Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Whitney
Gentry
“Oh, now that’s one of my favorites. Stops everyone in their tracks.
” I wink at one of my private collectors eyeing a sculpted ceramic-and-mahogany bust of some historical Black figure that, to me, looks ironically like Stefan Urquelle.
So, I’m fighting hard not to cackle as I add, “Don’t think too long, now.
We’ve had a tremendous response this evening.
Three red dots, and it’s what… only eight twenty? Pfft. Watch out now!”
We both laugh.
But also, how is it already eight twenty?
Dammit.
For about the dozenth time in the past half-hour, I catch myself glancing at the gallery entrance, annoyed I told the press that Warner Easton would be in attendance.
The moment his RSVP got out, the calls started flooding the Artery.
Celebrities, socialites, influencers, even local professors and politicians, all assuming we’d be exhibiting his wife’s art. Naturally, because we’re the best.
The guestlist filled up, the plus-ones poured in, and even weekday traffic picked up. I’m sure all hoping for scoop on Sherry’s art.
And now he’s in the wind.
If he shows, he shows.
“It’s both a gem and a steal,” I say to my sweet, bushy-browed collector, just buttering him up, and internally giving myself a pat on the back.
He blows out an impressed breath, finally taking my bait. “A spectacular piece.”
He leans in, really studying the seamless sculpted edge where the wood grain meets the fused clay minerals, that apparently got dipped in “cool juice.”
“And, uh, you say you think this could be Corinne’s final public showing, huh?”
It’s a textbook tell. I can practically see the prize wheel spinning, that little clicker arrow ticking past his planned budget.
You get a work of art! You get a masterpiece! You get to pay my gallery lease!
Cha-ching!
Musical banger to my ears.
Sealing the deal, I nudge his shoulder with mine, leaning in. “Quiet as kept, there’s already talk of retirement.”
Sold!
And that does the trick.
The way his thick, dark eyebrow lifts with alarm as I sashay away…
Add in all the other collectors circling—shoot, even the hint that he might miss out on owning an exclusive, legendary work before it hits the masses in the Sunday issue of Ellswood Times tomorrow morning—and it lights a blazing fire under some of these folks.
“Let me get my next red dot sticker ready…”
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My steps hold a little more bounce as I make a few more rounds, greeting guests, gushing over Corinne, constantly watching the door. But I’m determined not to focus on the golden unicorn. For now.
So I spend the next five minutes checking in on the champagne and hors d’oeuvres with the caterer, double-checking the guestlist—again—and making sure the lighting feels intimate, and not funereal.
It’s all in a day’s work.
Which is why the second I feel like I can breathe for more than two seconds without my momentum crashing, I make a beeline for my divas.
They’ve been lingering in the back of the main exhibit room near the freestanding partition, expertly drawing the eye to a handful of stunning oil paintings displayed (because Harrington isn’t the only gallery that knows fine art).
And my girls are dressed in full Divatante regalia—dark, elegant gowns, sky-high heels, preapproved face cards, just glowing.
I let out a deep sigh. Just knowing they’re here for me, my family, the tension in my shoulders starts to drain.
Until I get closer.
Chanel and Ebony aren’t smiling. Even Priscilla looks on edge. But then Tatiana glances at her phone, and suddenly, the four stunning-but-anxious mirrors reflecting back at me become glaringly apparent.
They think Warner isn’t coming.
Damn.
Instinctively, because I’m not about to let my divas think this man has any bearing on me, my artist, or my event, one way or the other, I perk up, prepared to give the performance of my life.
“Heyyyy!” My inflection rises unnaturally high, just telling all on me. At this point, though, I’m committed. Grabbing them into a huge group hug, I squeeze them, hopefully tight enough to temporarily block Chanel’s airways.
But alas, she’s too strong.
“Whit,” Chanel says, but it’s judgy, “I’m just going to say—”
“He’ll be here,” I say confidently, cutting her off before she can even open her where’s-your-man mouth.
And, okay, I have no clue where the man is.
Clive said someone name Cord RSVP’d by phone on his behalf the name night he hand-delivered the invitation.
That’s about as straightforward as it gets.
He’s either coming, or he’s not. I refuse to plan my business, or Corinne’s already smashingly successful preview night, around him.
Simple as that.
Aside from one tipsy dream—or three—Warner Easton has never been my man.
“Tonight is Corinne’s night,” I say, tone firm, looking directly at Chanel, whom I love down, but we’re not doing the next-day-delivery clone fantasy tonight.
Tomorrow, I’ll have all the choice words.
Chanel sucks her teeth and tosses a loaded glance to Ebony and Priscilla, who look like they want zero parts of this conversation.
“Oop.” Tatiana’s sculpted eyebrows lift to the invisible lacefront of her full, kinky, curly black wig, giving bombshell instigator.
“Listen…” Chanel drags out the word, holding my stare. “I was about to compliment your dress. But now…” She purses her lips, fluttering a full fringe of premium eyelashes.
And now I feel bad.
As much as I hate to admit it, I have been on edge. For at least the last half-hour.
I huff out a frustrated laugh, forcing a smile as I gather the draped satin of my dress. “I’m sorry, sis.” I laugh and pull her into my arms, squeezing until she hugs me back. “I’m stressed, and I just thought you were about to bring up—”
“Missing your Warney Poo?” Her voice goes all sickeningly sweet.
“See, I knew it.” My whole body deflates. Low-key, my stomach turns a little, because ew… “Warney Poo, Chanel? That’s what you’re going with? You know that doesn’t even sound right.”
Chanel is outright cackling. She knows good and well she couldn’t wait to bring up this trifling man who confirmed less than twenty-four hours ago, and now he’s about to no-show.
Soulless.
“Girl, don’t act like you don’t want to finally let your walls down with that fine-ass man.” She’s still holding her stomach, gasping for air. “We saw you watching the door.”
“I was not watching the door.” That much. “I was checking on my guests who matter… who are here for Corinne Tucker.”
“Yeah, okay.” She harrumphs. “I know a my-package-is-out-for-delivery look when I see one. Even if yours is about a year and a month late.”
Ugh. “Whatever, Chanel—”
“No, but sidenote…” Priscilla breaks the diva defense, not so subtly changing the subject and reaching for my ruffled hem.
“I’ve been watching the way this blue dress moves on your body.
The fluidity. The timeless glamour of that high pony and the deep red lip with the golden jewels…
Honey, you’ve been commanding the room. The tongues are wagging everywhere. ”
Tatiana snaps her fingers, giving her testimony. “Smelling all good, looking poised and picture perfect all night.”
Ebony sighs appreciatively, inspecting the texture and rich hues “What is that, indigo? Naughty Navy?”
“Bahamian blue,” I say, too excited about this vintage gown. The way its deep V-neckline and belted sash sculpts my curves. The long sleeves. The cascading, ruffled hem announcing my every step. It’s giving comfort and drama. “I love it!”
Chanel side-eyes me. “You look a’ight. I guess.”
I crack up laughing. “For your information, my good diva of little faith”—on principle, I glance at the door again before I turn back to my baddie of a bestie—“I’m certain he’ll be here.
He’s probably just in traffic or held up at work.
And when he does arrive, it won’t even take me ten minutes to pull him aside and convince him to choose me, I mean, the Artery, over that Harrington gallery to exhibit Sherry’s collection. ”
Chanel and I are locked in a stare-off. First one who blinks loses. But this is my Ascension-nominated gallery, and I will sleep here if I have to.
“Isn’t the opening over at nine thirty?” Ebony asks, helpfully.
We break the stare to look at her, not even bothering to mask our laughter.
I flash her a tight smile. Why yes, the notorious tech billionaire who could change the trajectory of my career is an hour and a half late to an event that ends in another hour. Thanks so much for the reminder.
“What?” Ebony asks. “I was just confirming.”
As if we all don’t already know the second the clock strikes nine twenty-nine, she’s about to leave her glass slipper behind, rushing off to Linc.
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yes, E-boogie, the preview night is winding down in less than an hour. And no, Chanel, I haven’t been waiting on that fine-ass man, because this is business.” And clearly, I was right not to trust him. I know better.
She dips her chin and deepens her stare.
“Whatever. Look at me however you want, but—and this goes for all four of you—I’m not fazed by that man,” I say, without the least bit of conviction, lips twitching, barely stifling my laugh. “I told y’all I’m immune to toxic men, and love is not on my service menu.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Priscilla’s not buying it.
Not that I would either, but any attraction I’ve got toward Warner Easton is irrelevant because I don’t date folks who confuse their means with their meaning.
Like, who even is he without the billion-dollar apps and the Luxe Widower label?
No one knows, and I’m not volunteering to be his experiment.
“Do you have any idea what it would do for the Artery? For the ArteryBeat?” I tug the sash tighter around my waist, smoothing the draped fabric. “Having that kind of highly publicized collection exhibited here? The crowds it would draw?”