Chapter Twenty-Eight

The night before Gen and Ryan were set to leave for New York, the girls got together at Rose’s house to wish her luck. The cottage, set in a woodsy area east of Highway 1, was tiny, but Gen had always loved it. With its wood paneling, the freestanding cast iron fireplace, and the fact that it was set on a sizeable lot with trees that obscured any view of the neighbors, the place made Gen feel like she was tucked into a secluded mountain hideaway.

Of course, Rose had brought some good wine from her shop, and Jackson had sent a big pan of macaroni and cheese. Because Jackson was Jackson, it couldn’t be ordinary mac and cheese, so he’d made it with brie and truffle oil.

The four of them were gathered around Rose’s table eating the pasta and drinking a very good Spanish Grenache, talking about Gen’s goals for the trip, when Rose brought up the subject of Ryan.

“It’s good that he’s going with you. It shows he’s supportive of your career.” She pointed her pasta-laden fork toward Gen. “You don’t want some asshole who’s going to put himself first, insist that you’ve got to be the little woman ironing his shirts and … and … I don’t know. Baking him cookies. Do not bake him cookies.”

“I like cookies,” Lacy said.

“It’s not about the cookies,” Rose insisted.

“No, I get what you’re saying. And Ryan’s not like that. He didn’t hesitate when I asked him if he wanted to come with me.”

“Well, he hesitated a little,” Kate said.

Gen looked at her. “What do you mean?”

Kate looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Of course you should!” Rose insisted.

“Come on, Kate,” Gen prompted her. “Spill.”

Kate shrugged. “It’s just, Ryan talked to Jackson, and Jackson talked to me. Ryan’s nervous, is all. He’s wondering where this is leading. If you’re going to move to New York permanently, and where that’ll leave him.”

“He didn’t tell me any of that,” Gen said.

“Of course he didn’t,” Lacy put in. “Because he’s being supportive. It wouldn’t be very supportive if he got all angsty to you about what it all means.”

“I guess,” Gen said.

Rose cocked her head to the side and considered. “It’s pretty sweet, if you ask me. I mean, he’s worried, and he’s maybe wondering if his whole life is going to be uprooted pretty soon, but he’s so focused on making you happy that he keeps quiet and pretends he’s got no doubts.” She nodded thoughtfully. “He might be a keeper.”

“Is he?” Lacy asked. “A keeper, I mean. And is he going to get his whole life uprooted pretty soon?”

“You mean, am I moving to New York and will I ask him to go with me?” Gen said.

“That’s the question,” Kate confirmed.

“I don’t know.” Gen looked into her wineglass, as though it were a crystal ball.

“You don’t know which part?” Rose asked. “Whether you’re moving, or whether you’re taking him with you?”

“Whether I’m moving. Whatever I do, I kind of can’t imagine doing it without Ryan.” Just saying the words made her eyes hot, and she blinked a few times, hard.

“Aww,” Rose said.

“But his life is here,” Gen said. “His family. The ranch. His … everything.”

“Well, if you’re not here, then it’s not his everything,” Lacy said.

“I guess.”

“Honey.” Kate put a hand on Gen’s arm. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you. Ryan will make his own choices. He’s in love with you. I’m guessing he’ll choose you.”

“But I don’t even know what I want anymore,” Gen said.

“You mean Ryan?” Lacy said.

“No. God. I definitely want Ryan. I …” She shook her head and looked at the table, trying to think of how to say what she was feeling. “I just thought I had it all figured out, what I wanted from my career. Move to New York, become this hot dealer, this mover and shaker, you know? But now …”

“Now what?” Lacy prodded gently.

“I’m just confused. That’s all,” Gen said.

“Well. One step at a time,” Kate reassured her. “This trip tomorrow is just one step. You’re not moving yet. You’re just doing a gallery show.”

“Right.” Gen took a healthy swallow of the wine. “Right. This is going to be big for Kendrick.”

“And big for you,” Rose added.

“You can do this,” Lacy said. She raised her glass for a toast. “To Gen. Get on that plane and go kick some snooty art-people ass.”

Gen drank to that.

 

Gen found it interesting that, given his financial status, Ryan never even considered flying first class.

“Do you always go coach, like the rest of the huddled masses?” she asked him as they waited at the gate for their plane.

“Sure.”

“But why?”

He looked at her as though it were obvious. “You want me to pay an extra two hundred dollars for two more inches of leg room and a glass of wine?”

“I guess not, when you put it that way.”

Gen was nervous about the trip, and the airport in San Luis Obispo was so small that she couldn’t even enjoy decent shopping while they waited for their flight. When she complained about that to Ryan, he ushered her to a bank of vending machines on one wall of the terminal.

“You want shopping?” he said. “Here we’ve got a wide selection of soft drinks and snack foods. You name it, and it’s yours. Sky’s the limit, baby.”

She giggled and chose some bottled water and an organic granola bar—selections that he pronounced entirely too healthy for a vacation.

“It’s not vacation,” she reminded him. “It’s a work trip.”

“Well, it’s vacation for me.” Accordingly, he bought a Coke and some Cheetos.

“You know you want some,” he said, waving the Cheetos in front of her.

“My body’s a temple,” she countered.

He lowered his voice and spoke close to her ear. “Well, I know I worship it.”

She nudged him with her elbow, laughed, and stole one Cheeto from his bag.

 

“Okay, so listen.” It was the day after their arrival in New York, and Gen was scheduled to meet one of the owners of Archibald / Bellini in the bar at the Plaza Hotel. They’d already made their way from the more modest hotel where they were staying, and Gen was giving Ryan a pep talk before they walked in to meet Antonio Bellini. “Just be yourself,” she told him. “This is … okay, so, this is a big deal for me. But it’s going to be fine. He called me, not the other way around. So I hold all the cards here. It’s good. It’s going to be good.” Halfway through giving Ryan the pep talk, she realized that it was for her and not for him.

Ryan looked amazing in navy slacks, a sky blue dress shirt with the top button undone, and a dark blazer. He was all freshly scrubbed and shaven, and he smelled good, and it wasn’t helping her to focus on the task she had ahead of her.

“I can’t concentrate when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Like we’ve just had amazing sex.”

“We did.”

“I know. But I can’t think about that. Because if I’m thinking about that, then I won’t be thinking about Gordon Kendrick’s show.” She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

“Do you want me to go? If you’d rather not have me here, I can see some sights. Visit Times Square or something.”

“No! God, no. I need an ally.” She squeezed his hand.

“Okay. Well, I’m here. I’m your ally.”

“All right.”

“You’ve got this,” he said, and kissed her.

His kiss made her knees feel a little bit melty, and that wasn’t going to help her nail this meeting.

“No more kissing. If I’m going to focus, there can’t be any more kissing,” she said.

“Okay. No more kissing.” He grinned at her. He’d have to stop doing that, too.

She smoothed her dress—one of the many black dresses she thought of as her gallerywear—and clicked her way into the bar on her spiky high heels with Ryan behind her.

Bellini was sitting at a table by a window under a potted palm tree. She recognized him from a picture she’d found online. She approached him with a confidence she did not feel and extended her hand as Bellini stood to greet her.

“Mr. Bellini, I’m Gen Porter.” She shook his hand. “And this is Ryan Delaney.”

“A pleasure.”

Bellini was a short, mostly bald man in his fifties with thick-framed, round glasses that were so precisely circular that they seemed to be a parody of round glasses—something one of the Muppets would wear in a display of scholarly intellectualism. He was wearing a suit that probably cost two thousand dollars. She recognized two-thousand-dollar suits from when she used to live here, though she hadn’t seen one up close in quite some time.

“So, Ryan,” Bellini said as they all sat down. “Are you involved in art as well?”

“Cattle,” Ryan replied.

Gen braced herself as she imagined where this might go. Bellini might belittle Ryan for his work. Ryan might respond with defensiveness. And then the entire meeting might swirl down the drain like dirty bath water.

Instead, Bellini raised his eyebrows with interest. “Cattle. You’re not one of the California Delaneys, are you?”

Ryan grinned. “Well, I imagine there are quite a few Delaney families in California. But that’s not what you’re asking.”

“Ha, ha. No. I’m asking whether you’re the Ryan Delaney I read about in Fortune magazine.”

Gen blinked. Ryan had been in Fortune magazine?

“You read that?” Ryan laughed lightly. “They made me and my family seem like these business-savvy moguls. My brother is the one with the business sense. I just know cattle.”

“Well, I have to say, it’s a thrill to meet you,” Bellini said. “Thank you for bringing him along, Genevieve.”

Gen’s mental GPS navigation system had to reroute to accommodate this sudden change of direction. Bellini not only knew who Ryan was, he was visibly giddy about meeting him. This could be good. It gave Gen a kind of advantage. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be good if Bellini was so focused on Ryan that he forgot Gen was there.

“Shall we order?” Bellini asked. A waiter came and took their drink orders—a martini for Bellini, a glass of chardonnay for Gen, and a beer for Ryan.

“I’m thrilled to be showing Gordon Kendrick’s work at Archibald / Bellini,” Gen said in a bid to get the conversation on track.

“Well, I have to say, I was hoping Mr. Kendrick would be coming as well,” Bellini said.

“Ah. Yes. Well, I tried to persuade him to come, but he’s recently experienced a remarkable artistic breakthrough, and he didn’t want to leave his work.” Gen had known the issue would come up, so she had framed it in the best way possible. What Kendrick had actually said was, You want me to stop painting so I can have wine and cheese and listen to a bunch of blowhards talk about how I ‘deconstruct linearity in a post-structuralist world’? The very idea exhausts me. Can’t you do it?

She’d tried to argue with Kendrick, but deep down, she knew he was right, so she hadn’t pushed the issue.

“Well.” Bellini chuckled. “Far be it from me to separate an artist from his work. Especially when that work is poised to be highly profitable for all of us.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Gen said.

“Oh, it’s not a matter of hoping. Half of the work we’re showing has already sold.”

The waitress returned with their drinks and placed them carefully on round paper coasters in front of them. Gen was trying to comprehend what he’d just said, and so she ignored her wine.

“It has? But no one has seen the work.”

Bellini waved a hand dismissively at her. “I might have passed along some of the digital images you sent me. Just to a few key collectors.”

“But we’d agreed not to share the images with anyone until after the show opens.” Gen had thought Kendrick’s work would have greater impact if it were seen in person. She’d told Bellini that. She didn’t want anything to take away from the drama and suspense of unveiling the paintings live, at the gallery.

“Ah, well.” He took a drink from his martini. “As I said, sales have been strong. You can’t argue with success.”

Gen stared at Bellini, who seemed to barely register her presence as he focused on his drink. The guy had flatly ignored the agreement they’d made regarding how to handle the paintings. And now he was unapologetic.

“We had an agreement,” she repeated.

“Let’s see if you’re still cross with me when you see the size of your commission check,” he said, winking at her.

“That’s not the point,” Gen said.

Under the table, Ryan took her hand and squeezed it. She was grateful for that bit of reassurance.

“I thought the point was to sell some paintings,” Bellini said. “I’ve done that, and I will continue to do so.” He laughed a breathy laugh, placed his hands on the table, and fidgeted with his diamond pinkie ring. Gen noticed that his watch was Cartier. Did people even wear watches anymore in this age of smartphones? “In fact,” he continued, “You’ll be stunned at the price I got for Cambria Pines III.”

She stared at him. “Cambria Pines III? That one wasn’t for sale.”

Bellini made a dismissive sound, something short and breathy. “I know you said that, but …”

“Kendrick wanted to keep that for his personal collection. He didn’t even want to show it, but I assured him that it wouldn’t be sold.”

“Yes, but …”

“You need to cancel the sale,” Gen said.

“I can’t.” Bellini adjusted his French cuffs. “The original buyer has resold it.”

“Wait.” Gen pressed her palms onto the table top, her fingers spread. “You’re telling me that the painting we agreed would not be sold has already been sold twice?”

Bellini shrugged and gave her a tight little grin. “I’m a very good businessman.”

“What you are is an assho—”

Ryan squeezed Gen’s knee sharply, cutting off the expletive. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

Bellini was chuckling—an infuriating laugh that belittled Gen and her petty little concerns about things like integrity. She wanted to punch him in the face, then step on his stupid round glasses.

“Ryan, men like us understand the realities of business, do we not?”

Okay, now the bastard was trying to team up with Ryan, the rich, business-savvy men against the emotional, irrational girl.

“Well, what I understand is that if a man gives his word, he should keep it,” Ryan said mildly. “That’s how I do business.”

“That’s how I do it, too,” Gen agreed.

“The problem with working with an unknown, small-town gallery owner,” Bellini said, carefully straightening his napkin on the table, “is the inevitable naiveté.”

The blood pounded in Gen’s ears as the phrase seeing red took on new meaning for her. “That’s just … I … Excuse me for a moment, would you?”

She stood, smoothed her dress over her hips, and walked toward the ladies’ room with as much calm and dignity as she could muster. Once inside, she let out a roar, kicked the wall until her toes hurt, then slammed a stall door a few times for good measure. A woman in a Chanel suit hurried out of a stall at the far end of the room, gave Gen a frightened look, and then hurried out without even bothering to wash her hands.

Gen pressed a hand to her forehead, looked toward the ceiling, and took a series of deep breaths. She took another moment to find her inner serenity, then returned to the table to face Bellini.

 

“So, what are you going to do?” Gen and Ryan were walking the five blocks back to their hotel after the meeting with Bellini. The weather was warm, and the sky was a shade of grey that Sherwin-Williams might call “morning fog” or “moonbeam.” Fifth Avenue was busy with traffic and pedestrians, with towering buildings to their right and the vast, green expanse of Central Park to their left.

“Well,” Gen said, “the first thing I have to do is talk to Gordon. He didn’t want to sell the painting. I told him we wouldn’t sell it. I promised him.”

Ryan shrugged. “I don’t see how Bellini could sell it without Gordon’s consent. Legally, he’ll just have to return the money to the buyer, won’t he?”

“Legally, sure.”

“But?”

“But, it’s complicated. For one thing, Bellini’s powerful in the art world. If Gordon pushes the issue and makes him refund the sale, then that’s a really big, important bridge to have burned. And the buyers are likely key collectors.”

“More important bridges,” Ryan said.

“Yes. And art collectors talk to each other. And when they talk, they’re not going to frame it as them having bought an artwork that wasn’t for sale right out from under the artist. They’re going to tell it from their point of view.” She shook her head grimly. “By the time the talk circulates, Gordon’s going to be seen as a petulant, self-important asshole. Which he certainly can be, on occasion. But still.”

They walked through the midafternoon crowds of businesspeople in crisp suits, tourists in jeans and souvenir sweatshirts, and vagrants with their worldly belongings in shopping carts. The city smelled like car exhaust, cigarette smoke, and urine.

“This isn’t just about the painting,” Gen went on. “It’s about Gordon’s career.”

“So you’ve got to talk him into letting it go,” Ryan said.

“I think I do, yeah. And that really sucks. It’s his painting. If he wants to keep it, he should be able to keep it.”

“Listen,” Ryan said. “Let’s get your mind off it. We’ll get back to the hotel, change into comfortable clothes, and then we’ll do something fun. Act like tourists. You’re free the rest of the day, right?”

“Yeah. I just have to make a very uncomfortable phone call to Gordon Kendrick.”

“Okay. You’ll do that, and afterward, we’ll … hell, I don’t know. Visit Rockefeller Center.”

She grinned at him. “You really want to visit Rockefeller Center?”

“Hell, yeah. This might be work for you, but it’s my vacation. I want to see the sights.”

“All right.” She put her hand in his, and she felt a warm swell of happiness as their fingers intertwined. “Let’s see the sights.”

 

After Gen talked to Kendrick—there was some yelling by him, and a good deal of commiserating and placating by her—she and Ryan changed into jeans and comfortable shoes and went back out into the city. They walked through Central Park, visited the Statue of Liberty, and then had dinner at a trendy café overlooking New York Harbor. They would have gone to MoMA, but Gen said she’d thought about art enough for one day.

Of course, having lived in New York, she’d seen all of the sights before. But it was different seeing them with Ryan. His enthusiasm was infectious. As angry as she’d been earlier in the day—as demoralized as she’d felt—she still found herself laughing and smiling as she toured the city with him. They held hands and marveled over the view of the skyline. They ate and drank and talked. They kissed as they looked out from inside the statue’s crown.

Later, tired and happy, they made love on the hotel bed until late into the night. Contented, Gen fell asleep in Ryan’s arms. She wasn’t thinking about Antonio Bellini, or about Gordon Kendrick, at all.