Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Norman stood in his office and watched while I dialled Logan’s number, making it impossible to call my dad instead.
Logan answered on the second ring, short of breath. “Yeah?”
My mind was instantly doing somersaults. Was he working out? Was he—?
“Hey, it’s me.”
Pause. “Hey.” The TV echoed in the background. Okay, so he probably didn’t have company over then?
“Um, I’m at the gallery and my car—well, Jenna’s car—isn’t starting.” I glanced up. Norman was organizing something on a bookshelf that was new since the last time I was here.
“Is someone there with you?”
“Yeah. Norman M—Mr. Marcus is here.” Damn it. I couldn’t say his full name with him standing right in front of me.
Logan huffed a small laugh. “I just got home from practice. Let me grab keys. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“You don’t have to—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Crystal. I’m coming.”
I exhaled. “Okay. Thanks.” Besides the fifteen minute guesstimate he gave, I had no idea where he lived. The only thing I did know was that his house was big enough to host a party.
I replaced the handset.
Norman turned to face me. “You can call me Norman, you know.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “I didn’t want to be disrespectful.”
He looked amused. “All sorted?”
“Logan’s coming.” I hoped my cheeks didn’t look as hot as they felt. I hated inconveniencing anyone, and I had no idea what to do about Jenna’s car. Was the battery just dead? Maybe Logan had cables and we could jump it?
Norman nodded. “Good. Come here. Let me show you something while you wait.”
He led me to one of the folding tables near the back wall, currently buried under a small avalanche of portfolios. Thick binders, battered black cases, manila envelopes. He spread his hands over the mess. “You’re interested in curating.”
It was a statement, not a question. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Well, these are submissions for the opening. Student work, upcoming artists. Some promising, I think. Obviously I already have our main attractions targeted.” He flipped open a binder on top and handed it to me. “What do you see?”
The binder belonged to a sculptor from Lethbridge.
Steel, stone, a lot of angst. I stared at the pictures for a long moment.
“Strong material sense,” I said slowly. “But it’s all .
. . I don’t know. It feels a little performative.
I don’t know if that’s the right word. Like he’s making them for people to display at the top of their driveway to feel fancy. ”
His mouth curved. He took the binder back and shut it, then pulled out the next. “And this one?”
We went through a few more. A painter from Saskatoon obsessed with empty interiors, a printmaker who used wheat as a recurring motif, a photographer who played with overexposure.
I gave gut reactions. What else could I do?
I had zero information on these people. Norman pushed back on some, but most of the time he was quiet which was actually so much worse.
After a while, he nodded. “You have a good eye. Instincts will sharpen with time, but they’re sound.
I’d like you to talk to someone.” Norman began restacking the binders and folders.
“Her name is Alison Kerr. She’s an associate curator at the Glenbow.
Brilliant, a little intimidating, excellent at her job.
She consults on some of our programming.
When we go to the Palliser, I’d like you to meet her.
It’s a little selfish, though. She’s always complaining there’s no one in Calgary under forty who understands both practice and theory. I’d like to prove her wrong.”
My stomach flipped. “I don’t know—”
“You don’t have to impress her, my recommendation alone will do that. I only want the two of you to be connected.”
It felt like I might physically levitate. I swallowed hard. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”
“Good.” He closed another portfolio just as I heard the familiar rumble of a truck outside, then the slam of a door. A moment later, footsteps echoed in the empty building.
“Honey, I’m home!” Logan called out.
Hilarious. I rolled my eyes.
Norman’s mouth tipped up. “It seems your chariot awaits.”
I scooped up my bag and thanked him as he assured me it was fine to leave my car there overnight if needed.
Logan stood just inside the front doors, cheeks pink from the cold. He was in grey sweatpants, Adidas slides, and a hoodie. His hair was mussed, like it had just dried after a shower. He looked relaxed. A little sleepy maybe? Completely the opposite of his suit on campus, and it was disarming.
He held up his keys. “Heard someone needed a tow fairy.”
I stopped in front of him. “I really appreciate you coming.”
“I live less than ten minutes from here. Not a big deal.”
We walked out together. The temperature had dropped, and Jenna’s car sat sadly in the lot, a little blue lump under a fresh dusting of snow.
Logan headed straight for it, rubbing his hands together like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Alright. Pop the hood.”
I walked to the driver’s side door and opened it, searching for any kind of lever. I’d seen my dad pop his hood before but had no idea how to do it. Finally I gave up. “I don’t know how to do that. Don’t mock me.”
His mouth quirked. “You think I’d mock you?”
“I know you would.”
He grinned. “Driver’s side. Down by your knee.”
I bent over and searched. Sure enough. The hood thunked open with a sad little groan.
Logan propped it up and leaned in. “Battery terminal’s loose,” he murmured. “But I don’t see anything else obvious.”
I stood beside him and took in the car innards. “Hm. Yeah. Me either.”
Logan bit back a smile. “Okay, princess. Let’s jump her.”
“There it is.”
He laughed. “What? It was a joke.” He jogged to his truck to grab jumper cables.
When he returned, he clipped the red side onto the port on my battery, then popped his own hood and connected both cables there.
He ran back and clipped the black side to something under my hood that wasn’t the battery.
“Are they on right?” My dad said something about electrocution or sudden death when he was giving me and my brother the run down on car maintenance. Clearly that stuck. And nothing else.
Logan gave me a look. “Yeah.” He walked back to the truck and started his engine.
I jumped, expecting it to spark or blow up. One of the two.
“Get in and try it,” Logan called from the front seat.
I got in, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. I laughed out loud, my face lighting up like a Christmas tree. Logan was out, standing in front of the car again.
“It worked!” I went to hop out, but Logan motioned for me to stay.
“Keep it running. Let the battery charge.”
I nodded, hands gripping the wheel as cold air blasted from the vents. I flicked off the heater until the engine had time to warm up. Logan disconnected the cables, tossed them in the back of his truck, and tapped the hood twice before meeting me at the window.
“If you drive it straight home, you should be fine.”
“Should?” I repeated. Not the vote of confidence I was looking for.
He laughed at the expression on my face. “I’ll follow you.”
He looked good in those sweats. And there was something about him knowing exactly what to do, bossing me around with all that confidence . . .
I forced my eyes down to the dashboard. Yikes. Maybe I didn’t need the heater after all.
When Logan’s truck lights flicked on, I pulled out of the lot. Everything went swimmingly until about three blocks away, when the wheel suddenly wouldn’t turn. The dashboard lights flickered like dying fireflies, and the engine stopped. No response when I pressed on the gas.
“No, no, no!” I coasted hopelessly toward the edge of the road like a grocery cart.
Logan pulled over behind me and parked on the curb. He jogged up to me, breath clouding in the freezing air. “Died?”
I couldn’t roll down the window, so I opened the door. “Do you think we didn’t run it long enough?”
“I’m guessing it’s the alternator. Probably why it died in the first place.”
He may as well have been speaking Mandarin. “Okay. So . . . “ My brain spun. There was a gas station on the corner. We could call a tow truck, but I had no idea how much that would cost this time of night.
Logan reached in and pulled the lever to pop the hood. His arm grazed my thigh on the way up, and I sucked in a breath. “I’ll jump it one more time. If we’re lucky, it’ll run long enough to get it to my place.”
“Your place?”
“Yeah. We can park it there, and tomorrow you can call a tow without freezing or getting murdered.”
I nodded. “I do love not getting murdered.” It was downtown Calgary. Not exactly Los Angeles, but still. I didn’t want to leave Jenna’s car here on a random street. Or even in the gallery parking lot.
Logan pulled up, turned on his hazards, and connected the cables again. When it was up and running he said, “Follow me. Don’t stop. Not at lights, not for pedestrians.”
“Right. Run the children over.”
Logan laughed, took his cables back, and pulled out.
I tried not to stop, following him through yellow lights, one that was definitely red.
But by sheer force of Logan’s will, divine luck, or both, the engine lasted until Logan pulled into a driveway five minutes or so later.
The steering locked up right as I turned in, and Logan had to give it a push to get it fully off the street.
I put on the emergency brake and got out, sagging against the frame. “How much are alternators?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Not cheap.”
I groaned.
“But it’s not your car, right?”
“I feel like I’m responsible.”
He shook his head. “It’s a car part. It happens.” He scuffed a sandaled foot on the driveway. “I’ll drive you home, but do you mind if I eat first?”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“No, my food arrived right when you called.”
I processed that sentence. Logan left to come help me with the car when he’d ordered food in and it was hot and ready? I looked down at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing my watch. “It’s been, like, an hour.” I met his eyes, horrified. “Logan, I could’ve waited.”
He waved me off. “It’s fine.”
“Not fine!”
He ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to his garage. “It’s fine, Crys. Just come inside so my stomach doesn’t eat itself.”