Chapter 21

Meadow

I stand in the middle of the main gallery at Pathways, pacing the floor. I hold the phone up to my ear. I’ve been on hold for way too long. I’m more annoyed with each passing second.

Shannon walks through the door, holding a brown paper bag. I can smell the sandwiches from a distance and my stomach grumbles. He grins at me. “Last night, I told Josh that–”

I hold up a finger to my mouth.

Finally, a woman on the phone says, “Good afternoon, how can I help you today?”

“I’d like to take out a full-page ad. In color.”

“No problem. I just need your credit card number, and I can process this right away for you.”

“Okay.” I walk over to my purse and take a deep breath. I still can’t believe what I’m about to do.

I hear her typing something on her keyboard. “Your name, please?”

“Meadow Hughes. But this ad is for my gallery, Pathways.”

“Okay. Got it. And it looks like you’ll be able to take advantage of our introductory offer for first-time advertisers. You’ll save ten percent. With that discount, your total is only $145,000.”

I nearly faint. I can’t even remember the last time I spent six figures on anything. I still rent an apartment. Thank God I was able to clear up the credit issues right after the debacle at the restaurant with Henry.

“Ma’am? Are you there?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’m here.”

I reply to the text from AmEx that authorizes the purchase, then go back to the phone call. After she says everything went through, I hang up in a daze. Shannon glances at me. “You look like you could use a glass of water.”

“I probably need something much stronger than that. I just bought a full-page ad in The New York Times.”

His eyes get wide. “Holy shit!”

I sit down in the chair. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“Which artists did you feature? Birdmann? The Swedish twins with the abstract. Please don’t tell me you just spent six figures on a headless chicken wearing pajamas?”

A sigh escapes before I can stop it. One that says everything that words cannot. “Just Henry.”

“Seriously? You’re going to be featuring my photos in a six-figure ad in The Times. Holy double shit!”

I nod. “I emailed the pictures you took of him in his studio to our graphic designer, and he put together an ad for me. It’s spectacular. Want to see it? Instead of a headless chicken, I’m putting all my eggs in Henry’s basket. I believe in him.”

Maybe I believe in us.

“Wow, somebody’s in love.”

“I’m not in love.” I’ve always been good at evasion. “I just don’t want to see Henry’s career ruined by that talentless hack, Silverman.”

“I know you’re trying to even the score, but you would have spent a lot less in the Village Voice and still proven the point with aplomb.”

I shake my head and walk over to my laptop. I double-click to open the image of the ad. “This is way too fabulous for the Village Voice. And I would think the king of fabulous would already know that.”

Shannon smiles. “The color corrections on my pictures look great. I can pass for a professional photographer for sure. And look at your Henry, he’s a studmuffin.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth. “And best of all, it shows off every phase of his creative process.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Shannon takes the sandwiches out of the bag and hands one to me. “You think this will drum up business for the gallery?”

“At that price, it better. If it doesn’t, I’m toast.”

“Well, at least you did what was in your heart. If everything goes to hell in a handbasket, you can be proud that you took the high road.”

I sip my water. “How many times do I have to tell you that this has nothing to do with my heart… it has everything to do with a certain self-righteous bastard who thinks he runs the world because The Times gave him a freaking column without fully vetting him. I wonder which one of his references lied for him.”

Shannon puts his palm between us. “Geez, calm down. You’re making my blood pressure tick up.”

I grab his wrist and check for a pulse. “I know you’re way too fabulous for that.”

“So, when will it print?”

“Sunday. Everybody reads the Sunday edition. That’s the point. Hence the huge price tag.”

Shannon chews and swallows. “Have you told Henry?”

“Nope. He still won’t answer my calls.”

“The poor man is wounded to the core.”

And you’re the one who did it. Shannon’s unspoken words drill through me.

“Maybe, but it just seems so odd how he shut me out. I’m surprised that he even let you take the pictures.”

Shannon sweeps his big hands down the length of his body. “No mortal can resist this fabulosity. Especially, not another man.”

I’m not sure how my six-figure investment will pan out, but I don’t have any regrets. No risk, no reward. The only thing missing is Henry. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice on the phone and see him smile again.

But Shannon is wrong. It’s not love.

It can’t be.

Until it is.

***

Usually, I worship lazy Sundays. The gallery is closed unless it’s a special event, and I find time to head out the door at my leisure to grab brunch at a diner around the corner, home to the world’s most addictive mimosas.

But this Sunday is different. I’m up early, and I’m already on my second cup of coffee. I wait for The New York Times to be delivered. It’s just after dawn.

A few minutes later, the paper arrives with a resounding thump, and I turn straight to the Arts section. I grin at the sight of the full-page ad featuring Henry at the potter’s wheel creating a gorgeous vase. I stare at the image of his intense, handsome face hard at work.

If Greg Silverman was within earshot, I’d tell him to eat shit and die. Shannon’s high road can go fuck itself. I smile at the thought of letting the hateful beady-eyed troll have it all over again. It’s true that the ad was expensive, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. More beautiful than the semester I studied abroad in France. In living color, the ad tempts me to laminate it, frame it and hang it on the wall.

My cell phone chimes with a new message from Shannon that reads: “Love it! Very fabulous indeed! If I do say so myself.”

I text him back a smiley face and head to the bathroom. After a long shower and a good shampoo, I feel renewed. I throw on a sundress and a pair of leather sandals and make my way outside.

The early morning air smells like garbage and cigarettes, but God, I love this city. I’m not sure if I could ever leave this crazy island known as Manhattan. I pass by a few joggers and dog walkers. Some wave and others avoid eye-contact.

I turn the corner and walk into the diner. It’s not crowded, and I’m relieved. This place will be packed by ten o’clock. I check my watch. It’s just after eight.

It’s one of those places where you seat yourself, so I grab a spot by the window. A young waiter with peach fuzz approaches me. “Hi, my name is Roberto. I’ll be taking care of you. Welcome. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

“How about the bottomless mimosas?”

He grins. “Sure. I’ll be right back with that.”

I stare out of the window at an old couple crossing the street. They hold hands and smile. It’s a tender moment. I can’t help but think about Henry. I miss what we had. I wonder if he ever thinks about me.

Roberto walks over and hands me a glass of mimosa. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” I smile and accept the bubbly beverage. I can’t wait to toss back the first few until I don’t feel quite so miserable. “And how about an egg-white omelet with spinach, tomato, and cilantro?”

As he walks toward the register, my cell phone chimes with a new text message from Edna.

Edna: The NY Times ad is beautiful! Are any of Henry’s vases still for sale?

Me: Thanks and yes. We have four custom pieces available. Please take a look.

I attach images of Henry’s vases at Pathways. Just as I’m about to press send, I see several emails. Then, there’s an explosion on social media. Everyone raves about Henry’s work.

I float on a cloud as I message everyone back individually. I spend the next hour at the diner, sipping mimosas and reveling at how my fortunes turned around. A few days ago, I wasn’t even sure if I could keep the doors open at Pathways. Now, I have a ton of new leads… more than enough to recoup the cost of the ad space, which is tax deductible anyway. When it comes down to it, the ad probably didn’t really cost me much at all.

While I munch and sip, my phone lights up with a text from Shan.

Shannon: Have you seen the NY Times online article? Crazy!

Me: No

He sends me the link, and I stare at it. My thumbs fly over my screen.

Me: Holy shit!

Right there in black and white is a short piece stating that Greg Silverman fabricated details about Henry Garrison’s pottery being commercially produced and Mr. Silverman is no longer employed at The New York Times.

Shannon: Nobu?

Me: Get your fabulous self ready.