He continued. “We were different people back then—weak fools persuaded by others. What I’d like to talk about is La Tempera since you will be securing a sizeable asset in my financial portfolio.”
“Oh! Carrie didn’t tell you about the gallery?”
“She did, but I want to hear about your history with it. Leaving for Paris obviously landed you on your feet in the end. Are you happy?”
Wow, this was novel—someone other than Guy cared to ask about her happiness.
“It certainly helped. La Tempera is my sanctuary away from the noise. Since you asked ...” She grinned. “Well, when I moved back to New York, I took a part-time job with Guy Bernard at Lumière Gallery. He’d just split from his romantic and swindling business partner and was looking for someone honest to answerphones and act as hostess at exhibitions. When he learned I spoke French, he was over the moon.” She chuckled. “Needless to say, we hit it off and once I finished a curating fellowship at MOMA, I was working full-time, and he was training me in the world of appraisals and showings and how to navigate Manhattan’s high-profile art scene.”
“Wait, did you say you speak French?”
“Oui, je parle français.I had to learn the language for school, and I just absorbed the rest by living here. My roommate didn’t speak a stitch of English! What a mess that was!”
“I don’t remember you studying for it.”
“I didn’t know I needed the language until I was accepted. That’s why I left New York in March versus staying until July in preparation for the fall semester.”
She sucked the olives off the stick, then sipped her cocktail, eyes drinking him in as he looked seemingly mesmerized by either the action or that she was bilingual. She saw the same expression on the beach. It’s why she couldn’t resist seducing him that night. Perhaps fire and passion were hiding behind his cold exterior now, just as they had at the wedding. It wouldn’t be the first time she had to deconstruct the rigid Fitzwilliam Darcy—a moot point anyway since he was getting married shortly.
“Say something else,” he prodded.
Undressing him with her eyes, she smirked, then said, “Tu es très beau ce soir.”
“What did you say?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“No way. You’ll have to do an internet search!” She laughed.
Her phone vibrated again, but she ignored it.
“Are you going to get that?”
“No. It’s my sister.”
“Ah. Jane.” He shook his head. “And then what happened at the gallery?”
“Fast forward a year, and Guy wanted to sell for a song. So, we made a deal. On paper, I’d buy the gallery, not the building, he’d stay on, and I’d pay him what I could, when I could, toward the purchase price.”
“That was very generous, although not business savvy on his part. Is the gallery doing well?”
“It’s getting there, but we have a great opportunity coming up and, if all goes well, then I’ll officially be out of debt to him.” She was so excited to tell him; it felt like old times, remembering how he had once been happy for her achievements, just as she was for his. “Do you recall the huge painting hanging in your foyer—the Wyn Gleason, Hudson River Palisades?”
“Of course.”
“It’s an egg tempera. Gleason is very well known for the medium, as your mother obviously knew. He’s debuting a tempera landscape series in September and wants my gallery to exhibit it! I was shocked that he reached out to us personally. I could kiss Louisa Hurst for the recommendation.”
“Louisa?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who suggested La Tempera.”
“Nice. His body of work is remarkable. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t his pieces go for six figures?”
“Exactly! I’m so glad Guy’s little gallery in that historical building is finally going to get some major exposure.”
“It’syourgallery.”
