Read Online One Good Friend Deserves Another by Lisa Verge Higgins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Verge Higgins
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make the skin of her chest, exposed beneath a few open buttons, a complete patchwork of blotches.
“I’m working on a large canvas now.” He returned the dusty eyeglasses to the top of a pile of flotsam by the foot of the ladder and then reached for a rag in his toolbox to wipe the grime from his hands. “In a month, I’m going to have a booth at the Hudson Valley Art Fair.”
Thoroughly unnerved, Wendy thought of the Brazilian artists she knew. She thought of the brilliant colors and the textured street scenes of Sérgio Telles and the Picasso-like nudes of Ismael Nery and the way Antônio Garcia Bento painted water. She thought of the lovely woodscape by Batista da Costa acquired by her Soho art gallery, the one she’d repeatedly failed to sell and so had finally, guiltily, bought for herself.
Gabriel was an artist. A Brazilian artist. Showing up in her gallery like the ghost of Christmas Past.
“You should come by the fair,” he said. “I’d love to show you my work.”
Wendy stilled the reflex to say yes. She loved discovering new artists, loved the juxtaposition between who they seemed to be and what subjects they chose to draw. But she had to decline. This offer went beyond a friendly exchange between a contractor and his client. She’d heard this approach a dozen times while she’d worked for the art gallery, spoken from the mouths of so many bohemian artists, unshaven, unwashed, eyeing her three-hundred-dollar shoes and hoping for more than just a showing. It wasn’t quite “come up and see my etchings,” but often the sentiment was the same.
And in that moment, Parker materialized beside her. Not kind-but-stubborn Parker, holding firm against the idea of Birdie at the wedding, but possessive Parker. She imagined him slipping an arm around her shoulder and giving Gabe the eye before deftly changing the subject to sports.
“My weekends are pretty busy these days,” she said, granting Gabe a noncommittal smile, “but I’ll certainly try to drop by.”
And then, to save them both from any more awkwardness, she switched her coffee to her right hand. With her left hand, she tucked her hair behind her ear and let her fingers linger, wishing for the first time that she’d opted for a garish two-carat Harry Winston engagement ring, rather than the discreet topaz heirloom Parker had inherited from his great-grandmother.
Certainly Gabriel would understand this gesture, this international sign language for I’m already taken.
He greeted the exaggerated motion with a brief curiosity, and then, as his gaze fell upon the ring, the expression in his eyes shifted.
“I understand about busy weekends.” He tossed the rag with careless aim toward his toolbox. “So hard to fit everything in, especially if you have family.”
“Every Saturday with my mother,” Wendy said, “and every Sunday with my sister.”
“Me, I spend all my time with my son.”
My son.
The information sank in, like a flint skipping across water and then diving beneath the surface to drift, in a rocking motion, to the bottom.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “You’ll be calling me Gabe from now on, yes?”
She hesitated. His expression was open, regretful. A teasing smile twitched at the corner of his lips. This situation could have been awkward, if Gabriel had had the usual contractor swagger or if she’d been forced to verbally turn him down. She shouldn’t worry about ceding him this one small request. She was not, after all, one of the American Woodland Indians, reluctant to reveal her own name lest she lose a piece of her soul.
“Of course.” She took his hand in hers. “Gabe.”
He had a working man’s hand, callused and thick-knuckled, still rough with the grit of the ceiling. Holding it, she understood three things in swift succession. In a few weeks, Gabriel would be finished updating the electricity in the museum. In three months, she would be wearing a
“I’m working on a large canvas now.” He returned the dusty eyeglasses to the top of a pile of flotsam by the foot of the ladder and then reached for a rag in his toolbox to wipe the grime from his hands. “In a month, I’m going to have a booth at the Hudson Valley Art Fair.”
Thoroughly unnerved, Wendy thought of the Brazilian artists she knew. She thought of the brilliant colors and the textured street scenes of Sérgio Telles and the Picasso-like nudes of Ismael Nery and the way Antônio Garcia Bento painted water. She thought of the lovely woodscape by Batista da Costa acquired by her Soho art gallery, the one she’d repeatedly failed to sell and so had finally, guiltily, bought for herself.
Gabriel was an artist. A Brazilian artist. Showing up in her gallery like the ghost of Christmas Past.
“You should come by the fair,” he said. “I’d love to show you my work.”
Wendy stilled the reflex to say yes. She loved discovering new artists, loved the juxtaposition between who they seemed to be and what subjects they chose to draw. But she had to decline. This offer went beyond a friendly exchange between a contractor and his client. She’d heard this approach a dozen times while she’d worked for the art gallery, spoken from the mouths of so many bohemian artists, unshaven, unwashed, eyeing her three-hundred-dollar shoes and hoping for more than just a showing. It wasn’t quite “come up and see my etchings,” but often the sentiment was the same.
And in that moment, Parker materialized beside her. Not kind-but-stubborn Parker, holding firm against the idea of Birdie at the wedding, but possessive Parker. She imagined him slipping an arm around her shoulder and giving Gabe the eye before deftly changing the subject to sports.
“My weekends are pretty busy these days,” she said, granting Gabe a noncommittal smile, “but I’ll certainly try to drop by.”
And then, to save them both from any more awkwardness, she switched her coffee to her right hand. With her left hand, she tucked her hair behind her ear and let her fingers linger, wishing for the first time that she’d opted for a garish two-carat Harry Winston engagement ring, rather than the discreet topaz heirloom Parker had inherited from his great-grandmother.
Certainly Gabriel would understand this gesture, this international sign language for I’m already taken.
He greeted the exaggerated motion with a brief curiosity, and then, as his gaze fell upon the ring, the expression in his eyes shifted.
“I understand about busy weekends.” He tossed the rag with careless aim toward his toolbox. “So hard to fit everything in, especially if you have family.”
“Every Saturday with my mother,” Wendy said, “and every Sunday with my sister.”
“Me, I spend all my time with my son.”
My son.
The information sank in, like a flint skipping across water and then diving beneath the surface to drift, in a rocking motion, to the bottom.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “You’ll be calling me Gabe from now on, yes?”
She hesitated. His expression was open, regretful. A teasing smile twitched at the corner of his lips. This situation could have been awkward, if Gabriel had had the usual contractor swagger or if she’d been forced to verbally turn him down. She shouldn’t worry about ceding him this one small request. She was not, after all, one of the American Woodland Indians, reluctant to reveal her own name lest she lose a piece of her soul.
“Of course.” She took his hand in hers. “Gabe.”
He had a working man’s hand, callused and thick-knuckled, still rough with the grit of the ceiling. Holding it, she understood three things in swift succession. In a few weeks, Gabriel would be finished updating the electricity in the museum. In three months, she would be wearing a
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