Book Lovers(66)

“Oh,” I say, still on a snappy dialogue hot streak.

“Hey,” he says, brightening, “I hope this doesn’t sound too pushy—because I understand if you’re not interested—but if you want to go on a trail ride while you’re here, I’d love to take you.”

His warm, friendly expression is as dazzling as it was when I first bumped into him outside Mug + Shot. He is, I wholeheartedly believe, a truly nice man.

“Maybe so,” I say, then renew my promise to call him. As his pine-and-leather scent retreats across the room, I stay rooted to the spot, caught in an endless loop of Shepherd is Charlie’s cousin. I almost kissed Charlie’s cousin.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I can hear Charlie saying, This can’t be anything, but I can’t shake the feeling that it already is.

I feel vaguely sick. Libby still isn’t back yet, and I’m too deep in my thoughts for small talk with strangers. Avoiding every attempt at eye contact, I wander through the crowd to the far end of the living room.

A series of three massive paintings hangs in a triptych. The walls are covered in paintings, actually, every color palette and size, giving the house a cozy, eclectic feeling mismatched to its old-fashioned exterior.

The paintings are definitely nudes, though abstracted: all pinks and tans and browns, purple curves and shadows. They remind me of the Matisse Cut-Outs, but whereas those always strike me as romantic, even erotic—all artful arches and curved, pretzeling legs—these feel casual, the kind of vulnerable nudity of walking around naked in your apartment, looking for your hairbrush.

The scent of weed hits me right before her voice, but I still flinch when Sally says, “Are you an artist?”

“Definitely not. But I’m an appreciator.”

She lifts the wine bottle in her hand like it’s a question. I nod and she tops off my glass.

“Who made them?” I ask.

Sally’s lips tighten into an apple-cheeked smile. “I did. In another life.”

“They’re phenomenal.” From a technical standpoint, I know very little about art, but these paintings are beautiful, calming in their earthy colors and organic shapes. They’re decidedly not the kind of art that makes a person say, My four-year-old niece could paint this.

“I can’t believe you made these.” I shake my head. “It’s so strange to see something like this and realize it just came from a normal person. Not that you’re normal!”

“Oh, honey,” she laughs. “There are far worse things to be. Normal is a badge I wear proudly.”

“You could’ve been famous,” I say. “I mean, that’s how good these are.”

She appraises the paintings. “Speaking of those ‘worse things to be than normal.’?”

“Fame comes with money,” I point out. “Money’s helpful.”

“Fame also comes with people telling you whatever they think you want to hear.”

“Hello there,” Libby coos, slipping into place beside us. She gives me an indiscreet waggle of the eyebrows, and I’m grateful Sally misses it, so I don’t have to explain the meaning behind it is She wants me to screw your nephew! Instead of your son! Which was also briefly on the table!

“Sally painted these,” I say.

Libby looks to her for confirmation. “No freaking way!”

Sally laughs. “So shocked!”

“These are, like, professional, Sally,” Libby says. “Have you ever tried to sell any?”

“I used to.” She looks displeased at the thought.

“Wuh-oh,” Libby says. “There’s clearly a story here. Come on, Sal. Let it out.”

“Not a very interesting one,” she says.

“Lucky for you, we just saw a play that severely lowered our standards,” I say.

Sally lets out a devilish snort and pats my arm. “Don’t let Reverend Monica hear you say that. Old Man Whittaker is her godson.”

“I hope he’ll pose for the statue in the town square,” I say.

“That statue could look like my mail carrier, Derek, for all I care,” Sally says. “Long as the plaque says Whittaker. We need the business that sort of thing could bring in.”

“Back to the story,” Libby says. “You used to sell your paintings?”

She sighs. “Well, when I was a girl, I wanted to be a painter. So when I was eighteen, I went to Florence to paint for a few weeks, which turned into months—Clint and I broke up, of course—and after a year, I came back to the States to try to break into the art scene in New York.”

“Get out!” Libby lightly thwacks Sally’s arm. “Where’d you live?”

“Alphabet City,” she says. “Long, long time ago. Stayed for the next eleven years, working my ass off. Sold some paintings, applied for shows constantly. Worked for three or four different artists and spent every night trying to network in galleries. Worked myself to the bone. Then, finally, when I’d been at it for eight years, I was part of this group show. And this guy walks in, picks out one of my paintings, and buys it. Turns out he’s a renowned curator. My career takes off overnight.”

“That’s the dream!” Libby squeals.

“I thought so,” Sally replies. “But I realized the truth pretty fast.”