Chapter 2
TWO
A fter ending the call, Meara sat motionless, letting her grandmother’s words sink in. The studio lights cast long shadows across her paintings while her mind wandered to uncomfortable places—like how much time she might have left to make Betsy’s wishes come true.
“So...” Frenchy materialized beside her, his usual dramatic flair softened by genuine affection. “A gala, hmm? Please tell me this means I get to help coordinate your outfit. That paint-splattered chic look, while very on-brand, might not cut it for a sophisticated soirée.”
“Shouldn’t you be arranging the guest list for the exhibition preview?”
“Oh, honey, I can multitask. Speaking of which—” He pulled up another photo on his phone. “What about this doctoral candidate? He’s studying Renaissance art and has arms that could?—”
“Let me guess. You’ll keep him too if I’m not interested?”
“My dance card is filling up nicely, thank you very much.” Frenchy’s grin softened. “But seriously, M. I know you’re worried about Betsy. Maybe this gala thing isn’t the worst idea. Even if you don’t meet ‘the one,’ it’ll make her happy to see you trying.”
“When did you get so wise?” Meara bumped his shoulder with hers.
“I’ve always been wise. You’re just usually too busy arguing with your paintings to notice.”
“Everything okay over here?” Ebony, a part-time studio intern approached with a stack of promotional materials. “I couldn’t help overhearing something about a fancy event.”
“News travels fast around here.” Meara shook her head, attempting to redirect focus. “Don’t we have critics coming to preview the exhibition?”
“Yes, and they’ll be suitably impressed.” Frenchy flourished an ornate invitation card—where had he even gotten that? “But this gala? This could be your big break in more ways than one. I’m thinking emerald green for your dress. It’ll bring out your eyes and say ‘I’m sophisticated enough to attend fancy parties but artistic enough to paint them afterward.’“
“I’ll bring a paintbrush to defend my personal space.” Meara grabbed the invitation, studying the elaborate design. Gerri Wilder’s name sparkled in gold leaf across the top, promising an evening of “enchanting possibilities.”
Her phone buzzed again—more notifications about the exhibition, critics confirming their attendance. Professional obligations crowded in, but for once, they didn’t provide their usual comfort. Instead, Meara found herself thinking about Betsy’s wheeze, about time slipping away, about possibilities beyond the safe confines of her paint-splattered world.
“Fine. We’ll do this gala and then get through this show,” she murmured. She glanced at Betsy’s photo, adding softly, “For you, Grandma.”
“Perfect. Okay, crisis meeting.” Frenchy clapped his hands, drawing Meara from her thoughts. “We have exactly three days until the preview, and while your artistic genius is beyond question, we need to discuss the practical details.” He produced a tablet from his messenger bag, swiping through a color-coded checklist. “Starting with the catering situation.”
Meara pushed away from her desk, grateful for the distraction. “Please tell me Giovanni confirmed the appetizers.”
“Oh, honey.” Frenchy’s expression turned tragic. “Giovanni had a small fire in his kitchen. Nothing serious—except for his ego and our menu plan.” He held up a hand before Meara could panic. “But! I’ve already called Lucia’s. They can handle everything, plus they’re throwing in those little mushroom tarts you love as an apology for overcharging us last time.”
“You’re a miracle worker.” Meara grabbed her sketchbook, flipping to her exhibition layout. “What about the lighting for the north wall? The track lights keep throwing shadows on Storm’s Edge .”
“Already fixed. I had Marco in this morning while you were communing with your caffeine.” Frenchy perched on the edge of Meara’s desk, crossing his legs elegantly. “Now, about your outfit for the preview—and don’t give me that look. You can’t wear your paint clothes to meet the critics.”
“I have a black dress somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Frenchy’s eyebrows shot up. “Please tell me it’s not the same one from last year’s winter showcase.”
“What’s wrong with that dress?”
“Besides the fact that it’s probably fossilized in your closet? Nothing.” He pulled out his phone again, this time pulling up a boutique’s website. “But I took the liberty of having Noelle set aside a few options from her store.”
“Frenchy—”
“Non-negotiable.” He zoomed in on a midnight blue cocktail dress. “Besides, you need to practice dressing up before the gala. Speaking of which—” His eyes lit up with mischief. “I found another potential suitor while you were on the phone with Betsy. Neurosurgeon, speaks four languages, volunteers at a cat sanctuary?—”
“Let me guess.” Meara moved to adjust another painting’s angle. “Cheekbones that could cut glass?”
“Actually, it’s his jawline this time. Very chiseled. Very distinguished.” Frenchy sighed dramatically. “But if you’re not interested...”
“Add him to your collection.”
“Done and done. Though at this rate, I’m going to need a spreadsheet to keep track.” He hopped off the desk, following Meara as she circled the gallery. “You know, some people might consider it strange that their gay assistant keeps claiming all their rejected potential suitors.”
“Some people don’t have you for an assistant.”
“True. You’re very lucky that way.” He paused beside her largest canvas, tilting his head. “This one’s different from your usual style. More... hopeful?”