David is nodding like he understands, but I can tell he's not really listening. He's looking at his phone.
"What's the price point?" he asks without looking up. When I tell him, he doesn’t flinch. "I'll take it."
Just like that. No questions about provenance, no interest in the artist's technique or historical significance. Just a transaction.
It should make me happy. It's a significant sale, and my commission alone will be substantial. It’s another success, another tick in the box that leads to what I told Alexander I wanted: for the gallery to be profitable enough that we’re not riding the high of a windfall to keep going and instead have a steady income that keeps us all comfortable.
Instead for some reason, I feel hollow.
"Wonderful," I say, my professional smile plastered on my face. "I'll have Claire draw up the paperwork."
After he leaves, I stand in the gallery space, looking at the Diebenkorn. The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, hitting the painting at an angle that makes the colors seem to glow from within. It's beautiful. It's important. And it's going to end up in some hedge fund manager's dining room where he'll barely look at it.
This is your job,I remind myself.This is what you do.It’s never bothered me before. I’ve never had the feeling that this is somehow hollow, that I’m selling pieces of history and someone else’s creative genius to people who don’t actually care about it beyond what their friends at dinner parties will think.
One conversation shouldn’t have made me feel so differently. Meeting a man who seemed to share my love for art and the depths of it shouldn’t have altered my perception of what I’ve worked so hard for. And, I remind myself, for every idiot like David Ellis, there’s other clients who want the chase of the piece they’re obsessed with as much as I do. Clients who are fascinated with a particular artist and their work, who understand the deeper meanings. Not everyone is vapidly wealthy.
I need to remember that, before I start to lose sight of who I am and what I’ve always wanted over something as meaningless as a chance encounter with a man.
—
The piecesfrom the estate arrive at three, carefully crated and accompanied by enough paperwork to fill a small library. I spend the next two hours examining them—checking signatures, analyzing brushstrokes, comparing them to known works by the same artists. This is the part of my job I love. The detective work, the careful analysis, the moment when you can say with certainty that something is real or fake, valuable or worthless.
I’m nearly finished with the first piece when Claire appears in the doorway.
“I think you’ve been staring at that same document for the last twenty minutes. You didn’t even notice the last time I came in.”
I blink, realizing she's right. I've read and reread the document in front of me several times, but I couldn’t actually say what’s written on it. I’m distracted again, and I know exactly why, although I’d never admit it out loud.
"Just being thorough.” I set the paper down, rubbing my temples.
"Uh-huh." Claire leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Okay, what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm working."
"You've been distracted since you got back from Boston." Her eyes narrow. "Did something happen with Annie? Is she okay?"
"Annie's fine."
"Then what is it?"
I consider lying. If I brush it off and change the subject, maybe Claire will eventually give up and leave me alone about it. Besides, she’s my employee—if I told her flat out to leave me alone, she would. But that’s not the relationship we have; I’ve always been more friends with my assistant than anything else.
And hell, maybe talking about it will help. Maybe saying it out loud will make it seem less significant, less consuming.
I sit back in my chair, rubbing my hands through my hair and over my scalp. “I met someone.”
Claire's face lights up. "You met someone? In Boston? Who? Tell me everything."
"There's nothing to tell. It was just... we ran into each other a few times. We talked. That's it. He was at a Caravaggio exhibit and then we saw each other at a bakery, had a cup of coffee together. He wanted to take me out to dinner but I said no, since I was heading home."
Claire frowns. "That's it? Then why do you look like someone who's been hit by a truck?"
"I don't look like?—"
"Mara. I've worked for you for three years. I've seen you negotiate with other art dealers without breaking a sweat. I've seen you authenticate a Pollock in under an hour. I've never seen you look like this."
I force myself not to roll my eyes. "Like what?"
