Chapter 20
Tuesday morning, I'm in his kitchen with a cup of tea I haven’t finished and Renée on speaker. I notice I'm smiling for no reason except that the light coming through the window is good, the tea is hot, and the love of my life is in the next room on a call.
"You haven't answered my question."
"What question?"
"What does it look like?"
"What does what look like, Renée?"
"The house, Suz, the kitchen, the view… I have been waiting for days to be told what the view looks like, and you keep changing the subject."
"The view is fine."
"Suz, come on."
"It's a view. It's a city. There are buildings."
"I’m going to come over there and shake you."
"There is a tree across the street."
"A tree?"
"A tree, Renée. A regular tree with leaves."
"You’re doing this on purpose."
I am, partially.
I'm also, partially, doing it because I don’t have the language for the kitchen yet.
The kitchen has a marble island, a six-burner stove, and a window over the sink that looks out at the bay.
My four boxes of books are stacked along the wall by the pantry door because I haven’t figured out where my books go in a house this size.
The boxes have been there for a couple of days.
I have been walking past them on purpose.
"Tell me one true thing about the kitchen."
"It has a six-burner stove."
"What?"
"Six burners, Renée. You should see it."
"Have you used six burners?"
"I have used one."
She cackles. "And the bed?"
"Renée. It's king-sized."
"Of course, it's a king size, Suz. The man is a billionaire. No one is paying for this house in tens. Have you slept in it?"
"Obviously. I live here now."
"Is he a morning person or an evening person?"
"Why?"
"Asking for science."
"Both."
"Both?"
"I have to go."
"Tell me one more thing."
"What?"
"You sound happy. I just want to make sure I’m hearing what I’m hearing."
I’m quiet for a beat. "You're hearing what you're hearing."
"Don't let anyone screw it up, including you."
"I won't."
"I mean it."
"Renée."
"Okay. I love you."
"I love you. I — wait. I told you I would do it, and I did it."
"Did what?"
"I put my work online, the three pieces, yesterday. Under my own name."
A pause on the line.
"Suz."
"I know."
"I’m crying."
"Don't."
"Too late."
"Renée — "
A pair of hands slides onto my waist from behind.
I jump.
Renée hears the jump.
Cade kisses the side of my neck below my earlobe. He has come up behind me without making a sound, and his mouth is warm against my skin. His hands at my waist have already settled in the way they have been settling for some time, which is his way of making sure I remember whose hands they are.
"Suzanne Jenkins, what was that? What was that sound?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing my entire ass."
"I really have to go now."
"I hate you. I hate both of you. Tell him I hate him."
"Renée says she hates you."
"Tell her the feeling is mutual," Cade says.
"He says the feeling is mutual."
"You are both terrible. Goodbye."
She hangs up.
I’m laughing and tilting my head to give him better access to my neck, which my body has decided to do on its own.
His hands at my waist are now sliding up under the hem of my shirt, and the tea on the counter is going to get cold, and I’m going to be late for my meeting if he does any more of what he is doing.
"Cade."
"Mmm…"
"Cade, I have a meeting."
"Mhmm."
"In forty minutes."
"With?"
"Someone who is interested in the work."
He pulls back and turns me around. His hands stay at my waist.
He looks at my face. "Who?"
"Someone Brandt mentioned. He said he'd been hearing about the studio nights, and he reached out. We're meeting at the café on Hayes."
"Good."
"Yeah?"
"Good. Go. Knock him over."
He kisses me once more — quick, almost chaste — and tightens the strap of my bag over my shoulder, and he steps back.
"You'll tell me about it tonight."
"Yes."
"Suzanne."
"Yes?"
"I'm proud of you."
I leave the apartment with my heart full and aching in the best way.
The café on Hayes is small and good. Old wood. Brass fixtures. A long zinc bar at the back and four tables by the window. He is at the table closest to the window. He stands when I come in.
"Suzanne."
"Hi."
He pulls my chair out and asks me how my morning has been. He asks me how the move is going. He doesn’t pry. He waits for me to settle the bag on the back of the chair, order a coffee, and take the first sip before he opens the leather folder in front of him.
He is the exact right amount of charming.
He walks me through what he is offering.
We talk about the three pieces I uploaded yesterday — he has already looked at them, which means he was on the site within hours of me posting.
He tells me what he thinks I’m doing well, what he thinks is still emerging, the work I sent over before.
The older pieces I did have a quality of patience that he doesn't see in a lot of work by people who are starting now.
"You don't paint to be done with the painting."
"No."
"That is the rarest thing on this list, by the way."
"Thank you."
He smiles.
He treats me like an artist who will keep making art for the next forty years. He treats me like a person whose voice, in his estimation, will get clearer if it is given a year before anybody is allowed to buy it.
I haven’t been treated this way before.
He walks me through the roster. Four artists. Mid-career. Each is placed carefully. Each with one show a year and one residency every two.
"A year?"
"A year."
"That's — that's longer than most people offer."
"Most people are not offering you what I'm offering."
I sit with it and ask him about contracts. He walks me through the fees and terms.
I drink the second half of my coffee.
"I'd like to sign."
He smiles. "I'm delighted. The paperwork will be this week. We'll have the contract in your inbox by Thursday. You'll have more time to read it. I’d like you to have a lawyer look at it. I have one I can recommend, but I would prefer you choose your own."
"Okay." I take a breath. "Before I sign, I'd like you to come to dinner at our place. I'd like you to meet my boyfriend before anything is final."
"Of course. Text me the details."
"I will."
He shakes my hand.
His hand is warm. His grip is firm. He thanks me again, puts the leather folder under his arm, and leaves the café before I do.
I sit at the table with the empty cup and the warm thing in my chest.
It takes me a second to name it.
Hope.
Vivienne calls me from the kitchen at 3:00 p.m.
I had not planned to stop by. She had called a couple of days ago and asked me to come for tea when I had a chance. I have the afternoon free because the meeting ended an hour earlier than I thought it would.
I drive to her house.
She is in her garden area when I pull up. She is in a wide-brimmed hat and gardening gloves. She stands up when she sees me walking up to her.
She kisses me on both cheeks. "I'm so glad you came."
"Thank you for having me."
"Tea?"
"Please."
We have tea in the small sunroom off the kitchen.
The light is low and gold. She asks me about the move.
I tell her about the marble island, the six-burner stove, and the boxes I have not unpacked.
She laughs at the boxes. She tells me she had boxes for a year when she moved into Henry's house. She asks about my morning.
I tell her about the meeting, just some small details but not all of it — the roster, the year, and the patience.
She listens and asks me one or two questions that are more precise than I was expecting. "Has he given you the names of his current artists? Have you spoken to any of them? Do you have a lawyer?"
I tell her I have a lawyer. Cade's lawyer recommended one for me last week. Her name is Naomi.
She nods and is quiet for a moment.
Then she stands up.
"Stay."
She goes into the next room and comes back with a small velvet box. She sits down across from me and puts the box on the table between us. She opens it.
Inside is a thin gold chain with a small oval pendant — a locket, plain, old. It’s a piece that is not worth much on paper but is worth a great deal to the person it belonged to.
"This was my mother's."
"Vivienne…"
"I’ve been saving it for a long time. I had always imagined giving it to a daughter. I didn’t have a daughter. I made my peace with that years ago." She looks at me. "But I would like you to have it, if you'll take it."
I cannot.
She lifts the chain out of the box. She comes around the table. She fastens it around my neck herself. Her hands are steady. She smooths the chain against my collarbone with the back of her fingers. She steps back.
"There."
I look down. The pendant is small and warm against my skin.
I start to thank her, but the words won't come out.
She cups my face for one second. Her palm is dry and soft.
"It looks right on you."
She lets go.
"Drink your tea."
I get home at 5:15 p.m.
Cade is on a call in his office. I can hear the low, even register of his work voice through the door.
I leave my bag on the bench in the entryway, I go to the kitchen, and I unpack two of the four boxes while I wait.
Books on the lower shelves. A small stack of art monographs Renée mailed me last year on the upper. The kettle is on, in case he wants tea.
He finishes the call, comes into the kitchen, and sees my face.
"How did it go?"
"Good."
"Tell me."
I tell him about the meeting and the way the man across the table treated me. And I tell him I'm going to sign the contract.
He pulls me to him and kisses the top of my head.
"I'm proud of you."
"I invited him to dinner. I want you to meet him before I sign anything."
"Good."
He doesn’t ask the man's name. I don’t think to offer it.
He notices the locket and touches the pendant with one finger.
"Where did this come from?"
"Your mom."
His face softens. "She has been wanting to give that to someone since forever."
"I know. She told me."
"I'm glad it was you."
He kisses me.
It starts in the kitchen.
It ends in the bedroom.
It is not the Santa Barbara scene or the cuffs. It is the slower thing two people do when they are not hiding anymore — no morning shift, no service elevator at six, no camera at the end of a hallway. He takes his time. I let him. He says my name. I say his.
There is no hurry.
There is no adrenaline.
There is just the two of us in his bed in the room where the light comes through the windows and lies across the duvet and stays there for a long time.
After.
His fingers are in my hair, slow. The same arc. I'm half asleep against the soft place over his heart. The room is dim.
"Cade."
"Mhmm."
"I have a confession."
"What is it?"
"I was the one who scratched your car."
A beat.
"What?"
I remember the Aston and the first morning. I caught the rear quarter panel with the mop handle on my cart, so Roger sent me upstairs to apologize. That's why I came up to the suite.
"Suzanne."
"That is the entire reason I was in your room that morning."
He starts to laugh.
He does not stop for a long time. The laugh is in his chest under my ear, and the chest moves under my cheek, and I'm laughing too. We are in his bed in the dark, and I have just confessed to scratching a car.
"Suzanne Jenkins, you scratched my car."
"You bought my hotel."
"I did buy your hotel."
"We're even."
"We are not even."
"We are."
He kisses the top of my head, and his hand keeps moving in my hair.
"I need you."
"I know."
"Suzanne."
"I know that too."
He says other things. He says them low into my hair, into my temple, into the place where the locket lies against my collarbone. I let him.
I'm close.
I'm close enough to it that I can feel it sitting at the bottom of my throat the way a thing sits when it has been waiting for the right second.
Tonight is not the right second.
Tonight is for sleeping.
I sleep.