don’t like them.”
“You don’t have to like them, darling, they are not for you.”
I shrug. “It’s your gallery.”
“Yes.” Those white teeth, that grin. “And they’ll sell. I like things that sell, Elisabeth. You know that.”
“Like that?” I nod toward Will’s atrocity.
“You don’t like that, either?”
I shrug again. “It’s a piece of shit, Naveen. Even the artist thinks so.”
He laughs, and I’m in front of a Ferris wheel under a summer sky, my hair in pigtails and my fists full of spun sugar. Not really, of course, but that’s how it feels. “You met Will.”
“Yes. I met him.” I look for Will in the crowd and see him in one of the alcoves, flirting with a woman whose hair is not flat and limp, her lipstick unsmeared. She looks as if she hasn’t eaten in years. She leans in close to him. He laughs.
I hate her.
I look away before Naveen can see me watching, but it’s too late. He shakes his head and squeezes my shoulder gently. He doesn’t say anything. I guess he doesn’t have to. Someone calls his name, and he’s off to schmooze. He’s better at it than I am, so I leave him to it.
It’s late and getting later, and I should leave. Naveen offered to let me stay at his place. I’ve done it before. I like his wife, Puja, but their kids are still small. When I stay there I’m treated to lots of sticky hugs and kisses, am woken at the crack of dawn and feel as if I have to give Puja a hand with things like diapers and feeding times. My daughters are long beyond needing that sort of care, and I don’t miss it.
“You’re still here.”
I turn, the sound of his voice tiptoeing up my spine to tickle the back of my neck. “I am.”
Will tilts his head a little to look at me. “Do you like anything in this show?”
“Of course I do.” It would be disloyal to say otherwise, wouldn’t it?
“Show me.”
I’m caught. At a loss. I search the room for something I do like. I point. “There. That piece. I like that one.”
White canvas, black stripes. A red circle. It looks like something any elementary schoolkid could do, but somehow it’s art because of the way it’s framed and hangs on the wall. When I look at it, I see the hovering shapes of butterflies, just for a minute. Nobody else would; they’d just see the white, the black, the red. But it’s the butterflies that make me choose it. I don’t love it, but out of everything here tonight, I like it the best.
“That?” Will looks at it, then at me again. “It’s pretty good. It’s not what I thought you’d pick, though.”
“What did you think I’d pick?”
Will points with his chin. “Want me to show you?”
I hesitate; I don’t know why. Of course I want him to show me. I’m curious about what he thinks I’d like. How he could think he knows enough about me to guess at anything I’d like.
Will takes me by the elbow and leads me through the crowd, still thick considering the hour, but then I guess most of these people live here in the city, or at least are staying close by. There’s another alcove toward the back, this one hung with gauze and twinkling fairy lights. The inside of it’s curved, which makes it hard to hang square portraits there, and why I didn’t look at it tonight. I couldn’t face another of those stinky vases.
“There.” Will stops but doesn’t let go of my elbow. If anything, he moves closer to me. “That’s what you like.”
The piece is simple. Carved, polished wood. There’s no real form or figure, though the piece is evocative of a woman’s body. The smooth curve of hip and thigh and belly and breasts, the curl and twist of hair. It’s not a woman, but it feels like one. Without thinking, I touch it. She feels like a woman. My fingers curl against my palm as I take my hand away. I shouldn’t have touched it. Oils from my fingers could harm the finish. It’s not a museum piece, but even so, it’s not right to ruin it.
And Will is correct. I like this one. I have no place for something like that in my home, but suddenly, I want it.
“Do you know who did it?” I’m already looking for the artist’s card.
Will says nothing. I look at him, thinking he’ll be smiling, but he’s not. He’s studying me.
“I knew you’d like that one.”
My body tenses. I’m not sure if I don’t like the way he says it, or if I like it too much. Either way, I frown. “You sound so proud.”
He glances at the piece of carved wood that shouldn’t look like anything but looks like a woman. “I like to figure out what people like. I mean, it’s important, you know? For an artist who wants to sell his shit.”
“Is that what it’s about, for you? Selling things? I thought real artists wanted to...you know. Make art.”
He laughs, low. “Sure. But I’m also into paying my rent and eating. Not many people can live on art.”
Not many of the people displaying here in Naveen’s gallery tonight, anyway. New York City has galleries like this all over the place. Competition’s fierce. I told him to keep his Philly gallery, but he insisted on branching out. I’m still not sure this one’s going to make it.
“So...you like to know what people like, so you can sell them things.”
“Sure.” Will’s grin is a little sly. “And I was right about you. Wasn’t I?”
“Yes.” For some reason, I’m reluctant to admit it.
He nods as if I just revealed a secret. Maybe I have. “You like things smooth.”
I take a step away from him. How could he know that? Hell. Until a few minutes ago, I’m not sure I knew it.
Will nods again. “Yeah. Smooth. And curved. You don’t like sharp things. Angles and shit. You don’t like it when there are points.”
“Who does?” My voice is anything but smooth.
“Some people do.” Will looks again at the carved wood. “You should buy it. It would make you happy.”
My laugh snags, like a burr. “Who says I need to be happy?”
“Everyone needs to be happy, Elisabeth,” Will says.
Oh, my name.
When he says my name, I see it in shimmering shades of blue and green and gray. Those are not my colors. I’m red and orange and yellow. Brown. My name is autumn moving on toward winter darkness, but not the way Will says it. When he says my name, I see summer. I see the ocean.
Blinking hard, I have to look away from him. My breath catches in my throat. I’m sure I can’t
