Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

The four of us make small talk about the paintings and sculptures with collectors, buyers, and other gallerists and art world colleagues. There’s barely a second free between the mingling.

But around seven, it’s somehow, mercifully, just the two of us standing in front of a painting of the ocean on fire, so I decide to go for it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask—”

“—Now that’s haunting,” she says at the same time as she points at the image. Then she laughs. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Maybe now’s not the time. I nod at the painting. “Yes, it’s a little terrifying.”

“Reminds me of a Turner,” she says, and here we go again, slipping into these moments of connectedness.

We chat a little more about the art, and surely this is when I can return once more to the work issue.

So, I hear we’re chasing the same prize . . .

“So, as I was saying,” I begin.

A familiar man slides up to my side, waving grandly, all gray eyes and big beard. “Heath! Good to see you again. Have you checked out the Rothkos at the Tate?” he asks, then his eyes swing to Jo. “Oh, hello there.”

I introduce Jo to the collector and vice versa. “Richard, this is Jo. She’s a firecracker from New York. Brilliant and bursting with ideas. She’s working with me at HighSmith.”

“How wonderful. Bet you make a great team,” he says.

Jo pats my shoulder in a collegial sort of way. “Yes, and Heath has fantastic ideas too. I love working with him.”

Is the same true for me? Do I love working with her? Not entirely, but it’s not her fault.

It’s fate’s fault, since work has gotten in the way of dating her.

We chat with Richard for another minute, and as that wraps up, I vow to try once more to broach the job topic. Then Zora taps Jo’s shoulder to get her attention.

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” says the gallery owner to the woman by my side.

“And I, you,” Jo says, and the tattooed and nose-ringed woman promptly steals her away.

And here I am.

Alone.

But alone is fine. I can commune with the art.

I wind through the gallery once again, studying the prints and lithographs as well as a few small sculptures, when I hear my name in an unmistakable voice.

“Heath Graham! It’s been too bloody long.”

I wince, then clear my expression before I turn toward the speaker. Victoria Cavanaugh is a dealer who reps some artists in a collection I handled last year. She waves with her fingers, all covered in skull rings. “You! I’ve been meaning to talk to you about someone,” she says, and my blind-date radar starts beeping.

“Eager to talk about the new Rothko exhibit over at the Tate?” I quip, as if that will deflect the request incoming in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Ha, ha. You’re adorable. But no.” She steps closer, getting in my space, smashing through personal boundaries as she wraps a hand over my shoulder. “My sister’s next-door neighbor is a bookseller. She has this adorable children’s bookshop in Cecil Court.”

My God, that was fast, even for Victoria.

“How wonderful for people looking for books,” I say.

She raises a finger and bops me on the nose. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s going on my list of things to avoid at all costs.

“Wonderful for you too, Heath. Lily is cute. She wears these pink polka dot glasses and has a white stripe in her hair. Very manic pixie dream girl.”

“Perfect for a children’s bookseller,” I answer. I spot Riya going by, stalking a canape from a caterer’s tray, and I try to catch her eye for a distraction. But she just gives me a wise smile that either means, “Hang in there,” or, “Resistance is futile.”

“Or a date . . .” Victoria says, squeezing my shoulder in . . . encouragement?

I swallow, hunting for an out. I’m so tempted to say I’m seeing someone, but that’s a lie, and I won’t do that. Especially not when Jo is so close.

I wish she were here beside me. But if she were, she’d learn my romantic history secondhand, and I want to be the one to tell her.

When the time is right, that is.

Not now.

Instead, I lean on a half-truth with Victoria. “How about I keep your bookseller in mind for when I’m ready?”

Victoria’s lips droop, sad sympathy descending onto her face. “Take your time, love. I understand.”

Then she pats my shoulder and heads to chat with someone else.

I’ve escaped relatively unscathed, so I take a few steps away from Victoria to study a painting of astronauts.

Riya comes up to me, shooting me a soft smile. “Are you doing okay with all this?” She waves a hand at the crowds.

I assume she means the setups, since she must have heard Victoria, and I’m not sure I want to get into the details. I pick the fastest way out I can devise.