The Hearts We Sold(37)
James laughed quietly. “She’s…”
“Forceful?” asked Dee. “Confident? Attractive?”
“I was going to say a budding serial killer, but those work, too,” he replied. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the teddy bears.”
She shook her head. Somehow, the silence between them felt easy, comfortable. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew a secret about her, and she knew one about him. In the presence of others—those like Gremma—their temporary alliance seemed to strengthen.
“Why’d you call me?” she asked, before she could lose her nerve. “I mean, I don’t mind that you did. But… there had to be someone else you could’ve asked for help.”
He shrugged, suddenly appearing self-conscious. “I thought that’s what you did with friends?”
Friends. The word felt strange. But perhaps that was what this recognition was, this strange connection. Friendship. An understanding.
She’d never had anyone ask her for help before. Well, besides her parents, but those requests were always tangled up with guilt and obligation and a stomach-churning need to do something.
Gremma’s car horn rang out and Dee flinched. “Come on,” she said, and she found herself taking James’s arm, pulling him toward the car. “She will leave us if we take too long.”
NINETEEN
T hey ended up going out to eat. Gremma had no compunctions about staying out after curfew, so they found a Thai restaurant and conquered one of the corner tables.
They ate spring rolls and stir-fried vegetables and some kind of coconut milk soup. Gremma ended up using one chopstick like a spear, and when Dee picked all the cashews out of her veggies, James scooped them onto his plate.
Gremma and James regarded each other like cats—seemingly unsure if the other was friend or foe. Gremma made a few cracks about James’s wardrobe, and James only replied with a grin, which seemed to annoy her.
Somehow, this relieved Dee. Gremma had a way of dominating a room, of drawing the eye, and Dee seemed to shrink in her shadow. That James appeared immune to Gremma’s charisma was reassuring.
It wasn’t as if Dee had a claim on him or anything, she thought, but it would be disappointing to realize that whatever connection she felt with him was something he forged with everyone he met. She knew people like that, who bonded as easily as breathing, but it seemed James wasn’t one of them.
When they left the restaurant, Gremma forced a path through the gathering crowds on the sidewalk; James slowed, fell into step with Dee. “Thanks for doing this,” he said. “I usually spend weekends alone. It’s kind of nice going out with people.”
She looked at him. For all his hobo clothing, James carried himself with a breezy confidence. He spoke easily, smiled frequently, and laughed at his own jokes. He could have had any number of friends or half friends, or even acquaintances. “Why?” The question slipped out. “I mean—it’s not like you’re truly a hermit or terrifying or anything. Why don’t you go out?”
“No family,” he said simply. “And too busy for friends. I sort of count Cal and Cora, but Cal is busy with his research, and Cora—well. She’d probably chew her own arm off before spending an afternoon with me.” James looked remarkably uncomfortable for a moment. “And… you’re easy to be around.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she liked it.
The gallery had transformed itself in a matter of hours. Long gone were the catering trucks and the harried-looking employees. Tea candles were set up along the walkway, and when Dee, James, and Gremma strode up the sidewalk, it was to find a crowd trailing from the front door.
Gremma went first, like the bow of some warship, cutting her way through the tide of people. Dee trailed in her wake, with James taking up the rear. They managed to navigate the crowds until they were at the wide-flung front doors. The receptionist had smoothed her hair and donned a fresh shade of lipstick, her fingernails glittering in the dim light. She recognized them instantly, and she pushed Gremma aside, reaching for James’s arm. “Oh, good. My boss will be so glad you decided to show up.”
The receptionist took his arm in what was likely meant to be a polite gesture, but somehow it reminded Dee of a person clinging to the leash of a badly behaved show dog. James reached for Dee’s arm—Dee reached for Gremma. They were pulled around the velvet rope barrier, and Dee found herself in the gallery proper.
All the sawdust was gone; the floors were polished and the strings of lights were hung overhead. The drapery along the walls still muted the sound, giving everything an intimate feel.
A man in a pressed black jacket had champagne flutes balanced on a tray. James took two, handed one to Dee.
She sniffed; it smelled crisp and sharp, but she did not drink. Even so, it was nice to have something to do with her hands.
Gremma was already talking to someone—an old lady who had paused in front of a statue that was… rather anatomically correct. Dee choked back a laugh and turned to James. He was walking around the edges of the room, eyeing the paintings. “These ones are mine,” he said, and nodded to the five before him.
The first was a painting of an old woman. The left half was all oils and elegant colors—a traditional painting. The detail was incredible; Dee could see the wrinkles in the woman’s face, how her skin was thin as parchment in some places, the way the sunlight caught in her far-seeing eyes. But the woman’s right edge began to bleed away into charcoal lines, into muted colors until it was all black-and-white sketches. They faded away into blank paper. It gave the whole painting a deliberate, unfinished look.