I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found(8)

"Thats’ a bit X-Files, isn’t it?" Daniel smiled. "Actually, come to think of it - wasn’t there a pinecone or something in the opening credits?"

"Seeds," I corrected, closing my hand around the shell again. "It was seeds sprouting." I went to my bag and started wrapping the shell up in a spare bra.

"I thought that was for me," Daniel said.

"It is." I zipped the bag shut. "I’m just keeping it safe for you."

He didn’t say anything else about it.





CHAPTER THREE





We arrived back in New York at six o' clock, right in the heart of the rush hour. After an arduous trip home, when we finally stumbled through the front door, all I wanted to do was lie down. But there was one thing I had to see first.

I stopped at the end table in the hall. The doorman had been bringing in our mail. I wondered if it was a service he often provided or a special favor just for Daniel - but I was afraid to ask. I sifted through the pile of envelopes eagerly, and then once more, with slightly less enthusiasm. Finding nothing of interest, I dropped it all back on the hall table with a dramatic thump.

"Nothing from the galleries?" Daniel asked, gently kicking his suitcase towards the foot of the stairs while he stripped off his shirt. I had to smile, in spite of myself. He was such a consummate multi-tasker he sometimes seemed incapable of doing only one thing at a time.

"No," I said. "Not yet."

"Well, I'm sure they must get a lot of submissions," he said, walking down the hallway to the bathroom with the majority of his clothes balled up under one arm. I sort of hated the false cheerfulness in his voice, but what did I want him to say, really? Well, dear, you're probably buried deep in their slush pile, never to be seen again.

I wandered into the kitchen and turned the hot water on, scrubbing my arms up to the elbows like I was going into surgery. Daniel always showered after flying, and while I understood the impulse, my skin already felt like a desert. I stripped out of my wrinkled traveling clothes, pulled on some sweats and a tee-shirt from my former life, and collapsed on the sofa.

I dug my phone out of my pocket and began scrolling through it aimlessly. When Daniel came back out, still toweling his hair, I waved the maddening device at him.

"What now?" he said, heading for the fridge.

"You've got to have your tech people do something about this," I said. "Everyone I've ever emailed in my entire life is in my contacts list. It's the most annoying goddamn thing."

"Did you turn off the auto-contact setting?" he called, over the sound of the sink running.

"I shouldn't have to," I yelled back. "Nobody wants this feature. Why is it default? Why do I need a contact entry for some shady online job posting I replied to six years ago? In my phone? It's a throwaway email address. It makes no sense."

"You need to turn off the auto-contact setting," he replied, patiently. "Some people like to keep track of everyone they email."

"Well, I can do that, by looking in my sent mail. Besides, that doesn't help me get rid of all the junk contacts that are already in there." I sat up, suddenly feeling very invested in this fight. Usually, technology problems made me feel like the most impotent moron on the entire planet, but it had just now occurred to me that I finally had the audience to change something. "I looked online. Lots of other people are complaining about it."

"People will complain about anything," he said. "The ones who like it aren't going to take the time to post about it online; they're the silent majority."

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you." I didn't phrase it like a question, because it wasn't.

He smiled, plopping down on the sofa next to me with a drink in his hand. "That's my job," he said.

I eyed him sidelong. "No, I didn't want anything, that's fine, thanks."

"Maybe you should get some rest," he suggested, gently. How could he be in such a good mood after traveling for six hours? I thought of all the tech conferences he had to go to, all the flights to the opposite side of the world - and it started to make a little more sense.

"I can't sleep," I said, leaning my head back on the cushion. I was tired, sure, but I was keyed-up from all the hustle and bustle. Being around large groups of people exhausted me like nothing else, especially when they were all exactly as stressed as I was. I had no idea how Daniel managed to maintain that preternatural level of calm all the time, but I both loved and hated him for it.

"I'm sorry you haven't heard back from any of the galleries yet," he said, cutting to the heart of the matter as usual. "I'm sure they'll get to you. If you want, I can make some phone calls…"

"No," I said, firmly. We'd had this discussion before. I didn't want my art on display somewhere because I was Daniel Thorne's wife. People were going to think that anyway - I didn't want there to be a single grain of truth to it. I needed to be able to tell myself that it was all based on my own merit as an artist.

"All right," he said. "That's very noble of you, but you know most people who get placed in galleries these days have connections. You wouldn't be doing anything that a thousand people before you haven't done."