Chapter 5 Mara
MARA
Manhattan welcomes me back with its usual indifference—the honking taxis, the crush of bodies on the sidewalk, the smell of hot pretzels and exhaust fumes mixing in the wintry air. I should feel relieved to be home, back where everything makes sense.
Instead, I feel strangely as if I left something behind in Boston.
Get it together, Mara, I tell myself as I unlock the door to my apartment, dragging my suitcase behind me.
The space is exactly as I left it—the exposed brick wall in the living room, the carefully curated art pieces I've collected over the years, the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city on one side of the living room, a part of the space that made me want it more than any other apartment I viewed.
My eclectic furniture, which I need to add to in order to fill this space.
An antique store crawl is in order, for sure.
I drop my bag by the door and move to the windows, pressing my palm against the cool glass. The city sprawls below me, millions of people living their lives, and I've never felt more alone.
Alexander Volkov.
The name whispers through my mind like it has a dozen times since I left Boston. It’s insane and entirely unlike me—I had two conversations with the man. I barely know anything about him. I have a name, a face, a voice that made my skin prickle every time he spoke.
And his eyes. God, those eyes. I never thought I was into blond, blue-eyed men, but the icy intensity of them makes me feel slightly weak in the knees even now, so far away from him and the effect he had on me.
When he looked at me, I felt as if I were the only person in the world. Like he could see straight through every defense I'd ever built.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grab for it too quickly, my heart making a stupid, hopeful leap. But it’s just Annie, texting to ask if I made it home safely.
Of course it is. He doesn't even have my number. This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous.
I text her back, then toss the phone on the couch like it's burned me.
This has to stop.
—
By Monday morning, I've almost convinced myself that I've forgotten all about Alexander.
Part of that is getting back into my usual routine.
I’m up early, heading out despite the cold to the coffee place down the block, where I get a black espresso and sip it on the way to Central Park for my morning run.
Earbuds in, I start my usual circuit, the music pounding through me as I feel my muscles warm up and the familiar feeling of my feet striking the pavement brings me back into a place of zen.
An hour later, I’m back at my apartment for a shower and breakfast, before slipping into a black pencil skirt and cashmere sweater to head over to the gallery.
“Morning!” Claire’s bright voice greets me the moment I walk through the door.
She’s in one of her usual boho dresses with a cardigan tossed over it, her dark curls pulled back in a silk scarf and her smile bright.
She's been my assistant since I opened the gallery, and she's my lifesaver—sharp and organized, with an eye for detail that rivals my own. "How was Boston? How's Annie?"
“She’s good. Feeling much better.” I set my bag down and flip through the mail on the counter.
Auction catalogs, invitations to gallery openings, a handwritten note from a client in Dubai.
All normal and safe, everything back in its place.
My life, returned to its usual pace, sans any disrupting men. "The baby's doing good, too.”
"That's so exciting!" Claire follows me into my office, tablet in hand.
"Okay, so we have the Magnusson estate pieces arriving this afternoon for authentication.
The Sotheby's catalog came in—I flagged three pieces I think you'll want to bid on.
And the client called twice about the Monet. She's getting anxious."
“Understandably.” I sink into my chair and boot up my computer, trying to focus. "I'll call her this afternoon. What time is the estate delivery?"
"Three o'clock. And you have a meeting with the new client at eleven.”
I nod, pulling up my calendar. It's packed, the way I like it. No time to think. No time to wonder what he's doing right now, if he's thinking about me, if—
Stop it.
"Mara?"
I look up and see Claire watching me with a curious expression.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my temples for a second. “What was that?”
"I asked if you wanted me to pull the provenance files for the estate pieces before they arrive."
"Yes. Please." I wince. "Sorry, I'm a little jet-lagged."
“You got back what… three days ago?” Claire smirks. “Hell of a jet lag from just going from Boston to New York.”
"I didn't sleep well, either." It’s not a lie. I dreamt about him last night. When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t slept hardly at all.
In the dream, we were back at the museum, but it was empty, just the two of us in that gallery with the paintings surrounding us.
He'd backed me against the wall, his hands on either side of my head, his body close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
He'd leaned in, his mouth inches from mine, and said, "Tell me you feel this too. "
I'd whispered back, "I feel it."
And then, before he could kiss me, I'd woken up, my heart racing, my skin flushed, alone in my bedroom with the early morning light streaming through the windows.
"Well, you look tired," Claire says, not unkindly. "Want me to get you a real coffee? Not that crap from the place on the corner that you always send me to."
I stifle a laugh that threatens to turn into a yawn. We have a coffeemaker in the break room, but somehow neither Claire nor I ever actually use it. "The corner place is fine."
"The corner place is convenient. But it’s not good." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Drew texted me. He wants to know if you're free for dinner this week."
Fuck. Drew is Claire's boyfriend's friend, and she’s been trying to hook us up for months now. He’s good on paper—a lawyer, nice-looking, perfectly pleasant.
I met him at the gallery Christmas party last year briefly, although I was too busy to talk to him for very long.
I’ve told Claire a number of times that I’d think about going out on a date with him and then promptly forgotten about it every time.
"I'm pretty swamped this week," I say, not looking up from my computer.
Claire’s frown is palpable; I can feel it without even looking up at her. "That's what you said the week before last."
"It was true then, too."
Claire makes a noncommittal sound. "You know, it's okay to have a personal life. You're allowed to do things that aren't work-related."
I look up long enough to shoot her a glare. "I have a personal life." I’m just not interested in adding men to that personal life who are probably going to just disappoint or cheat on me.
"Name one thing you did for fun in the last month that didn't involve art or Annie."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again.
"That's what I thought." She grins. "I'm getting you the good coffee. You clearly need it."
After she leaves, I try to focus on my emails.
There's a message from a collector in London about a piece that might be coming on the market, and then another from the auction house about the upcoming Impressionist sale. A few messages down, there’s a reminder about a gallery opening I'm supposed to attend on Thursday.
I respond on autopilot, doing my best to focus and keep my mind from wandering back to someone it shouldn’t. My phone is sitting on the desk next to my keyboard, and I glance at it.
No new messages.
Why would there be? He doesn't have my number. I didn’t give it to him, because there was no point.
But I suppose some small part of me hoped he’d found it some other way, which is ridiculous.
That would be stalker behavior, and I don’t want anyone stalking me, not even an objectively gorgeous man with stunning blue eyes.
I pick up my phone with the intention of searching social media for him, and then remember that Annie and I didn’t find anything on the first try. Why does it matter, anyway? I don’t want to see him again. There’s no point.
I toss the phone back down and force myself to focus on the estate inventory. There’s four pieces coming in—two oils, one watercolor, and one mixed media. They’re all mid-century American artists, and all potentially valuable if they're authentic.
This is what I'm good at. This is what I know. All a distraction like Alexander Volkov can do is pull me away from what is safe and right and what I’ve spent my whole life working toward.
This makes sense. He doesn’t. And I need to forget about him.
—
The client meeting at eleven is with a hedge fund manager named David Ellis who wants to buy the Diebenkorn we got recently for his new penthouse.
He's in his fifties, wearing a suit that probably costs more than most people's cars, and he clearly knows nothing about art beyond its value as a status symbol.
"I'm thinking it would look good in the dining room," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Really tie the space together."
I resist the urge to wince. The Diebenkorn is a stunning abstract landscape, all blues and greens and geometric shapes, with a deep history if anyone cared to look into it. It deserves better than to "tie a space together."
But business is business, I remind myself as I take a breath and look across the desk at Mr. Ellis.
"It's a remarkable piece," I say, pulling up images on my tablet.
"Diebenkorn's work from this period is highly sought after. It’s often used in art history classes to explain the way deeper meaning can be found even in abstract paintings, which is hard for some students to grasp, especially those who—"
David is nodding like he understands, but I can tell he's not really listening. He's looking at his phone.
"What's the price point?" he asks without looking up. When I tell him, he doesn’t flinch. "I'll take it."