Chapter 5 Mara #2
Just like that. No questions about provenance, no interest in the artist's technique or historical significance. Just a transaction.
It should make me happy. It's a significant sale, and my commission alone will be substantial. It’s another success, another tick in the box that leads to what I told Alexander I wanted: for the gallery to be profitable enough that we’re not riding the high of a windfall to keep going and instead have a steady income that keeps us all comfortable.
Instead for some reason, I feel hollow.
"Wonderful," I say, my professional smile plastered on my face. "I'll have Claire draw up the paperwork."
After he leaves, I stand in the gallery space, looking at the Diebenkorn.
The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, hitting the painting at an angle that makes the colors seem to glow from within.
It's beautiful. It's important. And it's going to end up in some hedge fund manager's dining room where he'll barely look at it.
This is your job, I remind myself. This is what you do.
It’s never bothered me before. I’ve never had the feeling that this is somehow hollow, that I’m selling pieces of history and someone else’s creative genius to people who don’t actually care about it beyond what their friends at dinner parties will think.
One conversation shouldn’t have made me feel so differently.
Meeting a man who seemed to share my love for art and the depths of it shouldn’t have altered my perception of what I’ve worked so hard for.
And, I remind myself, for every idiot like David Ellis, there’s other clients who want the chase of the piece they’re obsessed with as much as I do.
Clients who are fascinated with a particular artist and their work, who understand the deeper meanings. Not everyone is vapidly wealthy.
I need to remember that, before I start to lose sight of who I am and what I’ve always wanted over something as meaningless as a chance encounter with a man.
—
The pieces from the estate arrive at three, carefully crated and accompanied by enough paperwork to fill a small library.
I spend the next two hours examining them—checking signatures, analyzing brushstrokes, comparing them to known works by the same artists.
This is the part of my job I love. The detective work, the careful analysis, the moment when you can say with certainty that something is real or fake, valuable or worthless.
I’m nearly finished with the first piece when Claire appears in the doorway.
“I think you’ve been staring at that same document for the last twenty minutes. You didn’t even notice the last time I came in.”
I blink, realizing she's right. I've read and reread the document in front of me several times, but I couldn’t actually say what’s written on it. I’m distracted again, and I know exactly why, although I’d never admit it out loud.
"Just being thorough.” I set the paper down, rubbing my temples.
"Uh-huh." Claire leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Okay, what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm working."
"You've been distracted since you got back from Boston." Her eyes narrow. "Did something happen with Annie? Is she okay?"
"Annie's fine."
"Then what is it?"
I consider lying. If I brush it off and change the subject, maybe Claire will eventually give up and leave me alone about it.
Besides, she’s my employee—if I told her flat out to leave me alone, she would.
But that’s not the relationship we have; I’ve always been more friends with my assistant than anything else.
And hell, maybe talking about it will help. Maybe saying it out loud will make it seem less significant, less consuming.
I sit back in my chair, rubbing my hands through my hair and over my scalp. “I met someone.”
Claire's face lights up. "You met someone? In Boston? Who? Tell me everything."
"There's nothing to tell. It was just... we ran into each other a few times. We talked. That's it. He was at a Caravaggio exhibit and then we saw each other at a bakery, had a cup of coffee together. He wanted to take me out to dinner but I said no, since I was heading home."
Claire frowns. "That's it? Then why do you look like someone who's been hit by a truck?"
"I don't look like—"
"Mara. I've worked for you for three years. I've seen you negotiate with other art dealers without breaking a sweat. I've seen you authenticate a Pollock in under an hour. I've never seen you look like this."
I force myself not to roll my eyes. "Like what?"
"Like you're still in Boston thinking about this guy." She comes into the room, pulling up a chair. "So who is he? What's his name?"
"Alexander Volkov. At least, that's what he told me." I set down the painting, carefully, and turn to face her. "He said he was a businessman. A museum donor. But I don't know if any of that's true."
Claire raises her eyebrows. "Why wouldn't it be true?"
"Because..." I trail off, not sure how to explain. "When I tried to find out more about him, there was nothing. No social media, no online presence. Nothing. And… I don’t know. There’s something very intense about him. It feels a little odd."
"Maybe he's just private."
"Maybe." I run my hands through my hair. "Or maybe he's married. In Witness Protection or something. There could be plenty of reasons, I’m sure. Like you said, maybe he just doesn’t want to be online."
Claire is quiet for a moment, studying me. "Did you give him your number?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Did he ask for it?"
“He wanted to take me to dinner.” I shrug. “He didn’t say anything about getting my number, but I could have offered it.”
"So you're never going to see him again."
The way she says it, so matter of fact, hits me harder than it should. I feel a pang of disappointment in my chest and try to push it away. "Probably not."
"And that's why you keep checking your phone even though he doesn't have your number?"
I feel my face flush. "I haven't been—"
"You absolutely have been." But she's smiling, not unkindly. "Mara, this is good. I’ve been worried about you. It’s good for you to be interested in someone.”
“I’m not… it would be long distance. There’s no point.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs and stands up, smirking a little. “Or maybe, if he left this much of an impression on you, you should try to find him. See if there really is something there. Putting so many restrictions on your happiness isn’t good for you, Mara.”
"Or maybe it was just a fleeting connection,” I point out. “Something that felt significant in the moment but doesn't actually mean anything."
"Maybe." Claire lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. "But you won't know unless you try."
She walks out, and I sit there with my pile of documents and a rapidly growing headache, trying not to think about a man who should have stayed in Boston, rather than following me here in my fantasies.
—
In an effort to forget about him, I finally let Claire set me up with Drew.
We make a date for Wednesday night and I meet him at a nice Italian place in Little Italy, taking a cab there instead of having him pick me up.
The fact that he owns a car in Manhattan is, in my opinion, already a point against him—there’s absolutely no reason to have one and it seems extravagantly stupid to me.
He’s waiting for me just inside when I walk in, wearing a grey peacoat and a plaid scarf over chinos and a sweater.
He's attractive in a conventional way—sandy hair, blue eyes, a smile that's probably charmed plenty of women. But every time his blue gaze catches mine as we talk about work and personal interests and all the usual first-date things, I keep thinking that his eyes aren’t as piercing or as intense as Alexander’s.
They’re nice enough, but I don’t feel anything when he looks at me, beyond a pleasant sense of companionship.
I’m sure if we dated we’d get along fine, but fine has never been enough for me, and it certainly isn’t now.
I can tell he’s interested—he keeps the dinner going all the way through a dessert course that I’m pretty sure we’re both too full to really eat—but I don’t feel any spark.
No flutters of butterflies or feeling of desire.
When he walks me out to my cab after dinner—after I’ve already declined drinks somewhere else, citing that it’s a work night—he leans in for a kiss. I turn my head so he catches my cheek instead.
"I'm sorry.” I genuinely mean it—he’s a decent enough guy, and I feel bad that I have no desire to see him again. "You're great, but I don't think this is going to work."
He takes it well, like I knew he would. "No worries. Worth a shot, right?"
I nod as I slide into the cab. "Right."
I stare out of the window on the drive back to my apartment, feeling like the worst kind of person.
Drew is exactly the type of man I should be interested in—stable, successful, normal.
The kind of man who wouldn't make you feel like the ground is shifting beneath your feet, or make you look away because his gaze is so intense. He’s steady and reliable.
He might even be faithful, he seemed like the type.
But I can't stop comparing him to Alexander, with his piercing, icy eyes and that voice that made me shiver.
Thursday night before the gallery opening, I have drinks with another gallery owner who I’ve known for years.
Leo is smart, handsome, and funny, and he’s been casually flirting with me for as long as we’ve known each other.
Tonight, after a couple of apple and whiskey mules, he's more direct about it.
"We should do this more often." He reaches over, his hand brushing mine across the bar where we’re sitting. “Just the two of us, I mean. I know we’re both always so busy, but this is nice.”