After
Gretchen
September 14
The café on Great Jones Street across from the Pearson Gallery was small and had no table service; customers were required to order at the counter and bring a little numbered flag to their table. But it was sophisticated in a downtown way, Gretchen supposed. That was obvious from the artful way the pricey, modern pastries were displayed and the high-tech barista machines. It was early still as Hilary and Gretchen sipped their cappuccinos.
Hilary had tracked down a decent amount of information about Frankie Callahan, thanks to her Instagram and her upcoming show. Some of it Gretchen already knew, of course. But the gallery’s website included a lengthy bio with information about where Frankie had grown up (Colorado) and where she’d attended college (NYU) and graduate school (The New School). From Frankie’s Instagram, Hilary thought she’d figured out who her closest group of friends were and had surmised she didn’t have a boyfriend. And there had been those small photos of her work. But now they were here to see her new paintings in person. The show was available to “registered users” for online viewing, but leaving that kind of digital footprint seemed unwise. So Hilary had suggested a field trip to the gallery.
As much as Gretchen wanted to mine Frankie’s paintings for some insight into the woman who had swung like a wrecking ball into her life and—let’s be honest—to find them lacking, she couldn’t shake a sense of unease. What if the reverse turned out to be true? What if they proved she was brilliant, insightful, kind?Gretchen reminded herself for the hundredth time that it didn’t matter who Frankie had been. As dark as the thought was, she wasn’t competition for anyone anymore.
For nearly an hour, Gretchen and Hilary nibbled croissants and nursed their coffees, waiting for the gallery to reopen. There had been one of thoseWe Will Return Shortlysigns in the window when they arrived—elegantly old-school. But the gallery was open on a Sunday, which felt lucky.
“Would you ever live in a five-million-dollar apartment that didn’t have a doorman?” Hilary asked. She gestured with her phone to a rather unassuming door and row of buzzers, tucked a few doors down from the gallery.
“Who says that’s how much an apartment there costs?”
“Zillow,” Hilary said with a shrug. Gretchen had no idea what Zillow was and no interest in finding out. It was terrifying to her how much information was available publicly these days. How connected everyone was in all the wrong ways—too much intimacy with complete strangers. “I mean, what is the point of paying all that money if you’re not going to get a little service along with it?”
“Maybe it’s exciting to live downtown,” Gretchen offered. She tried not to wonder if Richard thought so, too. If that was one of the things he’d seen in this woman—an opportunity for a different, more interesting life. For a life full ofart.
“Well, I think it’s exciting to have dry cleaning dropped off with my doorman,” Hilary said.
“I mean the whole life that comes with it,” Gretchen said. “It’s…edgy.”
“Ha. Edgy. Gretchen, stop sounding so rich,” Hilary said. “Only rich people pay to be made uncomfortable in the name of style.”
For not the first time this morning, Gretchen wondered if she should have come on her own. There was something reassuring about Hilary’s matter-of-fact judgment of anything and everything, but her endless chattering was grating on Gretchen’s nerves.
“Would you ever go on a trip like that?” Gretchen asked. “With a bunch of men you don’t know?”
It did seem maddeningly brave. No matter how Gretchen looked at it.
“I might,” Hilary snorted lightly, “if I could leave Scotty here.”
“Is everything okay between you two?” Gretchen asked.
Hilary made a face. “Come on, I’m joking. You know I couldn’t survive without that aggravating man.”
Gretchen forced a smile as she returned her gaze to the gallery, where a stunning blonde had paused on the sidewalk. Incredibly thin and tall, she had on oversize sunglasses and was wearing a short dress with very high heels. If she wasn’t a model, she should have been. She was digging in her stylish, oversize bag—a Birkin knockoff, of course.
“I think she’s looking for keys,” Gretchen said quietly.
But Gretchen felt stuck to her chair. Did she really want to see Frankie’s work, after all? To evenbein a space where she was so admired? Already Gretchen felt so wounded. Maybe she needed more Xanax.
“Excellent, we’re in.” Hilary jumped to her feet before noticing that Gretchen had not moved. Her face softened, the playful gleam in her eye vanishing. “You need to stay focused on why we’re here.”
“And whyisthat again?”
“To get Richard out of jail.”
—
The gallery wasn’t large, but it was extremely chic—lots of steel and clean lines in the small entryway. Gretchen waited for the beautiful blond woman, now seated behind a sleek reception desk, to ask why they were there. But instead, she just smiled.
“Good morning. Let me know if you have any questions. The official opening celebration has been delayed until Tuesday, but the paintings have been available for sale online for several days. A number have already been purchased.”
A delay. Maybe they already knew about Frankie. That this was all postmortem.
