Park Avenue Prince(37)

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I wanted her to keep talking. I wanted to know more about her.

“I’m reading your book. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, her eyes fixed ahead of her. The street was busy with people pulling down roller shutters and walking to the subway, but we existed in a bubble, where it remained calm and peaceful and all the noise and activity was separate from us.

“My book?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. She was reading it. “It’s not my book, Princess.” It wasn’t like I had ownership over it or anything.

“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is.”

Maybe? I wasn’t following her. It wasn’t my book—millions of people had read that book.

“I’ve never read it before,” she said. “I kind of knew of the story—the young man, falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit—that he fights to survive, to escape.” She squeezed my hand. “Reading it, I understand why you like it.”

Before I had a chance to ask her what she meant, we’d arrived.

“Here we are.” She nodded at a group of people at the entrance of a store. “This is us. If you don’t like it, we can leave. Just let me know.”

The place was full of people and their clothes seemed to be unusually bright. Perhaps I was just used to suits. People gripped drinks in jam jars, as they talked animatedly and periodically glanced at the walls. The guests were much younger than at the auction, although the glasses and moustaches were similar. It was a far cry from the auction and that smell of old money.

“It’s quite the crowd, isn’t it?” Grace looked up at me as we made our way toward the back of the gallery. I placed my arm around her waist to keep her close.

“Popular guy, I guess,” I replied.

“Yeah. Buyers will be put off, though. Someone lost control of the guest list, but that could be good for us. Plenty of pieces without red dots.”

“Isn’t more people good for sales?”

“Only if they’re here to buy rather than take advantage of the free bar.”

“What do you think?” She spun around three hundred sixty degrees and faced me. “Just give me your gut instinct.”

I scanned the room. The paintings had an industrial feel to them. They were masculine and looked like they could have been set pieces from Alien or The Matrix, lots of black and dark green and dark blue. I tried to pick one out from another but they all seemed quite similar. They didn’t seem like Grace’s taste. “You like them?” I didn’t like to say that it seemed like a case of the emperor’s new clothes. How hard could painting like this be? I was pretty sure if someone handed me a paintbrush and a canvas I could come up with something that wasn’t too different.

“Let’s take a closer look,” she said instead of answering. We moved toward one of the smaller pieces surrounded by fewer people. She stared at the canvass intently, first close up, her long neck straining forward and then stepping backward, her head tipping from one side to the other. To see how it would look on a wall? I should have been looking at the painting, but all I could concentrate on was Grace and the way each of her movements were so uncensored but they still showed her body off as if she were being photographed.

“I don’t feel it,” she said, clutching her fist at her stomach. “I think maybe I should, but I don’t. Do you?”

What was I supposed to be feeling? “I don’t think so,” I replied honestly.

“You know when you saw the Lautrec? How did that feel?” she asked.

I tried to think back. “I thought they were colorful and clean and . . . straightforward. They weren’t trying to be anything they weren’t.”

She laughed and I cleared by throat, wanting to cover up my embarrassment. “No,” she said, grabbing my arm with her two hands. “That’s good. I’m laughing because you’re describing everything these paintings aren’t. And I agree with you.” She squeezed my arm and the sparkle in her eyes relaxed me. “But even if I didn’t agree with you, you’re allowed to like art for whatever reason you like it. Don’t ever feel judged.”

I twisted the arm she was gripping and took hold of her hand, wanting to keep her close.

“But now we’re here, let’s try those over there,” she said, looking over the heads of the crowd at some paintings on the other side of the room.

We made our way toward the far wall.

I was beginning to think it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if tonight was a date.

“Technically, the artist is quite talented,” she whispered. “But I’m not sure that’s enough if neither of us are feeling it.”

“But he’s talented?” I wasn’t sure how she knew he was talented. I was still pretty confident I could knock out some paintings like these in a couple of hours.

“Just the way he layers the color and uses the illusion of light. You see here.” She pointed to the top right-hand corner of the canvas, which had several splashes of yellow paint flecked across it. “It’s promising—like a homage to Rothko and Turner. But it’s too clinical—there’s no passion.”

I liked the idea that she didn’t like painters if they lacked passion. She had so much, the art she bought should at least be able to match hers. “So, we should go?” I asked, desperate to be away from all these people, for it to be just the two of us again.