Chapter Sixteen Julia #2
The art dealer nodded. “I’m still in touch with the university art department. I asked them about you, because I was curious what you were up to. They told me some story about how you’d copied an essay from a boyfriend.”
“It’s not true,” Julia began, and her professor waved a hand, silencing her.
“I know. Julia, you wrote the most original and thought-provoking essays I ever had the privilege of grading. I take it he wasn’t the best boyfriend, was he?” she added softly.
“Not at all.” Talk about an understatement.
“I don’t want to excuse his behavior, because what he did was wrong, but perhaps it’s for the best that you aren’t a lawyer. You belong in the art world, not drafting contracts.” Lucy studied Julia, her head tilted. “So, what made you move to New York?”
Julia couldn’t bear to say that she had come here for a man, not after she’d just spoken of Preston. At least her engagement ring didn’t have an enormous diamond in the center, as Tara had wanted. Even so, Julia folded her right hand over her left, so that only her mother’s ring showed.
“I was starting to feel adrift in Queenstown,” she said truthfully.
“I missed being close to art. Though I still worked as a tour guide, leading groups on the Milford Sound, it was nothing like the feeling of introducing people to the Acropolis. And I missed my family. They’re in Georgia,” Julia added, “but at least this way I’m closer to them. ”
Lucy nodded sagely. “It gets hard after a while, being an American expat. I remember waking up one day in Vienna with an overwhelming homesickness for ranch dressing. The real, bottled Hidden Valley Ranch. That was when I knew it was time to come home.”
“It was Sour Patch Kids for me,” Julia said with a smile. She hesitated, not wanting to push, but then asked, “What do you think? Would you be willing to put me in touch with anyone who might be hiring?”
“No,” Lucy pronounced.
Julia’s heart sank. Of course. She didn’t exactly have a ton of experience in the art world—she doubted many gallery owners or dealers would consider her time at Elysian Cruise Line working in art—and worse, she’d been accused of fraud.
Even if Lucy believed her, she couldn’t put her name and reputation on the line for a random former student.
“I’d like you to come work here. For me,” Lucy finished.
“Here?” Julia repeated, blinking in surprise.
“As you can see, I’m in dire need of organizational help.
” Lucy gestured around the cluttered office.
“I can’t pay much in the way of a salary, but I am generous on sales commissions.
You said you worked as a tour guide, right?
” Lucy smiled. “Hopefully that gave you some experience in dealing with difficult people. Selling art is not for the faint of heart. And as much as I hate to say it, we must take the measure of every customer and adjust our prices accordingly. Now, when can you start?”
· · ·
When Julia walked out of the office, she was startled to see Harry waiting on the street—studying a painting through the window, hands clasped behind his back, as if he’d heard that was the correct way to look at art.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.
“I wanted to see how your meeting went. Well, I take it?” he asked, matching her smile.
“Lucy offered me a job!”
Harry pulled her into a hug, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the irritated glances of the people who pointedly stepped around them. “Of course she did!” he said loyally. “She’d be a fool not to hire you.”
He took a step back and tugged Julia’s hand, urging her down the street. “Can we walk for a while? I want to show you something.”
“Sure.” To be honest, Julia was glad for an excuse not to rush back to the Upper East Side.
They strolled into the West Village, past high-end boutiques and buzzing wine bars and a pet store where puppies romped in the window.
As she and Harry neared, dogs hurried to press their adorable little noses against the glass, watching Harry with rapt attention.
“They love you,” Julia teased, at which Harry laughed and said, “Dogs always do.”
He paused on a quiet, tree-lined street, filled with red brick town houses. “Should we go up?” he asked nonchalantly, nodding at number 5.
“Wait—where are we?”
Harry said nothing, just marched up the steps and withdrew a key from his pocket. He opened the door and stepped inside, flicking on the lights.
The town house was empty. The bare floors were made of wide oak planks, stained a warm caramel, the same as the exposed wooden beams that soared over the high-ceilinged living room.
“Whose house is this?” she asked, though part of her already knew the answer.
“Ours,” Harry said. “If we want it, that is.”
Julia started up the staircase, her heart pounding. “I thought we said we were getting an apartment. We’re only two people.”
“I know this feels big, but it’s actually less square feet than some apartments,” Harry explained, following her up the stairs and into the main bedroom. “And just think, your commute to work would be so easy. You could walk!”
“What about your commute to work?” she asked.
As Tara had promised, Bruce had offered his son a job at TWL in “project management and client relations.” It sounded a bit vague to Julia, but Harry had explained that it was decidedly not a desk job.
It would include site visits to factories and client offices, and the occasional round of golf to close a deal.
Harry shrugged. “I won’t be at the company offices all that much. And when I am, I can take the One uptown.”
It took Julia a moment to realize he meant the subway.
That, more than anything else, reassured her.
They were in New York, where his family exerted a gravitational pull the size of a black hole, but she hadn’t lost him, not yet.
Not as long as he was willing to join the sweaty masses on the subway instead of taking a town car. Or, for all she knew, a helicopter.
He was still her Harry. The Harry who told slightly off-color jokes and made her laugh so hard her belly hurt.
The Harry who tried to cook pancakes and burned them so thoroughly that the smoke alarm went off, evacuating their whole building.
The Harry who’d surprised her with a hike up a glacier in the middle of summer, just because she’d confessed that she missed New England winters.
She would never forget how surreal it had felt, seeing snow in the middle of a hot summer day.