Chapter Thirty-Seven
Daisy, Now
After my phone call with Max’s parents this morning, I thought I had ruined any chance of getting them here.
Maybe I should have called them a couple of stubborn asses sooner, or maybe deep down, they knew how much they’d hurt him throughout the years.
Either way, I could weep with relief that they both showed up.
“Daisy Johnson.” A lady with a chic asymmetrical haircut and vivid pink lipstick approaches me.
She says my name like we’re familiar friends, but I rack my brain to remember who she is.
She has a distinct style that only a confident, creative fifty-year-old woman can have, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.
“Eleanor Winsome, Deputy Creative Director at LACMA.”
I almost spit out my wine. Max would moonwalk around the building if he knew someone from LACMA was here.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, dumbstruck.
“And this,” she says, gesturing to the short man to her left with a handlebar mustache, “is Antoine Archambault. He works at Tate Modern.”
“Oh.” I jut out a hand to shake his. “That’s in Britain, right?”
“London. Lovely to make your acquaintance,” Antoine says in a buttery French accent.
I almost squeal. If we have people coming in from Los Angeles and London, we really got the word out. “It’s an honor to have you both here.” I do a quick scan of the crowd for Max because he’s surely the one they’re here to see, but he’s nowhere.
Eleanor leans forward, resting her bony hand on my shoulder. “This space is lovely. Rustic but in such an authentic, earnest way. The place isn’t a bunch of faux-spiritual California clichés, and it’s so much better than all those boring homeshares. Christ, they’re all the same.”
I chuckle. “I know exactly what you mean. Actually, I’m working on a proposal for council members. The policy would limit folks from snatching up property and damaging the surrounding area.”
“Which they always do,” Eleanor says. “Those practices are cheaper, so of course they do.”
This Eleanor woman has quickly become one of my new favorite people.
“When Max told me about this barn, I almost didn’t believe him.”
“Oh, you know Max?” I ask, putting more of the puzzle pieces of Eleanor and Antoine together.
“Yes, I mentored him in Dublin.” She stares around the space, nodding in approval. “He explained how much work needed to go into this building, and in such a short amount of time. You two did well.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleased with the compliment, like a teacher just gave me a gold star.
“When you mentioned the renovations,” Antoine says to her, “I will admit, I had many doubts.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Eleanor says, lifting her hand off of me to swat the very thought of doubting Max away. “I am not the least bit surprised he’d put something extraordinary together. He is a force. Daisy, tell me, how on earth did Max get connected with you and such an amazing locale?”
“Me?”
Of course she means me, but I have to swallow some surprise.
Max has evidently informed Eleanor about this project every step of the way, but it sounds like he never found our history important enough to mention to her.
That makes sense, I guess. He probably kept their conversations focused on work and the pop-up, not on our personal history.
“We grew up here,” I reply. “I’m his girlfriend.”
The word slips out of me, but I like the taste. I’m Max Weber’s girlfriend. The realization sends an effervescence through me, like I’m a shaken-up soda can.
Eleanor and Antoine smile, and they share a knowing oh.
“Well,” Antoine says, “I can already tell you have created something that is truly special together.” He turns to Eleanor and adds, “If he really wanted to impress me, he has more than done it. If I could, I would secure his visa and fly him out tomorrow.”
“I told you, he’s got an eye.”
The two of them are talking like I’m not here, and I have a billion and one other people to meet and greet—but my ears snag on what Antoine said.
“Sorry, wh-where’s he going?”
“Oh, I only am kidding,” he says. “We won’t fly him out tomorrow. You will have him a bit longer. But just a bit!” At this, he and Eleanor laugh in unison while I’m left out of the joke.
All the voices in the room turn into white noise. Antoine must catch a hint of my confusion, and his tone gets serious.
“I’ll discuss the options for you to join him, of course,” he says. “You have six months for visiting, or if you have plans to…” He waits for me to fill in a blank I don’t know the answer to. “There are spouse visas as well. It’s not my department, but my team, they will talk with him.”
“Right,” I say, forcing my mouth to form words. “The visa. For the…”
“The job.” Eleanor says this like she and I have talked about this job countless times before. “I told Max he’d have to pull off something spectacular. Of the many people I’ve had the privilege to mentor, I knew he could do it.”
“The role is unique,” Antoine adds, talking to me. “And it pulls on his skills but gives him room to grow within one of the most prestigious museums in the world. I am, of course, biased, but it is a dream job for any art curator.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to choke on my reply. The tips of my ears burn with the embarrassment of having introduced myself as Max’s girlfriend, while also having no idea that this plan was in the works.
“He’ll be thrilled,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can. “Um, if you’ll just excuse me…” I wave to them both, muttering some lame excuse that I need to check on the parking manager. I let the crowd swallow me.
Max wanted the pop-up to get back to work and clean the dark stain his last employer left on his resume. I didn’t know he had a job already lined up.
A dream job.
One that plays to all his strengths and will grow with him. One like his past job but with infinitely better pay, I’m sure, and at a renowned museum. This job doesn’t compete with occasional pop-ups here at The Mirage and teaching at his old high school—it obliterates them.
“There you are!” Ava rushes up to me, gripping my arm to drag me somewhere to the other side of the barn. “You have to see this.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat and paste on a smile as I wave at the folks we pass.
The crowd parts, and there’s Max, standing tall and so heartbreakingly handsome, and he can’t look away from me.
If he’s talked with Eleanor and Antoine, I don’t find that written on his face; no, he looks as incandescently happy as this morning.
He still thinks this, right here—what we have together and what he has in Harlow—is all he could ever want.
He steps to the side and then I’m staring at…
me. Hanging on the smooth timber of the walls is a sketch of my face, unguarded and gentle, and so unlike how I present myself to the world.
It’s me on a Monday morning when all our reservations have checked out, and Stacey’s left for the day, and I can chill on the couch with Freddie.
It’s the me that Max sees, which is probably more me than I’ve ever been.
Ignoring the aching emptiness in my chest, I move closer to read the title: Just Daisy.