And I thought New York had the best people-watching,” Gemma said.
Spindler’s restaurant was located on the East End and had a front deck, rear garden seating, and an upper level with water views where Alvie chose to sit. Gemma looked down at the colorful tide of people roaming Commercial Street. Cars were at a crawl; on the nearest corner, a man in a top hat belted out Frank Sinatra with a karaoke machine. Families with small children carried bags from Cabot’s Candy, and drag queens handed out flyers for that evening’s shows.
“My girlfriend says New York hasn’t been interesting since the eighties,” Alvie said from across the table.
Their drinks had barely arrived and she’d already mentioned Maud, her much older girlfriend, repeatedly.
“So you don’t have any hesitation about quitting the store to work with your girlfriend? I mean, not everyone can work together,” Gemma said with a twist in her gut. After hearing from him earlier, she realized how much she missed Sanjay. Worse, she couldn’t even tell him how she felt. That definitely would fall outside of the careful friend zone they’d established.
“Celeste and Jack don’t seem to have a problem,” Alvie said.
That was true. And there were probably countless other examples. Not everyone messed things up as spectacularly as Gemma had. There were moments when she was tempted to wonder if the Pavlin “curse” was actually a thing. She raised her margarita glass and a dusting of salt fell to the table.
“I guess some people are relationship people and some aren’t,” she said. “I’m done at the ripe old age of twenty-two.”
Alvie put down her glass. “You are too gorgeous to be cynical. I bet you have guys throwing themselves at you.”
She took a slug of her drink. It was sweet and tangy and she licked the salt from her lips. “I have more important things to think about.”
“Like what?”
“Like my business. My jewelry work.”
“Did you make that ring?” She looked down at the silver and peridot piece from Rock Candy on Gemma’s middle finger. Gemma nodded.
“So . . . what do you want to do? In life, I mean.”
Alvie shrugged. “I want to marry Maud. I know—it’s so 1950s. If two women were allowed to get married in the 1950s. But you know what I mean.”
Gemma nodded. When she had been a little girl, looking up to her parents who were so in love, she dreamed of being married someday. Not anymore.
“We’re programmed to believe in the fairy tale,” Gemma said.
“You don’t believe in true love?” said Alvie.
Gemma considered the question. She had a fleeting image of her beautiful parents. And the look on Sanjay’s face when he confronted her about Noam. She shook the thoughts away and glanced across the street at East End Books.
“I believe in love,” she said, turning back to Alvie’s hopeful face. “But I don’t believe in happy endings.”
Her phone rang with an unfamiliar 212 number. Someone from Manhattan. She was tempted to send it to voicemail, but then had the long-shot hope it was one of her leads on a potential investor.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” she said. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Gemma Maybrook?”
“This is Gemma.”
“Gemma, this is Regan O’Rourke from The New York Times. We would like to do a feature on you as this year’s New York School of Design award winner. Are you amenable to an interview?”
The New York Times! She’d forgotten all about the profile piece that was part of winning the NYSD award. A feature in the Style section could give her the bump she needed to justify going back to Jabarin at the end of the summer.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Great. And you’re in Manhattan?”
“I’m in Provincetown right now. But . . . I can come back.”
“Actually, Provincetown would make a great setting for the piece. Very photogenic. How’s a week from tomorrow for the interview?”
A week from tomorrow? Out here?
“Yes, that works,” Gemma said.
The woman gave her contact information and said she looked forward to meeting her. “Oh—one more thing. We’ll want to photograph your work space and the collection, so please have that available to us.”
She didn’t have any of that available. Her studio was packed up in her storage space. She didn’t want to admit to The New York Times that she got kicked out of her apartment and couldn’t afford a new one. Not exactly the image of success.
She’d figure it out. She always figured things out.
Alvie looked at her expectantly.
“Sorry about that,” she said. She took another big gulp of her margarita, the citrus and salt a little rough going down this time.
“You know what, Gemma? This is going to be your summer of love. I’ll be your support system—like AA. Or Weight Watchers.”
Alvie raised her glass again. She raised hers, too.
“I’m all for support. But I can guarantee that what I need has nothing to do with love.”