Joe

There are barely enough hours in the day.

Between hovering over my dad and his crew and collecting the shipments of artwork as they come in, the week goes by in a blink. It’s like a dream that I keep waking up from, realizing that I haven’t quite finished the marathon I’m running. I stumble through, forgetting to eat, forgetting to drink, barely remembering to check in with Didi.

But then, suddenly, here we are.

The sun is going down, and Dusty walks in through the door of our new gallery, breathtakingly beautiful in a lavender silk gown with flowing sleeves and an open back that shows off her sinuous, strong spine.

“Is this all right?” she asks me meekly as she tiptoes in.

“You are just the icing on the cake,” I tell her honestly. “Seriously, Dusty. You look amazing. Are you comfortable with everything that I taught you?”

She glances around at all of the artwork on the wall, the sculpture pedestals set up under the spotlights, the glittering display cabinets.

“I memorized it all, I think,” she assures me. “Best I can, anyway. What if I screw it up, though?”

Reaching out, I gather her chestnut curls and arrange them over her shoulders, smiling maternally.

“Dusty, I have a really good feeling about you. It’s going to be fine. People will ask you questions, and you just answer. Every painting is a story.”

“And we just have to find the right story for their home,” she finishes, reciting some of the art gallery mythology I coached her on.

“Exactly right! And if it’s not going well, give them a glass of wine. The good stuff.”

She winks at me, pursing her lips enough to accentuate those high cheekbones. She’s gorgeous. They’re going to love her.

“Okay, I’m just going to check on the caterers… You stand here and look intriguing, okay? As people come in, say hello and invite them to mingle and ask you questions, got it?”

“Got it!”

From the back room, I hear the melodious clang of a case hitting the floor and turn to see the musicians shuffling in to the alcove we set up for them. My dad had enough time left over after we scrapped the drywall idea that he was able to create a recessed space just for this kind of thing. Very smart. Gallery openings are the engine for sales. We need to be able to entertain as well as display the works.

I am sure that Willowdale has never seen anything quite like this. Naples, Florida is one of the wealthiest cities in the entire United States. Willowdale went completely under the radar even though it’s practically right next door. There have never been this many Porsches on Main Street before, I am certain of it. Every once in a while I see a local resident walk by, eyebrows raised, peering through the front window at the strangers gathered in semiformal attire.

Holly flew down just for tonight, ready to facilitate the larger sales. Though I am confident in Dusty’s ability to catch up, it is nice to know that there is someone else here to actually witness my success. I know she’s going to give a good report to Martha. Knowing that Didi is going to be insanely jealous is just a small bonus.

With a glass of champagne in my hand, I sway from small group to small group, saying hello and welcoming what I hope is our new clientele to the gallery. If everything goes well, the entire town will be transformed in a few years. Martha has made a smart investment here, I think.

As the musicians fill the room with light jazz, I smile and nod at everyone, finally feeling as though the event is under control. All of the things that could have gone wrong have expired, and now, barring a sudden lightning strike, I think it’s going to be okay. I can finally exhale. And I do, letting my breath seep out of me, feeling my center of gravity plunge through the floor, anchored to the middle of the earth. As it leaks away I realize that I’ve been holding back a feeling of absolute terror. And it all worked out all right.

Score one for the control freak! I think to myself. I think I deserve a little pat on the back.

I suddenly see him out of the corner of my eye, and my breath catches my throat. Automatically I stand up straighter, rolling my shoulders back, shifting my weight.

He walks in with an appraising squint, scanning the room from side to side, a slow smile spreading over his cheeks. I know he can see what the space was just a week ago, and he can see how far we’ve come. He nods, clearly pleased. Something tickles in my belly, a feeling like a balloon being popped.

As though he senses me, his gaze snaps toward mine. He finds me in the crowd, picks me out like a magnetic connection.

Quirking an eyebrow, he strides toward me, his perfectly-fitting suit stretching over his broad shoulders with each step. When he reaches me, he slides his hands under my elbows, drawing me forward in a polite but thrilling embrace. His lips brush the top of my cheekbone as he leans close.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear, his breath tickling my neck into goosebumps. “This color is stunning on you.”

I lean back, swaying in my turquoise dress, happy to feel its well-tailored lines caressing my hips with each movement.

“I’m so glad you like it,” I smile, holding back the girlish giggle that wants to escape my lips. “And what do you think of my little project?”

He pivots to stand beside me, brushing against outside of my arm, his mass shadowing mine. I suppress the urge to lean into him.

“If I weren’t a man of science, I would say it was a miracle,” he grins.

There it is, that praise. There goes my imaginary tail, wagging like crazy.

“Dr. Warner!” comes a voice.

One of my mother’s friends shuffles across the newly polished floor, her floral skirt tight around her knees. I can tell she got dressed up for this, just to scope the place out. Notably, she’s got a small plate stacked high with imported cheese and slices of fig.

“Mrs. Cassidy,” he smiles as she rakes him with her eyes, her gaze darting back toward me every half a second or so.

Something dark inside me starts to simmer. This is a moment I knew would happen, one where a Willowdale resident was going to trap me. She’s got me in her sights, probably already calculating the sorts of things she’s going to be able to say about me tomorrow. What I’m wearing. What the gallery looks like. Her opinion of the art.

And most of all, what she thinks of my physical proximity to Dr. Sturgill Warner.

“Well isn’t this nice!” Mrs. Cassidy exclaims. “I mean… It’s nice! Isn’t it?”

Her substantial bosom heaves inside the dress, something I don’t think she’s worn in quite a while. She doesn’t seem comfortable. I suppose it’s just the camouflage she decided to wear when she went out on her mission to spy on me tonight.

“I’m glad you think so,” I say politely.

She presses her lips together, bouncing the overladen plate in her fingertips. Over her shoulder I can see Dusty shooting me a terrified look. I surreptitiously raise my fingers, letting Dusty know she doesn’t have to intervene.

“Didn’t Joanna do an absolutely spectacular job?” Dr. Warner suddenly says, edging closer to me. To my surprise I feel his hand slip around my waist, pulling me toward him affectionately.

Mrs. Cassidy’s eyes widen, a ring of white circling her gray irises.

“Goodness, of course she did!” she breathes heavily, taking in every detail.

I imagine this will all be precisely recounted: how close he was standing to me, how long it took him to draw me closer to him. How affectionate the position of his hand looked.

But instead of backing away, I decide to lean in instead.

“Thank you so much, Sturgill,” I sigh, looking up at him. It’s the first time I have said his name on purpose, and I have to admit it feels delicious on my tongue.

He heard it too. His smile is slow and sly, something shared just with me. I feel a barrier of privacy develop among us. There’s something discrete and unique. Something Mrs. Cassidy can’t hope to penetrate. Something waterproof.

“Well, all right then,” she murmurs from far away and I sort of hear her shuffle off.

But it’s hard to concentrate. Most of what I see is him.

“Is that all right?” he asks me in a confidential murmur when she is out of earshot.

I’m still rooted to the spot, trapped in the tractor beam of his gaze.

“Perfectly all right,” I confirm.

Again, there’s that feeling like bubbles inside me. Like I am filled with champagne. It would be stupid to tell him, though. I’m leaving in the morning, and this is all just for show anyway. It’s been good practice, though. It’s been nice to pretend. And it’s nice to have this handsome date on my arm as we open the gallery.

It may just be theater, but it is a very enjoyable sort of theater.