Park Avenue Prince(7)

“I have four pieces left if you’d like me to show you?”

“Like I said, not my thing.”

We stood in front of the hidden collection.

“You like your art more classic,” she said as we both stared at the art. It wasn’t a question.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m new to all this.” Ordinarily, I was very careful about what I revealed to people. I’d learned quickly that business and Manhattan were full of bullshitters who didn’t want to be reminded of their own flaws and weaknesses, which meant you couldn’t reveal yours. It was a game—if everyone kept pretending, no one would be found out. As much as I was an outsider, I proficiently played the role of someone who belonged.

“New to what?” Grace asked.

“Art,” I replied. “I’m not sure what I like.”

“But you like these?” She nodded her head toward the paintings we were looking at.

I nodded. “I guess.” I was drawn in by their intimacy and mystery, but I had no idea whether or not they were investment pieces.

My attention wandered from Grace to the art. These works were small, discreet, personal. Although it didn’t seem as though any of the pieces were connected—they were clearly by different artists—they were subtle, almost as if not meant for an audience. The intimacy of them made them all the more compelling because they seemed to tell me about the person who created them. The rest of the gallery was full of loud, attention-seeking pieces that shouted their importance the moment I walked in—there was no mystery in them.

But these told me much more about Grace. Four nudes, all drawings; what looked like a proper painting—Grace had said it was done in oil—of a woman at a desk; a small painting of a harbor and the two photographs of the city.

“It’s a bit of an eclectic collection,” Grace said, tilting her head to the right as she stared at the woman at the desk.

“Yes, but I like that.” It was as if I could sense they were her choices—they felt personal. “They’re for sale, right?”

Grace captured the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth before answering, “Yep, they’re for sale.” She sounded unsure, reluctant. Was it that she didn’t want to sell the artwork at all? Or did she just not want to sell it to me?

I bent to look at the nude on the right.

“Well, like I said at the opening, they don’t really go together. The photographs are the most modern of the selection. The photographer has had some attention recently, but he’s not got a huge following at the moment.”

“Tell me a little more about his pieces?” They were the only photographs in the gallery that I could see.

“Well, they’re beautiful.”

I wanted her reason to be more than that. I liked what she’d told me about the background of the photographer. “And?” I asked. I was taken in by each of the pieces in this section, but the photographs were the most interesting. Grace had liked the artist’s story. Her interest in a homeless photographer indicated an empathy I didn’t come across very often.

She glanced up at me quickly. “I like that he still looks for the beauty, despite having seen such darkness. And I think you can see the tragedy in them but also . . . hope.”

My breath caught. This woman was someone who saw beyond the surface, and I wanted to know more about her.

“And with these nudes . . .” She circled her fingers toward the two on the left. “At first glance, they’re almost carelessly put on the page, but if you look closer, and you notice the turn of her head, the artist is fascinated by her.”

I knew that feeling.

“But I don’t know if they’re any good,” I said.

Grace transferred her weight onto one leg, pushing her hip out and emphasizing the curves of her body, and crossed her arms, almost as if I’d offended her. A small grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Had I managed to chip away at that armor she wore? She shrugged a shoulder. “If you like them, why does it matter?”

I drew in a breath. “Because I don’t want to lose money.”

“Of course,” she said, her tone suddenly more professional. “Well you won’t. Not on any of these.”

“I’ll take them,” I said, straightening up.

“Which?” she asked, her frown returning.

I smiled at her, and I thought I saw a hint of a pink in her cheeks in response. Did my attention make her blush? I could only hope. “All of them.”

“All of them?” she asked, breathless. “Are you sure?”

I tilted my head. Why was she hesitating? Did she think I wasn’t good enough to buy them? “Is that a problem?”

Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she said, “No, not at all. I just thought you’d come to see the Steve Todd exhibition.”

“That was Nina’s idea,” I said, stepping toward her. “Not my thing.” Not that I knew what my thing was. “Seemed like a big gamble to spend money on something I didn’t understand and felt no desire to know more about.” Without thinking, I brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Our eyes locked and Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she was considering her next move. She was trying to figure me out and I liked that.