well, only if you don’t want it,” he says to the two other women. “Ladies first, of course.”

“Maybe we should buy it,” Coiffed Woman says.

“Only if you love it,” I say.

William shakes his head at me.

“It makes me feel happy too,” she says.

“Oh, I’m definitely feeling happier now.” Bangles Woman looks at William. “I love to meet other art collectors. Do you have an extensive art collection? Maybe you’d like to see mine.”

Coiffed Woman leaves and goes over to the gallery owner. She pulls out her credit card. I hold my breath. She signs the iPad. The gallery owner comes over and puts a little green dot next to my painting.

The coveted green dot. I’ve sold a painting. I grin, and the tension eases out of my shoulders. That’s a significant share of this month’s rent. Now Jade will be more inclined to keep representing me, and this augurs well for the Vertex Art Exhibit. My talent might finally get recognized, and some bigger gallery names might pick up my artwork. And I could actually realize my dream of pursuing a career as an artist. No more smiling through gritted teeth at comments like, “I should also pick up a hobby, like you and painting.”

Time to make my escape before I get discovered as the artist. Artists have some license to be creative, but disguising myself to eavesdrop on conversations and persuade people to buy my work might fall under certifiably crazy.

“Congratulations,” I say to them. “It was nice meeting you.”

I turn and slowly saunter out the front door.

Once I’m out of the gallery, my pace quickens. Yes! Sold!

I walk the few blocks to Canal Street, passing by a restaurant and a shop selling smoking paraphernalia. A few guys are hanging outside, and a cloying clove smell fills the air. It’s hotter today than it should be for a spring day.

I can’t take off my wig because I’ve got no way to carry it safely. It needs to be put back on a mannequin head so that its shape isn’t destroyed.

I cross over to the other side of the street where a mostly ochre-colored post office takes up the entire block, its black, terra cotta base covered in graffiti.

“Hey!”

I turn. It’s William, jogging up. He’s never seemed to me to be the type who chats up strangers.

“Oh yes, nice to see you again,” I say, but a bit distantly, as I imagine an older woman would when approached by a stranger she briefly chatted with in a gallery. “Seen enough of the show already?”

“I was only there to see that painting, High Tide 4:30, that those women bought. My uncle told me to check out the show. Miranda Langbroek is his partner’s niece.”

He doesn’t recognize me. This is brilliant.

“She’s really talented. Do you know her?” I ask. “She must be amazing.”

He glances at me and says wryly, “Yes, I know her.”

“And is she amazing?”

“If you mean amazing in the sense of bewildering or surprising or …”

I harrumph. “More like startlingly impressive. If you know her, you should buy up her artwork before the Vertex Art Exhibit.”

“Do you have any more paintings for sale?”

Just a wall full of unsold paintings.

“And why, Miranda, are you dressed as an older woman?”

I stop. Ugh. I can’t believe he’s been toying with me.

“To spy on people checking out my painting and persuade them to buy,” I say as if that’s a completely normal thing to do. “Thanks for your help back there.”

“Wouldn’t people be thrilled to meet the artist?” His brow is furrowed. He pushes his black hair out of his eyes and studies my face. He’s probably trying to figure out what I changed.

“Not if they don’t like the painting.”

“I thought you only wanted people to buy it if they loved it.” William crosses his arms. “You nearly lost a sale with that comment.”

That’s a good point.

“But I didn’t.” I straighten my shoulders.

“You don’t need to disguise yourself.”

A car missing a muffler roars by, and I turn to look at the four lanes of traffic maneuvering by on Canal Street. With no trees on this block, this corner has a very wide-open, exposed feel.

“How did you know it was me?”

His glance is direct. “You stand a certain way. Like you’re not going to go down without a fight.”

I blink.

He shrugs. “I thought I recognized your stance from the back, even with the straight, gray hair, but then I had a moment of doubt when you turned around.”

“Thank goodness for that. I thought I was losing my disguise skills.” I look at him, assessing the way he stands. “You stand in a similar way, although you very much give off this aloof, independent vibe. Like ‘I am my own island.’”

He scoffs. “Are you heading home?”

“Yes. I have to meet some movers in an hour. They’re picking up my paintings for this Vertex Art Exhibit.”

“I’m heading that way too, to see Uncle Takashi.”

My uncle Tony and his partner, Takashi, live around the block from me on Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side.

We stroll down Canal Street toward the subway. This side of the street with the post office is deserted. On the other side are shops more typical of Canal Street with suitcases and other items hanging from awnings. Long tables displaying fake sunglasses and bags and New York City souvenirs commandeer the sidewalk.

“Weren’t you at the party last night?” I cover my mouth as soon as I finish asking the question. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t notice.

He glances at me, his warm, brown eyes flicking to my face, then away, and he shrugs. I can’t tell if the shrug means it’s okay or he’s acknowledging that he also wouldn’t notice if I was there.

“No, I just got back from Tokyo yesterday, and I crashed,” he says.

We wait at the corner for the light to change. Off to the left, the traffic flows toward the Holland Tunnel. Buds are starting to appear on the trees. I am so ready for spring—a new season and a new start on my life as an artist. I’m bubbling over now that I’ve sold a painting.

We cross the street, pass by a graffitied, green mailbox, and jog down the steps of the C subway station.

“What were you doing in Tokyo?” I slide my MetroCard through the turnstile.

“A friend’s wedding,” he says. “And seeing family.”

We walk up the platform and stand by one of the wooden benches. The C train should arrive in two minutes.

I could make conversation, but I’m still annoyed that he pretended he didn’t recognize me after catching up to me. We both stare at the poster advertisements that pepper the white-tiled wall.

The subway pulls into the station. It is crowded, as usual on a Saturday morning, with a mixture of tourists, families, and people with plans. We get in and stand, holding on to the aluminum bar. William lowers his backpack to rest it on the floor at his feet. I check out the subway posters to see if any announce the Vertex Art Exhibit. It’s my new favorite pastime. Every year, the Vertex show picks thirty up-and-coming artists to exhibit. And this year, they picked me. And then during the show, a panel of judges anoint their five favorite artists to watch. The train pulls quickly out of the station and swerves. I swing slightly, caught off guard, and grip the bar tighter.

The person seated in front of me looks up and rises. “Here, you can have my seat.”

I forgot I looked old.

“No, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She looks concerned. “I’m getting off in a few stops.”

“No, it’s okay. It will be harder to talk then.”

“Oh, of course you want to talk to your son,” she says.

My son.

William snickers.

“Mom, you should take the seat,” he says.

I want to kill him.

“You’ve raised him well.” The seated woman stands.

“Here, Mom, let me help you sit.” William takes my elbow.

I sit. I can feel myself blushing, mortified.

The construction worker next to me says, “If you guys want to talk, I’ll get up too.”

That’s nice of him. I feel a little weepy at everyone being so considerate. I wipe away some wetness from my eyes.

William says, “No, it’s okay. I can’t take your seat. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.” And then he leans down and whispers loudly to the guy, “She’ll only nag me about whether I’m dating anyone.”

“I don’t nag,” I say stiffly, sitting upright and shooting a death glare at him.

The guy laughs.

William smiles sweetly at me and resumes studying the subway advertisements.

I say, “I’ve found a nice girl for you to date.”

He looks down at me, one eyebrow raised.

“She is a very successful lawyer. She can’t cook, but she can support your derelict lifestyle.”

“Maybe you do want the seat,” the guy next to me says to William.

“You shouldn’t give up your seat. He’s perfectly healthy to stand,” I say.

“Not if I’m going to hear more about my derelict lifestyle,” William says simultaneously.

At Fifty-Ninth Street, passengers chaotically switch between the express train across the platform and our local train. William remains standing, even though the seat next to me opens up. A woman slides into that seat, guidebook in hand, and asks me if this stops at the Museum of Natural History. I confirm that it does.

When we get to the Seventy-Second Street stop, William leans down as if to help me up. I swat his hand away.

“I can get up fine,” I say grumpily.

He follows me out of the subway. Passing by the Yoko Ono Sky blue-and-white tile artwork, we push through the turnstiles.

“Are you okay with the stairs?” he asks.

I stop. I’m about to retort that of course I am, but then I grin. He takes a step back.

I pinch his cheek. “You’re such a good boy. I need to hold on to you.” I grab his arm and lean heavily on him. I’m five foot eight and muscular. His biceps flex, but he doesn’t falter. Suddenly, William feels very male. I flush. Too intimate.

He glances at me. “You never do what I expect. Maybe I should just pick you up and carry you. That would be easier.”

My eyes widen.

As he motions to do just that, I retreat. “That’s okay. I’ll walk up by myself.”

I hurry up the concrete stairs, glad he can’t see my face. He keeps pace behind me.

As we walk side by side down the wide expanse of Seventy-Second Street, passing under the apartment building awnings and skirting around the aluminum delivery carts piled high with boxes, I feel very aware of William next to me.

“Was the party as dramatic as last year?” he asks.

Confused, I raise my eyebrow. “Uncle Tony’s parties are always exciting.” Uncle Tony is a costume designer, so his friends are all in theater. He’s the one who taught me how to create disguises. It’s a useful skill to have.As the drama-prone stepdaughter of the former Manhattan Borough president, disguising myself was the best way to escape the press. Better than following my stepsister Annabelle’s approach, which is to be perfect at all times. The press never follows her. No story there.

Takashi is in IT security, which might sound boring, but actually, many of his colleagues are white-hat hackers and have an edgy, antiauthority vibe. “The karaoke machine came out.”

“Remember last year, before Uncle Takashi’s party, on the street outside, when you were yelling at your boyfriend?” he asks.

I blush. I can’t believe William saw me screaming like a fishwife. Some fan kissed Rex, my boyfriend at the time and bandmate, after a concert without his permission. But I hadn’t realized that at first and thought he was kissing her. He pushed her away, but I’d still been upset. I jumped in a cab to go to Uncle Tony’s party. He followed me in the next cab. We met up again on the street outside Tony’s apartment building. I screamed at him that I hated that I was so jealous. “Oh well. I felt a lot better after getting it all out.”

“You certainly didn’t hold back,” William says. We turn to walk up Columbus Avenue, pausing to let the couple ahead of us pass first a woman heading the other way. She is pushing a stroller with a coffee in hand. The street is crowded here, with more people and less space as the restaurants have tables set out on the sidewalk, fenced off by plants and portable barriers.

“Well, I’m always good for a story,” I say wryly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it was all very civilized this year. Anyway, what would you do if you caught your girlfriend cheating?”

A shadow passes over his face. But then he stands straighter. “Do you really think someone would cheat on me?” He gives me a patronizing, superior look. So annoying.

“If someone can cheat on me, they can cheat on you.” I may not be as objectively good-looking as William, but I do all right with those who like personality.

“But he didn’t cheat on you,” William says.

“Exactly. So I guess we don’t have to worry about that.” I realize what I’ve said makes little sense. “How was Tokyo? Did you get to see your grandmother? How is she doing? Did you bring back exciting candy? Takashi misses Tokyo.”

“Do you want me to answer or are you just asking questions?”

I laugh. “I want you to answer.”

“I did see Obaachan. She’s getting older, but she’s still a strong character. And I caught up with friends after the wedding.” He swings his backpack forward. “And yes, I’ve brought gifts for Uncle Takashi. I wish I could’ve brought fruit back. That’s what he misses the most.”

“He always says nothing compares to Japanese peaches and strawberries.”

We’ve reached Uncle Tony’s apartment building entrance.

“Bye,” I say. “I may see you later. I’m coming by to pick up my painting after the movers leave.”

He does not look thrilled about the possibility of seeing me again. His facial expression says resigned—at best. He nods. I have a sneaking suspicion he will definitely not be around when I come by later.

But then he smiles slightly and says, “Bye, Mom!”

I shake my head and walk quickly away. That’s probably the most I’ve talked to William in years. I’d written him off after overhearing him discussing asset impairments accounting with his then girlfriend at one of my uncle’s parties several years ago. He’s much more playful than I’ve given him credit for.