Adrian swallowed past the burn in his throat. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t even summon any pleasure from the idea that she might be right. He was numb to the mental image of himself at an opening, praised for capturing some complex thought about the history of his medium. He couldn’t make himself want that anymore; what he wanted was Caroline’s hand back in his.
He couldn’t keep doing this.
“Tom?” he called. “Did you rent your moving truck yet? Can I borrow it?”
An hour and a half later, Adrian pulled up outside of Mike’s gallery, taking a moment to breathe as he sweated out the last of his adrenaline. Boston’s drivers did not appreciate sharing the roads with moving trucks, and he’d taken his life into his hands by piloting the vehicle downtown on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when everyone was rushing into the commercial district to start their holiday shopping.
The gallery was closing in a few minutes, but there were still some well-dressed patrons trickling out as Adrian loaded the paintings onto the dolly Caroline had gifted him. He hoped that he looked sufficiently like a working artist in his paint-splattered old jeans to avoid annoying Mike or the other gallery staff with his presence.
Adrian caught Mike coming out of his office, about tostart locking up. The potbellied man stiffened in surprise, because Adrian hadn’t called ahead. It was really poor form. But Adrian had been rejected almost everywhere in Boston, and he couldn’t becomemoreof an object lesson in wasted potential, so he’d opted to just show up and plead his case.
“Do you have a few minutes?” Adrian pressed, trying not to look as desperate as he really was. “I brought some things to show you.”
Mike hesitated. Looked down at his battered watch. After he made a concerned study of Adrian’s face, he nodded at his office.
“Sure,” Mike said, gesturing for Adrian to follow him with the dolly. “Always, for you. Whatcha got?”
He flicked the lights back on but didn’t sit down at his desk, just leaned against it. His posture was of muted impatience. He was humoring Adrian. Fine.
Adrian had retrieved his two most recent paintings from his studio on the way to the gallery. The still life was barely dry, so he unwrapped it first. He leaned it up against the wall. The light wasn’t fantastic inside the office, but Mike knew his work. He knew the colors would hold up in better conditions.
“I just finished this yesterday,” Adrian said. It was a classic composition, slightly modernized by the shapes of the bottle and bowl and the choice of persimmons. There were probably three other works just like it hanging in the gallery, and they’d all turn over by the end of the month. It was commodity art.
“Okay,” Mike said, face impassive. “What else?”
Adrian set his jaw, because that was hardly great praise, but it also wasn’t the soft dismissal Mike would have given him if he knew he wasn’t going to take it either.
Adrian got out his pocketknife and carefully cut awaythe tape to expose one of the older works. Mike hopped off the edge of his desk and walked closer to take a look at the garden scene.
“This isn’t new, is it?” Mike asked.
“No. I painted this series just before I left your gallery. But these paintings were never offered for sale before.”
Mike’s eyes flicked to his face again, but he nodded.
“There are three more of these larger ones. Twelve clusters of smaller studies, oil on paper. Already framed.” Adrian gestured at paintings that had hung on Caroline’s walls.
Mike nodded again, mind transparently calculating prices and gallery space. That gave Adrian enough hope to unwrap the last painting. His portrait of Caroline.
In the end, he’d just put a final coat of varnish over it to seal it. It was painfully evocative of the actual woman, from the little curve in the trailing lock of her hair where she’d tucked it behind her ear to the swell of her lower lip as she considered the flowers.
Mike tilted his head, then carefully reached out to pick up the painting by the edges. Adrian resisted the urge to snatch it out of his hands as Mike carried it closer to the window to catch the last fading rays of natural light.
Mike turned to survey the whole lot. The grouping was not tied together by much other than technique, but Adrian had seen shows of more disparate artworks together.
“You’re really going to sell this?” Mike said, inclining his head at the portrait.
“Yes.”
Adrian wasn’t allowing himself to think about how he’d feel if he never spoke to Caroline again. He didn’t know whether he’d curse himself for selling the painting or be grateful he didn’t have to see it. It wasn’t like he’d be able to forget her either way.
He strove to steady his voice. “You can call up Jan and Samantha Mayer. I bet they’ll buy it.” He was sure they would. They’d met Caroline. They knew a little piece of the story. They’d want to own it.
He’d really rather sell them a kidney, but after all the coffee he’d been drinking to finish the still life, those were probably shot. And Caroline would have dressed him down with everything she had if she thought he was holding back inventory out of sentimentality.
Mike sighed, obviously torn.
“What are you going to do about all those works you showed me last week?” he asked. “I wasn’t kidding that I can’t sell those.”
