Chapter 1
ONE
P aint fumes, Italian roast coffee, and the faintest trace of turpentine—the holy trinity of Meara Adams’s morning ritual. She balanced atop her ladder in the Manhattan gallery, a craftsman’s paintbrush clenched between her teeth, while Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 drifted from hidden speakers. The morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting prisms of light across her latest pieces and transforming the polished hardwood floors into a kaleidoscope of color.
“Three millimeters to the right,” she muttered around the brush, stretching up on her tiptoes to adjust the massive canvas. The piece—a turbulent symphony of midnight blues and violent purples—needed to catch the natural light at precisely the right angle. Her upcoming exhibition demanded nothing less than perfection.
The door chimes tinkled, followed by the rapid click of designer loafers and an exaggerated gasp.
“Mary, Mother of Michelangelo!” Frenchy Thompson’s voice echoed through the gallery. “Please tell me you haven’t been up there since dawn performing your one-woman show of ‘Starving Artist on a Ladder.’“
“I’m not starving.” Meara gestured to her empty coffee cup. “I had espresso for breakfast.”
“Coffee is not breakfast, you beautiful disaster.” Frenchy dropped his messenger bag onto a nearby chair, his green eyes narrowing. “And speaking of beautiful—” He whipped out his phone, pulling up a photo. “What about this fine specimen? He’s a curator at the Met, loves dogs, and has cheekbones that could cut glass.”
Meara climbed down the ladder, plucking the phone from his manicured fingers. The man in question did indeed have impressive cheekbones. “Not my type.”
“Perfect! I’ll take him.” Frenchy snatched his phone back with a theatrical flourish. “Your loss is my gay gain. But what about this one?” He swiped to another photo. “Investment banker, volunteers at animal shelters, arms like a Greek god?—”
“Also not my type.”
“Darling, at this point, your ‘type’ is apparently a canvas that texts back.” He perched on the edge of a work table, sending a stack of sketches sliding. “Though I must say, the dramatic color palette of your latest work might finally be overshadowed by your equally dramatic love life—or should I say, lack thereof?”
“I’ll find love once I locate all my missing paintbrushes.” Meara rescued the sketches, tucking a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Speaking of which, have you seen my favorite sable round?”
“Some things are worth brushing up on besides art supplies.” Frenchy brandished his ever-present clipboard like a shield. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that masterful subject change. You’re getting better at those. Must be all the practice avoiding potential suitors.”
“You’re impossible.” Meara grabbed her water bottle and took a long drink.
“Impossible? No. Fabulous? Always.” He studied his clipboard with exaggerated focus. “Now, about the guest list—oh my god, speaking of guests, you have to see this silver fox who just started teaching at Columbia?—”
Meara’s phone buzzed against the counter, her grandmother’s smiling face lighting up the screen. A familiar warmth spread through her chest, mixed with a small spike of concern. She hadn’t seen Betsy in nearly a week.
“Hold that thought on your silver fox.” She stepped toward the back corner of the gallery, near a particularly striking abstract piece. “Hi, Grandma. How are you feeling today?”
“Never mind about me, sweetheart.” Betsy’s warm voice carried that particular tone that said she wouldn’t discuss her health. “Tell me you’ve left the studio at least once this week.”
Meara glanced at Frenchy, who mouthed lies while pointing at her coffee cup. “I went for coffee yesterday.”
“Running across the street for a to-go cup while checking gallery emails doesn’t count as living, dear.” Betsy’s gentle scolding carried a thread of genuine concern. “You need more than paint fumes and caffeine to sustain you.”
“My paintings don’t judge me for wearing paint-stained clothes.” Meara surveyed the constellation of colors dotting her favorite jeans and oversized sweater. “They appreciate my dedication to the craft.”
“And I appreciate that you’re living your dream.” Betsy’s voice softened, bringing an ache to Meara’s throat. Had her grandmother’s voice always sounded this tired? “But dreams can expand, you know. There’s room for love alongside art.”
“Tell love to schedule an appointment.” Meara sat on the edge of her desk, fingers finding the framed photo of herself and Betsy at her first gallery opening. They both looked younger, lighter somehow. “My calendar’s full through next month with this exhibition.”
“Speaking of calendars...” That particular lilt entered Betsy’s voice—the one that preceded every matchmaking attempt since Meara’s college years. “I heard about a lovely event coming up. A gala, actually. Hosted by a dear friend of mine, Gerri Wilder.”
“Grandma.” Meara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me this isn’t another matchmaking scheme.”
“Would I do that to you?”
“Yes. Yes, you absolutely would.” Meara caught Frenchy’s eye across the gallery. He’d stopped pretending not to eavesdrop and now stood with his hand pressed to his heart, mouthing “say yes.”
“Consider it networking, then.” Betsy paused to catch her breath, the slight wheeze making Meara’s stomach clench. “There’ll be plenty of potential art collectors. And if you happen to meet someone interesting...”
“The timing isn’t great with the exhibition?—”
“Life isn’t solely about perfect timing or perfect paintings, sweetheart.” Steel entered Betsy’s tone, reminding Meara of all the times that gentle strength had carried them both through dark days. “Sometimes it’s about taking chances.”
Meara studied the photo on her desk, remembering how Betsy had surprised her that opening night, bringing a homemade cake and enough enthusiasm to fill the entire gallery. Her grandmother’s faith had never wavered, from the moment eight-year-old Meara declared she wanted to be an artist to now.
“Will you be there?” Meara asked softly. “At the gala?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” The smile in Betsy’s voice warmed something deep in Meara’s chest. “We could have dinner beforehand, make an evening of it.”
“Then I’ll go.” Meara ignored Frenchy’s victory dance across the gallery floor. “But only because I miss you and want to hear all about this mysterious friend of yours who apparently moonlights as a matchmaker.”
“Bless your heart.” The relief in Betsy’s voice made Meara’s chest ache. “You won’t regret it.”