8. Elena
— ? —
Elena
The showcase booth they assigned me is in the back corner.
“It’s fine,” Sophie says, adjusting the velvet draping for the third time. “Back corner means intimate. Exclusive. Like a speakeasy.”
“It means they put the nobody next to the fire exit.”
“Elena.” She stops fussing and turns to face me. “You’re not a nobody. You’re an emerging artisan. That’s literally what the showcase is called.”
“Emerging. Like I’m still forming.” I run my hand across the console table’s surface, checking for dust. “The established designers are up front with the chandeliers and the catering stations. I’m back here with the emergency lighting.”
“You’re back here with your grandmother’s honeybee and the most beautiful piece of furniture in this entire building.” Sophie grabs my shoulders. “Now stop spiraling and put on your armor.”
The armor is an emerald silk dress that Sophie found at a consignment shop in SoHo. It cost eighty dollars, which is seventy dollars more than I wanted to spend, but she insisted. “You need to look like you belong here,” she said. “Even if you don’t feel like it.”
I don’t feel like it.
I feel like a fraud in borrowed silk, standing next to furniture I made with my own hands in a room full of people who’ve never had to reverse a wire transfer or eat ramen for dinner six nights in a row.
But I zip up the dress anyway, because Sophie is right. Tonight, I need armor.
***
The first hour is quiet.
People drift past my booth, glancing at the console table with polite interest before moving on to the front of the room where the real action is.
I watch them congregate around a minimalist Danish designer whose chairs cost more than my annual rent, laughing and clinking champagne glasses like they’re at a party instead of a furniture exhibition.
“It’s still early,” Sophie says, appearing at my elbow with two glasses of wine. “People are warming up.”
“People are ignoring me.”
“People are idiots.” She hands me a glass. “Drink this. It helps.”
I take a sip. It doesn’t help.
At 7:30, a woman approaches my booth. She’s in her sixties, silver-haired, wearing a cream blazer that probably cost more than my security deposit. Her eyes scan the console table with the practiced assessment of someone who’s been collecting furniture longer than I’ve been alive.
“Charming,” she says, in a tone that suggests the opposite. “Very… rustic.”
“Thank you. The wood is reclaimed barn board from a property in Vermont.”
“Mmm.” She picks up one of my business cards, examines it like she’s looking for typos. “Elena Vasquez. I don’t recognize the name.”
“I’m new. Emerging.” I hate how apologetic I sound.
“Clearly.” She sets the card down without pocketing it. “You know, it’s sweet when people have hobbies. Keeps you busy while your husband’s working.”
My spine stiffens. “I’m sorry?”
“Vivian mentioned you. At the charity gala last month.” The woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Margaret Ashworth. Vivian and I serve on the same board.”
Of course. Of course Vivian has friends here. Of course they’ve already discussed me over canapés and Chardonnay.
“Vivian doesn’t know much about my work.”
“She knows you’re getting divorced. Such a shame.” Margaret tilts her head, studying me like I’m a specimen. “Adrian was always so promising. I suppose it’s difficult, being married to someone so… focused. Some women just aren’t equipped for that kind of partnership.”
“Some women prefer to be partners, not accessories.”
“Hmm.” She runs her finger along the edge of my table, casual, dismissive. “Cute little tables you’ve made here. Very quaint. I’m sure they’d look lovely in a beach cottage somewhere. Nothing too formal, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“It must be difficult, being peripheral.” She says the word like she’s tasting something sour. “At these events, at dinner parties, at your own marriage. Always on the edges while the real work happens somewhere else.”
I open my mouth to respond, to tell her exactly where she can put her opinions about my work and my marriage, but before I can speak, a voice cuts through the ambient noise of the showcase.
“Elena isn’t peripheral.”
Adrian is standing three feet behind Margaret Ashworth, still wearing his overcoat, like he came straight from somewhere else without stopping to check it. His eyes are fixed on her with an expression I’ve never seen before, cold, controlled, dangerous.
“She’s my wife.”
Margaret turns, and for a moment her composure slips. “Adrian. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be.” He steps past her, moving to stand beside my booth. Beside me. “I told Elena I wouldn’t come. I lied. I couldn’t stay away.”
“How romantic.” Margaret’s voice is acid-sweet. “Though I’m not sure ambushing your estranged wife at her little art show is the best way to…”
“My wife is the most talented furniture designer in this room.” Adrian’s voice cuts through hers like a blade.
“Possibly the state. Her ‘little tables’ will be in design museums long after everyone’s forgotten your name.
While your taste is still stuck in 1987, she’s creating work that actually matters. ”
Margaret’s face goes white, then red. “I don’t know what Vivian sees in you.”
“Nothing, anymore. I stopped caring what my mother sees.” Adrian turns his back on her, a deliberate dismissal, and faces the console table. His fingers trace the edge of the honeybee drawer pull, gentle, reverent. “This is the most beautiful piece in this building.”
“Adrian…”
“I’m not saying it because you’re my wife. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He looks at me, and for a moment the room disappears, the other booths, the murmuring crowds, Margaret Ashworth’s retreating back. Just him, looking at me the way he used to.
“I want to buy it,” he says.
“What?”
“The console table. I want to purchase it. Through proper channels, obviously, I’ll fill out the bid form, pay the gallery their commission, everything by the book.” He pulls out his wallet. “Ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s too much.”
“It’s an investment. In emerging artisan furniture.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I have a good feeling about the designer. I think she’s going to be very successful.”
“Adrian, I can’t…”
“You can. You will.” He writes the check, places it on the table next to my business cards. “I’m not buying my way back into your life. I’m buying a piece of furniture that I genuinely want to own. There’s a difference.”
I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing, and he doesn’t seem to expect me to.
“One more thing.” He lowers his voice, stepping closer. “Camille’s Instagram post. Fourteen weeks pregnant.”
“I saw it.”
“Count backward. Fourteen weeks ago was September. She didn’t move into the house until October 15th.” His eyes hold mine. “The timeline doesn’t work, Elena. Whatever she’s claiming, the math doesn’t add up.”
“I know.” I’ve been doing that math for three days. “I noticed.”
“Good.” He steps back. “I should go. I don’t want to overshadow your night.” He glances around the room, at the people who are now definitely staring at us. “Though I think I may have already done that.”
“Little bit.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll work on my timing.” He turns to leave, then stops. “You look beautiful, by the way. The dress suits you.”
“It’s borrowed.”
“It’s still beautiful.” He’s gone before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd near the front entrance.
Sophie materializes at my elbow. “What the hell was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did he just bid ten thousand dollars on your table?”
“Apparently.”
“And tell off Margaret Ashworth in front of half the design world?”
“Also apparently.”
Sophie stares at me for a long moment. Then she bursts out laughing. “Elena Vasquez, your life is insane.”
“Tell me about it.”
***
Three hours later, I’ve sold everything.
Not just the console table, everything. The side tables, the cutting boards, the sample drawer pulls. A woman from a design blog took my card and asked about a feature interview. A gallery owner from Brooklyn wants to discuss representation.
Sophie is practically vibrating with excitement. “This is it. This is your moment. You are officially an artisan with momentum.”
“I’m an artisan who needs to sit down.” I collapse onto the one chair in my booth that isn’t for sale. “My feet are killing me.”
“Take off the heels. No one’s looking anymore.”
I kick off my shoes and check my phone for the first time in hours. Three missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize, probably press or collectors. A text from Sarah Miller that just says Impressive! with three exclamation points.
And one text from an unknown number.
Congratulations on your showcase. Saw Adrian’s little performance. Quite the spectacle. But he’s not as innocent as he pretends. Ask him about the night before I moved in. Ask him why he was so quick to let me stay.
I stare at the screen.
Ask him about the night before I moved in.
Another text comes through before I can respond.
He’s not telling you everything, Elena. He never does.
I shove the phone into my purse.
“What?” Sophie asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nothing. Just… nothing.” I force a smile. “Let’s celebrate. I think I need more wine.”
But as Sophie flags down a server, I can’t stop thinking about the text. About what happened the night before Camille arrived.
About what Adrian might not be telling me.