33
The orders came in overnight, a flurry of requests after she posted photos of her Rock Candy rings against the backdrop of the water. She was counting the minutes until Sanjay arrived tomorrow with her equipment. Now she didn’t need them just for the photo shoot: She’d have to create new pieces to replenish her inventory.
At eight in the morning she walked up Commercial to the post office, a redbrick building in the center of town, to buy packing material and get her pieces out to customers.
She knew she couldn’t keep going like this forever: a one-woman operation schlepping jewelry in her backpack to the post office every day, secretly checking her Instagram all day long while trying to work a paying job. She was starting to wonder if she was delusional about having a real business. That guy Jacob Jabarin had been right. Of course he was right; that’s why he was a billionaire investor and she was at the mercy of her ex-boyfriend and a U-Haul.
But Provincetown made it hard to sink into a truly bad mood. Early risers were rewarded with spectacular light and a calm before the tourist storm on the main drag.
After the post office, she took a walk to quiet her anxiety and ended up across the street from the Harrison Gallery. Two men carried a large painting wrapped in brown paper up the stairs. One of them was Connor.
Her first impulse was to duck behind a street sign covered in winding vines. But she was too late; with a double take, Connor set down his end of the painting.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, walking toward her.
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I was just finishing up and about to get some coffee,” he said, calling out to the other guy to take five. “Care to join me?”
“I’m fully caffeinated, thanks,” she said.
“If I can’t interest you in coffee, maybe a little sun and sand? It’s a great beach day.”
A beach day? She barely knew the guy.
“Thanks, but I don’t even own a bathing suit,” she said.
“I promise you won’t get wet,” he said. She startled for a moment at the possible double entendre, but the expression on his face was neutral. Innocent.
She shook her head. “I should get going.”
“Consider it an act of charity. I need to come up with some gift ideas. I’ve alienated at least two or three members of my family this week.”
She laughed and was surprised at how good it felt. Really, what was the harm? It was a trip to the beach, not a marriage proposal. And she needed to get her mind off work.
They rode to the beach in Connor’s Range Rover. The short drive had the perfection of a Coca-Cola ad: the weather, the sun-dappled bay on the left, the salt marshes populated by cranes and herons. Gemma couldn’t help but think, This is not my life.
But it used to be.
As a child, she’d traveled endlessly with her parents: Phuket, the Amalfi Coast, Andalusia, Corfu, the Côte d’Azur. And then, her world became confined to rural Pennsylvania.
A year ago, one of her friends invited her along on a trip to the Hamptons, and Gemma felt completely out of her element. But Provincetown was like a welcoming pair of outstretched arms.
The Herring Cove parking lot was nearly full. Even before she set foot on the sand she could see the untamed, expansive beauty of the place. They walked down a blue tarp framed by shrubbery and wildflowers. A posted notice warned people to be mindful of their dogs at night because of the coyotes. Other signs offered trivia about local birds.
The beaches, Connor explained, were a part of protected federal wetlands.
“Some of the greatest natural wildlife in the country can be found right here,” he said.
Connor knew a lot about Cape Cod. He’d grown up in Boston and spent summers in nearby Chatham with his family. She tried to stay focused on his chatter, to be in the present. But her mind kept slipping into the past. Perhaps it was being back by the water. Or all the thinking about the Electric Rose. Either way, in that moment, she was mentally eight years old again, waking up in a strange hotel room, surprised to find her grandmother had suddenly arrived. The sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Tell me more about the gallery and how that all came together,” she said, trying to bring herself back to the beach.
“The art world is intense. And risky,” he said.
She nodded. “What world isn’t?”
“Antique shops?”
She smiled. “It’s my aunt’s store. I’m sure she has her own stress.”
For two hours, they watched the waves roll in and out. They talked about music, movies, the restaurants in Provincetown. It was unspoken, but they both clearly avoided any serious topics. As usual, she didn’t talk about herself. And like most people, Connor didn’t notice. She’d read once that the surest way for another person to find you interesting was if they do all the talking.
“Well . . . thanks,” she said when Connor dropped her off on Commercial Street. He’d offered to drive her home, but she said she wanted to walk a bit, so he parked the car in a lot on the East End.
“How about dinner tomorrow night?” he said.
She hesitated. “Look, today was fun. But I’m not planning on being here much longer.”
“Big plans back in the city.”
“Yep. World domination.”
“I’d expect no less,” he said. “How about this: I just might pop into the store now and then to see if you’re still around. I wouldn’t call it stalking exactly, but if you’re still around . . . then dinner?”
He looked so sincere, so deeply hopeful, she could only nod. Maybe, just maybe, this change of scenery would change her luck.