Blake hadn’t expected the lawyer to show up. Definitely not. She had shown such contempt for Blake last night, called her a “fucking diva,” hated the very idea of her art, and threatened her with a lawsuit—all in the span of about three minutes. And then there she was, standing outside the service entrance, her chestnut hair in a tight bun at the back of her head, her body covered up in a thick down coat, but somehow still sexy, as if her body was so extraordinary every curve could still be seen through the coat. The cool blast of air should have made Blake cold, but she stood there, sweating. Well, she’d been working hard, helping the carpenters rebuild the wall. That must be why. The gallery was warm with all the activity. Yes, she decided, that was it, as the lawyer, her face still seeming full of contempt, walked by her and up the stairs.
Even more surprising than her being there in the first place, was that she offered to help. Blake wasn’t sure how this would go. Jenny was wearing a suit from work, a starched oxford, and pearls, for God’s sake. What help could she offer? Plus, Blake was pretty sure that Jenny had never held a hammer or nail, let alone a radial saw. But, shocking Blake again, Jenny pulled off her heels, put on a pair of ballet flats she was carrying in her briefcase, and went right up to the biggest, burliest of the carpenters and walked away from the conversation with a pair of safety goggles on and a drill in her hand.
Blake tried not to stare at Jenny, who, across the room, looked wholly incongruous in her perfectly tailored suit as she helped put up the frame of the new wall. Yes, she was gorgeous, her bun coming undone a bit. She took off her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, showing her toned arms, with a few freckles on the forearm. No ring, she noticed. Probably living with some other lawyer, she thought. A prick who wears cashmere sweaters and shoes with tassels and is planning the perfect proposal on Valentine’s Day at the top of the Eiffel Tower or something.
Blake hammered the nails for the light fixtures into her two-by-fours, swinging wildly, strangely angry at the thought of Jenny wearing some preppy guy’s ring on her finger. Jenny, wearing his button-down in the morning. What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking about Jenny at all? It was abundantly clear she was straight. For one thing, she hadn’t let a single glance linger on Blake, which was unusual. It was simply a fact that she had a reliable effect on a certain type of woman. And Jenny clearly wasn’t the type.
She had to focus. She was out of her element, directing the installation of her whole gallery. She recognized this in herself, how she fixated on women when things got tough. She’d get blocked, bored, read a bad review, and have someone look at a piece and decide not to buy it, and end up tussling in bed with someone beautiful. For the distraction, and to remind herself she was good at something.
This tendency of hers had spawned a tradition, suggested initially by Steve, her manager, that she be monastic in the week before a show. He knew her better than she did herself, sometimes, and that’s why he got a cut. He said a few years ago, “Let’s just see how it goes. No women.” Blake agreed and had made it a tradition ever since. She eschewed alcohol, too. Everything that took her focus away from her work.
She was in that week. For her own sanity, she needed to comply, including inside her head. This show meant more to her than most of the others. Sure, it was small-time compared to the Biennial, but she had to ride that wave of publicity. This show was the one she’d been dreaming about for years, configuring and reconfiguring. She became an apprentice to an off-Broadway lighting designer just for this, volunteering in small black box theaters to understand filters and spotlights and diffusers. This was the show that would caress its viewers, bring them in, make them feel the warmth and the light of paint the way she always did.
Blake, ever since she was a kid, had relished, almost more than anything, wandering through the Met and getting lost in it. She felt like paintings gave her a portal. After her dad died and her mom carted her around to a series of new boyfriends’ apartments, she’d take the train up to the Met, sometimes not telling her mother where she was going, because she knew she wouldn’t understand. Sure, Blake agreed with the Guerrilla Girls about the excruciating sexism of the establishment. But those concerns always faded away when she was face-to-face with one of the greats. A Vermeer that beckoned her into a room. A Bruegel that made debauchery seem like it was all about sunlight, spanning across centuries. And of course, the Joan of Arc staring, melodramatic, upward through the trees, the dappled light across her face seeming to radiate out of the painting and into the gallery where it hung. She remembered when the Ellsworth Kellys were installed. They were made to stand in front of; they were made to subsume the eyes with color and with feeling.
The paintings were the one constant in her life, her mooring whenever the waves of grief or loneliness threatened to capsize her. This exhibit was her love letter to that. It was going to be perfect.
And now, strangely, Jenny was helping to install the show. They worked for an hour, on opposite sides of the room. Blake found herself looking over at Jenny more often than seemed polite, letting her eyes linger as she watched her carry the wall frame over to the windows, affix the braces, pull the tape to measure where the hinge brackets should go. Jenny worked with a focused intensity, measuring, remeasuring, making sure that everything was perfect. She probably was a very good lawyer, Blake thought. As she worked, some of the polished veneer couldn’t help but soften a bit. A few wisps of hair had fallen into her face. She had taken off her heavy-looking watch. Beads of sweat were on her temples. She didn’t seem to mind that sawdust was clinging to her suit. She seemed to be fully embodied in herself, lost in her work, but still, she was cold to Blake, distant, not looking in her direction. Blake kept thinking she might catch her eye, even if she didn’t know what she’d do when she finally did, but Jenny never looked at her. It seemed deliberate.
Davis appeared beside Blake, interrupting her momentary staring.
“How is it going?”
“Very well.” Blake took a deep breath and threw her shoulders back, trying to capture the stance of a perfectly confident, in-control professional. “My team has painted several of the rooms already and we are working on starting the light fixture boards. Jenny and the carpenters have put up the frame of the auxiliary wall already. I think we are on schedule.”
“Jenny’s here?” Davis asked, unable to suppress a smug little smile. He erased it quickly, though, and turned to Blake, his earnestness returned.
“Waiting for you,” she said, with more of an edge than she intended.
Davis seemed to want to scamper away again. Something in her tone seemed to scare him. Her diva reputation in full force? She’d done nothing last night to help that, sitting in the gallery, telling him she’d leave.
“Davis?” He turned, startled, seeming again like he’d been scolded. “I’m sorry about last night. I was on edge. I should not have threatened to leave.”
His mouth went a little slack in surprise, but he managed to gather himself in a quick moment to respond. “Please don’t apologize. I should not have threatened to sue you.”
“You didn’t.” Blake gestured across the galley at Jenny, who was running a piece of Masonite through a table saw. “She did.”
“Well, I apologize on Jenny’s behalf.”
“I don’t think she’d want you to,” Blake said, just as Jenny looked over at Blake and Davis. A scowl came across her face when she saw them both looking at her.
Davis waved, but Jenny didn’t respond. She just turned back to the table saw, blowing sawdust off the blade. Beautiful, Blake couldn’t help but notice again, as Jenny leaned over to take out the pin holding the blade in place. She hates me, and she’s beautiful.