For the past nine years, this has been our primary connection to each other—a handful of sentences shared over the airwaves, meted out in daily quarter-hour increments.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“Okay, Momma. I love you.”
She starts to tell me she loves me too, but the prison call timer runs out and our conversation is cut off before I can hear all of the words.
Chapter 6
I made good on my promise to my landlord. Leo had practically choked when I showed up at his office that same day to inform him that I had vacated the apartment of my few belongings and then proceeded to pay my back rent—all twelve-hundred dollars and change—in cash.
My windfall from Claire is significantly lighter now, but so is my conscience.
And as I wake up on my second morning in Apartment 501 on Park Avenue, I am struck by a feeling of calm that I haven’t known in a long time. Maybe never.
I am free.
For the next four months, at least, I am free. Released from the worry of shelter or money.
It’s a start. And maybe a new start is all I need right now.
With that hopeful thought filling my sails, I take a shower, then head out the door before noon. I’m determined to spend my day off from Vendange—my first truly free Sunday—exploring and enjoying the city.
After a coffee and a bagel at one of the delis that Manny recommends to me a few blocks down from the building, I aimlessly meander the Upper East Side on foot. It’s brisk but sunny, and I relish the fact that I have nowhere I need to be and no pressure do anything at all. For the next few hours, I content myself with people-watching and browsing the upscale shops and designer boutiques on Fifth Avenue.
While I stroll the area, Claire calls from Tokyo to check in as promised and make sure I have everything I need at the apartment. I’m so upbeat and excited, I’m pretty sure I blather on for ten minutes straight about how incredible her building is and how much I would love to paint the view from her living room windows. She takes my gushing in stride, instructing me to make myself at home while she’s gone.
“If you need anything at all, just ask Manny. He knows the building inside out, and he’s a peach of a guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I agree. “He’s already told me where to get the best coffee and breakfast, and he’s been nothing but kind.”
As I say that, my mind conjures a different face from the affable doorman’s. One that I can’t describe as kind. What fills my vision are piercing, bright blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. A broad, sensual mouth that makes my pulse kick a little faster just recalling it now.
I don’t ask Claire about him—Mr. Baine—no matter how much the question burns the tip of my tongue. After all, it doesn’t matter who he is or what she might know about him. I’m staying at her place to do a job, not ogle her neighbors.
We end our call and I continue my casual tour of the Upper East Side and its intriguing shops and landmarks. I hadn’t intended to visit the gallery when I set out earlier today, but as the afternoon winds down toward twilight, I realize I’m little more than a block from Dominion.
I’ve been meaning to call Margot for days just to say hi and let her know how I’m doing. It bothers me, the way I ended our call the other night when she was trying so hard to cushion the blow about my art’s rejection. I was abrupt when we spoke. She needs to understand that I’ll always be grateful for her trying to give me a shot at the gallery.
And despite her willingness to store my paintings for a while, my failure is not her burden to bear. God knows, there’s certainly enough room for all of my unsold pieces in Claire’s apartment. Hell, maybe I’ll pack them into a taxi and take them back with me today.
I cross the wide avenue at the traffic light and head toward Dominion’s understated storefront on the other side of the street. Soft light glows from within the deep space. I can see groups of people inside, browsing the collections and displays.
It looks busy for a Sunday evening, and it’s not until I’m at the door that I see the gallery is hosting some kind of reception inside. Several dozen people fill the space—obviously more than to be expected on any normal day. Through the window, I spot Margot’s petite form near the front of the gallery. She’s chatting with a stylish older couple at one of the gallery’s premier displays, all three of them engrossed in conversation and sipping from flutes of sparkling champagne.
Loath to intrude on a private event, I immediately start to retreat.
I’m not even half a dozen steps away before I hear her call out from behind me.
“Avery?” Soft classical music and the drone of muffled conversation spills out of the gallery’s open door as she comes outside. “Avery! I thought that was you.”