“No, I love it. I studied art history at NYU and I get to use it every day. Parts of it are more work than others, but I’m lucky to enjoy it overall. I get to travel and every show is something different. I especially enjoy it when I get to design the exhibition, to show our pieces in our offices before the auction itself. And the view’s always amazing.”
Just like the view now with Beau leaning over a table, dress shirt pulled tight against his shoulders. His Christmas apron says Bite me, over a picture of a gingerbread man, and I’ve never wanted to follow directions more.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, so he doesn’t get too scared over the admiration. But it’s there, with me wanting to smear some of this frosting on those muscles and lick them off.
Fuck it, he’s gonna be my present to myself this year.
I know he’s leaving, so I can enjoy him and not worry that he’ll make me want to break my rule against commitment. And no awkward run-ins with this one. I’ll never see him at the bodega or ride the same subway car with him. No awkward meetings at museum exhibit openings...not that the last one was a real danger with a man who doesn’t appreciate art.
And his incorrect opinion can be ignored for a holiday fling.
“Plus a big part of my job is saying ‘Paddles at the ready’ to a room full of people in formal wear, and I’m not mad about it.” A naughty pun on purpose this time. Now that I gave myself permission.
Beau gives me a small smile at the comment, one side of his mouth quirking up. We work in silence for a while, making tiny gingerbread chairs, a tiny gingerbread rostrum for the auction to be led from, and tiny gingerbread painting easels.
“But what are we going to use for the people?” Beau asks.
“Oh, I’ve got this covered.” I search in the box of supplies and triumphantly pull out a bag. “Sam gets custom-sized gummy bears for us to put in the scene.”
I bite the head off one...delicious, as always. I extend the bag to Beau. “And now, for the finishing touch.”
Chapter Five
“We get to hand paint the little gingerbread canvases, based on real paintings!” I wiggle in excitement while I hold up the aforementioned canvases.
“Oh no. I will do any other job. I will build you an actual building if you want, to get out of this.”
“High-maintenance MacDonald.”
“Ah, yes. That’s what farmers are known for—their high-maintenance lifestyles.”
“Okay,SassyMacDonald. You can make frosting windows and strings of lights made of jellybeans. Don’t forget to paint trees and presents in the windows like a Christmas window display.” I shove materials at him.
I start recreatingStarry Night, one of the easiest to make on a small canvas.
“You’re really good at this.” Beau sneaks a few glances at my work while he does his Christmas tree.
“Thanks. Painting is a hobby of mine. Something creative and fun to do after work.”
“You don’t sell your own work?”
“No. It’s not good enough. And I sell art for a living, so I’m an authority on sellable art.”
I’m like a mix of my cousins, but less intense than either of them. Priya is obsessed with auctioneering, and Ajay is obsessed with painting. I like the business and creativity and want to do them both. But I’m not trying to run the company like Priya and I don’t want to sell my own paintings like Ajay is trying to do, even though I do want something creative. I just haven’t necessarily found where I fit in best, yet.
I hope this decorating side project turns into something more permanent. It could be the thing I love. It’s already on its way to perfect; I spent all day making plans for Beau’s offices and calling art dealers and furniture stores around the city to see who would be interested in partnering with us. All from places Beau would like. It was exciting.
“Besides, I like the creativity of putting together art other people make more than doing my own. It’s like making a new art piece that you live in. Art that you sit in, work on,andlook at. Immersive art.”
“That’s great.”
That’s enthusiastic for someone who wanted to buy prints off the internet. “I didn’t think you even liked art?”
He looks charmingly chagrined. “I don’t really understand most art,” he says, probably as tactfully as possible. “But I can understand that you are passionate about it. Why do you like it so much?”
“It’s expressive. From regular materials comes a beautiful or thought-provoking piece that can be an escape or a balm or an education...or all three. You can be transported to another time, or another place. It can make you forget for a minute about the bad day you had or whatever’s weighing on you. Or it can remind you that you aren’t alone in feeling bad, by connecting you with another human who felt similar things.”
Honesty compels me to add, “Somepeople do just want to have expensive things because they’re status symbols, but others feel genuine emotions when they look at the art or learn new things from it, about the world or themselves.”
