If I Were You(10)

I return the smile and enter the gallery, noting the nervous energy bouncing off the twenty-something girl as I pass, an energy that seems to scream "I’m new and don’t know what I am doing.” This isn’t Rebecca, who I know will be daringly bold and confident. In fact, the hostess brings out the schoolteacher in me, and I fight the urge to give her a hug and tell her she’s doing fine. I’m a hugger. I got it from my mother, just like I did my love of art, only I wasn’t talented with a brush as she had been.

The girl is saved from my mothering when the sound of a piano playing from a distant corner filters through the air and draws my attention to the main showroom. I am in awe. This isn’t my first time visiting the four-thousand-square-foot wonder that is the Allure gallery, but it doesn’t diminish my excitement at seeing it again.

The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white wonder. The walls are snow white, the floor glistening like white diamonds. The shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with contrasting, eye popping, colorful artwork.

I turn away from the showroom, attending to business before pleasure, and present my ticket to a hostess behind a podium. She is tall and elegant with long, raven hair. “Rebecca?” I ask hopefully.

“No, sorry,” she says. “I’m Tesse.” She holds up a finger as she glances through the glass doors at an approaching customer she needs to attend. I wait patiently, hoping this young woman can connect me with Rebecca. I listen attentively while she directs the new guest to a short stairway that leads toward the music, and apparently, the location where Ricco Alvarez will be unveiling his masterpiece.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Tesse finally says, giving me her full attention. “You were looking for Rebecca. Unfortunately she isn’t attending tonight’s event. Is there something I can help you with?”

Disappointment fills me. To miss an Alvarez event is not something someone in Rebecca’s role would likely do. I just want to know, for certain, that Rebecca is safe. Painting myself as a stranger doesn’t seem the way to do that. “My sister’s an old friend of Rebecca’s. She told me to be sure and say hello to her and pass along her new phone number. She seemed to think Rebecca worked big events like this one. She’ll be disappointed I missed her.”

“Oh, I hate that you missed her,” Tesse says, looking genuinely concerned. “I’m not only new, I only work part time, on an as-needed basis, so I don’t hear much of what’s going on internally, but I think Rebecca took some personal time off. Mark would know for certain.”

“Mark?”

“The manager here,” she says. "He’ll be tied up with the presentation soon, but I can introduce you to him afterwards if you like?”

I nod. “Yes. Please. That would be perfect.”

The piano stops abruptly. “They’re about to start,” Tesse informs me. “You should grab a seat while you still can. I’ll be sure to help you connect with Mark after the presentation.”

A thrill shoots through me. “Thank you so much,” I say, before I head toward the seating area. I can’t believe that I am about to see an Alvarez original presented by Alvarez himself.

A tuxedo-clad usher greets me at the bottom of the stairs and offers me some help finding a seat. And boy did I need help. There were at least two hundred chairs lined up in front of a mini stage, set in front of a bay window that was essentially the entire wall, and almost every single chair was taken.

I squeeze into a center row, between a man that has artsy rebel, written all over him from longish light-blond hair to his jeans and a blazer, and a fifty-something woman who is more than a little irritated to have to let me pass. I can’t help but notice the man is incredibly good looking and I’ve never been one to be easily impressed. I know too well that beauty is too often only skin deep.

“You're late,” the man says as if he knows me, a friendly smile touching his lips, his green eyes crinkling at the edges, mischief in their depths. I figure him to be about thirty-five. No. Thirty-three. I am good with ages, and good at reading people. My kids at school often found that out when they were up to no good.

I smile back at the man, feeling instantly comfortable with him when, aside from my students, I’m normally quite reserved with strangers. “And you forgot to pick up your tux, I see,” I tease. In fact, I wonder how he pulled off getting in here dressed as he is.

He runs his hand over his sandy blond, one-day stubble that bordered on two days. “At least I shaved.”