Chapter 3
THREE
M eara studied the painting—a swirling mix of storm clouds breaking apart to reveal hints of sunrise. “I started it after visiting Betsy last week.”
Frenchy’s expression softened. “How is she really doing?”
“She won’t tell me.” Meara gripped her paintbrush tighter. “But her breathing seemed worse, and she took three breaks during our lunch.” She swallowed hard. “I should visit more often. The exhibition’s important, but?—”
“Hey.” Frenchy wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Betsy knows you love her. And she’d kick both our fabulous behinds if we let this show fall apart.” He squeezed gently. “Tell you what—after we finish the preview preparations, take tomorrow morning off. Go have breakfast with her before the final setup.”
“But the catering delivery?—”
“I can handle Giovanni’s wounded pride and Lucia’s mushroom tarts.” He steered her toward her office. “Now, about those dresses at Noelle’s...”
“You’re not letting this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.” He produced a garment bag from behind her office door. “Which is why I had Noelle bring some options here.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I prefer ‘efficiently fabulous.’“ He unzipped the bag with a flourish. “Now, this first one screams ‘sophisticated artist who definitely doesn’t live on coffee and inspiration’...”
The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a whirlwind of exhibition preparations punctuated by Frenchy’s running commentary on both potential dresses and potential dates.
By the time the gallery lights dimmed, Meara had agreed to three outfit changes (one for the preview, one for the opening, and one for the gala), vetoed six more of Frenchy’s “perfect matches” (all of whom he happily added to his own list), and finally achieved the perfect angle for Storm’s Edge .
“I think we’re actually ready.” Meara stood in the center of the gallery, surveying their work. The paintings seemed to glow in the evening light, each piece positioned to tell its part of the story. “Though I might come in early tomorrow to double-check the?—”
“Absolutely not.” Frenchy appeared with her coat. “You’re going home to rest, then having breakfast with Betsy. I’ll be here at ten to oversee the final details.” He held up a hand when she started to protest. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“No, but that gorgeous neurosurgeon might be my future husband, so I’m practicing.” He helped her into her coat. “Go. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t coffee. Kiss your grandmother for me tomorrow.”
Meara gathered her things, including the garment bag Frenchy insisted she take home. At the door, she paused. “Frenchy? Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me now.” He shooed her out. “Save it for your toast at my wedding to the neurosurgeon. Or the curator. Or that charming literature professor from last week...”
Laughing, Meara stepped into the cool evening air. Manhattan’s lights sparkled around her, and for once, she didn’t immediately think about how she’d paint them. Instead, her mind wandered to breakfast with Betsy, to the upcoming gala, and possibilities beyond her paint-splattered comfort zone.
Her phone buzzed—a text from Betsy: Can’t wait for breakfast tomorrow. Love you, sweetheart.
Meara smiled, typing back: Love you too, Grandma. See you in the morning.
She tucked her phone away and headed home, leaving her gallery behind for the night. The exhibition would be perfect, thanks to Frenchy’s meticulous planning and her own artistic vision. But for the first time in years, she found herself looking forward to something beyond the next show, the next canvas, the next splash of color.
Something that might, if she were very lucky, make her grandmother’s eyes light up with joy.