Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
“I guess I should have been clearer about what most men might consider ‘too girly.’?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” We’re at my favorite nail salon with our feet plunged into warm, scented, swirling water. Sarah and Angela, my favorite nail technicians, are taming our cuticles while Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Adele, and Dolly Parton play on the sound system.
Other patrons sneak looks at Luke as if he’s “eye candy” provided for their entertainment, and I suspect if he were willing, the salon would pay him to come back then quietly spread the word to their best customers.
“You owe me big time,” he says with an exaggerated sigh as our hands are dipped into warm paraffin three times then slipped into heated mitts.
“It’s heavenly, isn’t it?” I practically purr. “I knew you’d enjoy this.”
“That was not my happy sigh. And while I appreciate Sarah’s skill as a manicurist, this is not a ‘date’ I would have agreed to.”
“Which is exactly why I decided to surprise you. Sometimes you just need someone to help you push your boundaries a little.”
“I’m as open to new experiences as any man, but I can’t help noticing I’m the only male here.”
“And I can’t help thinking that if you would relax and give this a chance, you’d enjoy it.”
Sarah looks up at us. “Lots of men have manicures and pedicures on a regular basis. Sometimes they come with their girlfriends or wives. Many times, they come on their own. Because if you’re man enough not to feel emasculated by the idea, it can be quite relaxing. And hygienically, it’s good for you to keep your nails clean and trimmed.”
After this faultless explanation, Luke flashes Sarah a smile and thanks her profusely when our appointment ends.
Afterward, I drive us to Woody’s on St. Pete Beach for dinner, where we grab a table outside and watch boats go by as we wolf down our food. Then I drive us a bit farther down Gulf Boulevard to Larry’s Ice Cream, where we choose cones filled with scoops of their duly famous homemade ice cream, which we lick contentedly on the way to Luke’s. Our good night kiss is cold and creamy and eminently satisfying.
Once I’ve pulled into Grand’s driveway, I check her mailbox and find it empty. Which is when I realize that although I’m not the one who always checks, I haven’t seen so much as a postcard or letter lying about since I moved in.
I find Grand at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea and plop down across from her.
“How was the mani-pedi experience?”
“Let’s just say it was not a hit and I’m a little concerned about what kind of date revenge he might be planning.”
Grand snorts and takes a long sip of her tea. “Paybacks can be hell,” she says. “But I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he realized what you’d planned.”
I laugh. “It was pretty epic. You should have seen all the other customers eating him up with their eyes.”
“Ha!” Grand says. “The salon should pay him .”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Did you manage to get any pictures or video?”
“Unfortunately, no. My hands weren’t available to me at the time. And I suspect he would have bailed immediately.”
We laugh again as I get up and pour myself a cup of tea.
After a long appreciative sip, I set down my cup. “I just realized that there hasn’t been any mail delivered since I got here. Have you filled out a change of address card?”
“No, I just had it put on hold when I came down to visit Myra.”
“Because you were already planning to stay longer than you let on?”
“No.” Grand shakes her head. “Because I wanted to keep my options open. And because I can release the hold online and arrange to have the held mail and future mail shipped here whenever I want.”
“Do you need me to help you set that up?”
She gives me the second eye roll of my day. “I’m not the incompetent scatterbrain your mother thinks I am. I can manage.”
“I know that. And I was wondering…” I hesitate.
“Wondering what?”
“Grand, are you absolutely certain you didn’t know Brian Boyer or his wife in New York?”
She sighs but doesn’t avoid answering. “I’d heard of Camille because she’d given Phillip a show back in the early days of his career, but I never met either of them. And before you ask, I also never heard that either of them ever suspected that The Madonna wasn’t Phillip’s work.”
“You’re sure.”
“Cross my heart,” she says, miming the gesture. “In my experience, people tend to see what they want or expect to. And what reason would they have to suspect Phillip would ever try to pass off someone else’s work as his own? Especially the work of an art student no one had ever heard of?”
I watch her face carefully as she says this because I really, really want to believe that she’s telling the truth when she insists she never met the Boyers in New York. Or had any idea that Phillip and Camille had had an affair.
But given everything else she’s admitted to, I can’t help wondering if these are just things she wanted to believe.
· · ·
Three days later the reno/refresh of Myra’s bookstore is finally complete. All that’s left is to get the books on the shelves and the signage in place. At the moment the three of us are sitting at Grand’s dining room table, where Myra and Grand stuff envelopes with grand opening announcements and Sandcastle Books bookmarks, while I tweak the website and schedule grand opening posts for social media.
Later, Luke and Brian Boyer arrive for a celebratory dinner that Grand has prepared. Myra, the guest of honor, sits at the head of the table while Luke and Brian are careful not to sit next to or directly across from each other, which isn’t easy, given the size of the table and the small number of people sitting around it.
When Grand raises her glass of sangria, we join her in a toast to Myra and the grand opening to come. We chat, some more comfortably than others, while we consume the Ensalada Mixta. Then I help Grand carry a huge platter of her duly famous arroz con pollo, a basket of crusty Cuban bread, and a bowl of green beans to the table.
Between mouthfuls of my favorite meal, I fix my attention on Brian, eager to see whether his answers will jibe with the ones my grandmother gave me.
“So, Brian,” I say, “Grand tells me that your wife owned a gallery in New York.”
“Yes,” he answers almost tentatively.
“Did she really put on one of Phillip Drake’s first one-man shows?”
“Why…yes.”
“And was she one of the first gallery owners to call attention to his Madonna that later went missing?”
“Yes,” he says more firmly as his eyes narrow.
Luke’s gaze is fixed on Brian. In fact, Luke’s been watching Brian since he arrived.
“So you knew Phillip Drake personally,” I continue. “And you were familiar with his work.”
“Yes, of course. But I knew most of the important or up-and-coming artists in New York at that time through my wife.” Brian’s brow furrows. “But I have to admit The Madonna was very different from his body of work at that time.” He dabs at his chin with his napkin. “But surely this is ancient history. Why does it matter now that he’s gone?”
“Oh, I don’t know if it does or not,” I admit. “I guess I’m just curious why you didn’t already know my grandmother.”
Brian hesitates, and for a moment I think he’s going to admit that he did know her. But what he says is, “It’s my understanding that Lillian wasn’t in New York very long. And not to offend her or her talent, but she simply wasn’t on the art world’s radar.”
Grand shoots me a “cease and desist” look. Myra keeps her thoughts to herself, which is rare. Luke gives me a look that I refuse to interpret. Only Brian seems unperturbed.
What I don’t know is whether he is actually unconcerned about this line of questioning or is a really skilled liar.
“And what do you think of her work now?” Luke asks Brian.
Grand blushes. “I haven’t shown Brian any of my current work yet. When and if I do, I’m sure he’ll give me his honest opinion.” She stands. “Sydney, will you help clear the table for dessert?”
I stand and begin to gather the dirty dishes. As we carry them into the kitchen, I hear Brian ask Luke, “I’m curious. What’s your problem with me?”
“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Luke replies. “But I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and those instincts tell me that something about you doesn’t add up.”
I head back to the table with a water pitcher in hand and begin to top off glasses as unobtrusively as I can.
“And you’re here tonight to figure that out?” Brian asks Luke.
“No. I’m here because Lillian invited me. And because Sydney and I are dating.” He winks at me. “Or trying to. And because I would do anything I needed to, to protect both of them.”
“And you believe I’m a threat.” Brian’s question is more of a statement.
“That remains to be seen,” Luke replies. “But Lillian has always treated me like a grandson, and she’s very important to me.”
“And would you step over the line to protect her from some imagined threat?” Brian asks quietly.
Luke locks gazes with Brian’s.
“In a heartbeat.”
My heart squeezes, and I have to look away. My hero .