Forever, Jack (9 page)

The elegant, female curator at the Picture This Gallery reminds me of my eleventh grade Lit teacher and she is madly trying to place me. Southern politeness, perhaps, precludes her from asking. I guess. I don’t really care. I can tell she’s taking in my rumpled attire and trying to work out if I can afford anything. Not in a mean way. Just in an efficient way. Or maybe she’s wondering if I’m trouble, what with my bandaged hand and perma-scowl.

What I
am
interested in is what I am staring at, transfixed. In the center of the room, … and perhaps there are other things around it, but I don’t see them, … is a wave. Seriously. A wave. If I deconstruct it, if I take what I see down to its elements, I don’t see it. And if I step around to one side, I don’t see it. But right now, where I’m standing, I have the perfect view. A swell, no, a forming barrel of a wave, made up of a huge piece of ashy driftwood, carved back to its pale beige core in parts, and rising up to spill its breakwater in a cacophony of beach. Beach stones and sticks and broken shells and a single piece of red sea glass that glares so bright it’s like a wound.

I’m unable to tear my eyes away.

“Spectacular, isn’t it?” The curator’s voice jars me back to my surroundings.

Clearing my throat, I manage to nod. “Yeah. Is it for sale?”

“Unfortunately, no. The artist just dropped it off this morning, a few hours ago in fact. Her exhibition doesn’t technically open for another two weeks. And frankly even if it was for sale, I wouldn’t be able to let you have it until her show is over. It is the star piece, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Keri Ann was here,
in this room
, mere hours ago. I breathe in, as if I can still smell her. Which, of course, I can’t. I step closer to inspect the piece of red sea glass. “So once the exhibition starts, it will be for sale?” It seems odd that the curator won’t take a presale on an item. She is a business owner after all.

“I’m afraid that is the one piece that won’t be for sale. I wish the artist would change her mind.” Her voice is filled with disappointment. I’m disappointed too, and of course, satisfied she’s not selling it. The idea that someone else could potentially own this doesn’t sit right. I wonder …

I turn to look at her. “Just out of interest, would you mind calling the artist and asking
if
there was a hypothetical price tag on it, what it would be?”

I can tell my question surprises her, but she also looks intrigued. Not greedy, but she is a businesswoman, and it looks like she just realized I am the real deal despite my wrinkled shirt, unshaven jaw, and probably blood-shot eyes. Oh, and … there it is, she just realized who she’s talking to. Her eyes widen fractionally, and she flushes a deep crimson, her breath coming out in a small gasp.

“Oh, um. Y—Yes, sure.” She’s flustered. I wish I could put her at ease, but it’s always this way. I just have to keep talking and wait it out.

“I mean, everyone has a price, right?” I say quietly, weighing the words. “So you’ll call her?”

She nods.

“Now?” I raise my eyebrows expectantly, and she snaps into focus.

“Y—Yes, of course. I’m sure if the artist knew who—”

“No!” Christ, I didn’t think of that. Shit. “Sorry, but, and this is important, you can’t reveal to anyone who I am or that I’m here. Not even the artist. Are you able to do the purchase anonymously if she’ll sell?”

She furrows her brow. She’s disappointed. I can tell she thinks that my name would be good publicity for her gallery, not to mention going a long way toward making Keri Ann amenable to selling. Little does she know it would probably do the exact opposite.

“Yes, it can be anonymous. It happens quite a lot in the art world. Although, I can safely say that if it happens here at my little gallery, it will be the first time in my history.” She seems to have recovered. Her tone is amused.

“Well, let’s just see if there’s a price, shall we? And make sure you have her agree if that price is met, you can go ahead and make the sale. And just so you know, if the issue comes up, it can stay in the exhibition.”

“Well, yes, it would have to be contingent on that.”

“And also any future exhibitions, until the artist is ready to let it go.” I’m skating on dangerous ground here, risking more questions.

Her eyes are appraising.

I fumble for an answer. “I’m going to be traveling a lot for the next six to twelve months, and well, I have nowhere to put it. Yet.” It’s true. I put my house in California back on the market yesterday. Even though I’d designed its renovation myself, I am beyond relieved to be getting rid of it. The soul has been gone from it for a while, since long before all the shit went down with Audrey. In fact, ever since I became disillusioned with the entire business I’m in. But I’m not a fool, I know I can’t walk away from what I know, my job. I just need to find a way to not have it define me. A way to live it, without it living
me.

Things seemed to clear out and smooth out in my head the last time I was in Butler Cove. Being around someone so anchored to her own soul could do that to you, I guess. Obstacles just didn’t seem so big. Or at least she made me want to hurdle them like they were anthills, and not mountainous threats to everything I’d worked so hard for and all the comprises I’d made clawing myself up. A climb where the void dogged me at every step, ready to suck me back to the wastrel I’d been at seventeen. Let’s face it, with the amount of times I’ve been tempted to dull my insecurities and sacrifice my integrity, I could just as easily be dead right now.

It’s kind of fitting that the wave is spitting the red sea glass up and out of its belly with all the other detritus of the shoreline.

“I’m not sure the artist will go for keeping it if she agrees to sell,” the curator says as she goes around her desk toward the phone. “It’ll cost her money to move it properly each time and keep it undamaged. You’ll probably want to insure it.”

“Well, I’ll pay for that, too, if she sells. You can make that sound like your idea, as part of the deal you negotiated for her.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Do you know the artist?”

“No,” I say easily, the lie tripping off my tongue, as I slide my eyes back to the sculpture. She is dialing the number, Keri Ann’s number, and I am as nervous as if I’m the one about to hear her voice.

Will she sell it? She obviously doesn’t want to. Maybe the curator put a recommended price on it that was too low for her to want to part with it. I want the answer to be no, she won’t sell. Or the price to be so high I’ll laugh. I’ll pay it, of course. Although it will invite way too many questions.

I close my eyes and listen.

“Hi, Keri Ann?”

My pulse hammers.

“Hi, this is Mira. Yes, I’m fine … thank you. No, No, it’s fine. It looks great. Listen, I know you said it wasn’t for sale … What? … Yes, I know. But I was just thinking it would be good for me to know perhaps a ballpark, like a reserve, perhaps, not that I would share it with anyone, just for me to know, in case … I mean, if someone were to offer something you thought fitting, I’d like to be able to know whether to even call you. Uh huh … yes, yes, of course.” She pauses. A long time.

I glance over to the curator, Mira, to see her pursing her lips and drumming her pencil. Then her eyes widen fractionally, and she gets a bemused look on her face. She scratches out something with her pencil on the paper next to the phone. My heart thuds heavily. Did Keri Ann give a price?

Mira turns and winks, then nods at me.

Dammit
, I want to hurt something. Disappointment that Keri Ann will sell it makes my stomach curdle, perhaps something to do with my slight hangover, too. I’m also relieved I can own it so no one else can.

She still hasn’t hung up. “Wait so, yes, I should just add the gallery commission and tax on there, add it to that amount, and that will be the specific price? Like specifically that?” Mira’s brow cinches up, seemingly confused by the conversation she’s having. “Okay, hang on.” She fumbles around, grabs a calculator, and punches in numbers. “Okay. Yes, I understand. Specifically. Yes, I promise.”

I feel worse as the reality of the situation sets in.

This is bad. It was one thing driving here, nervous as shit about seeing Keri Ann again and not knowing her reaction. But now that it’s being laid out to me that she will excise me fully from her life for a high enough price, I am gutted. I blow a harsh breath out and glance around for a place to sit. My legs feel weak. I listen to them wrap up their conversation, and then Mira approaches.

“So good news and bad news—although slightly odd.”

I look bleakly up at her. If she notices that I suddenly appear like I might vomit, she doesn’t say anything. Definitely a hangover. That’s all. I really need to stop drinking so much. I tell myself that every day. But honestly, I want to get this done and go drown myself again as quickly as possible.

“She will sell.” Mira cocks her head. “But only for a specific amount. And when I say specific, I mean …
specific.
Then eight percent South Carolina sales tax and twenty percent gallery commission will be added on
top
of that price, rather than from it. Her idea, not mine.”

“Okaaaay. So what is the artist asking for?”

She shifts slightly. “I can only confirm or deny the amount. And when I say specific, I really mean down to the penny. No more. No less.” She hunches her shoulders up and shakes her head in bewilderment that mirrors my own. “So unless you’re a mind reader, we’re both shit outta luck.”

Her phrase startles me. She doesn’t seem like a curser, but then again, she is having a bizarre day. I am absolutely confounded. And relieved. Thank God. At least no one else will be buying it either. She’s not selling it, not really. But why the cryptic pricing? Why not just say no? It’s weird as hell. “And I don’t suppose you would betray her confidence by telling me anyway?” I ask.

“No, I’m sorry. She has some other pieces—”

I shake my head. I’d glanced around at her other stuff. They were beautiful, and I’d buy them all if I wouldn’t be casting Keri Ann in a strange light by doing so.

“No, I didn’t think so.”

She walks over to her desk and grabs two business cards. “Here, write who I can contact if anything changes, and here’s my card in case you need anything else or …” She cocks an eyebrow. “Suddenly, magically, you know the secret number.” She snorts with disbelief.

I concur. I can tell she’s disappointed, but I’m quite impressed she’ll keep it to herself. Although it must be such a bizarre amount that it would only be traced back to Mira herself.

I take the cards and her offered pen and scrawl Katie’s number on the back. “That’s my assistant in California, she always knows how to get me. And seriously, call me if anything changes,” I say, shaking my head. “Please don’t tell the artist who was asking.”

I take one last look at the extraordinary piece of artwork before heading to the door. There’s something so raw and primal and … painful about it.

“What is it called?” I ask before I leave. I don’t even know where I’m going. I wanted to go and see Keri Ann and face up to all my shit, but now I’m not so sure.

Mira walks around the other side of it and looks down at the card. “Just want to make sure I get the words in the right order. Oh! Oh, how funny.” She looks up, and then the quizzical smile on her face flattens out, and she looks nonplussed as she glances back down.

Oh shit. What?

“It’s called
Ever Broken Sea.
”

Jesus H. Christ.

Outside the gallery containing the bold evidence of my badly handled relationship with Keri Ann, I fold my body back into the compact rental car and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. What the hell was I thinking coming here? I’m the last person Keri Ann wants to see, but I start the car anyway, and before long, I am almost at Butler Cove.

I haven’t even told Devon I’m finally coming. He’s at his beach house taking some time off before hitting the road to get investments for the Dread Pirate Roberts project. Peak Entertainment, the people who fashioned the leash I’m attached to, are going to be a part of it. Of course, that is as long as I keep playing by their rules.

My phone buzzes again. Expecting it to be Duane from Peak, I grab it, thinking I may as well get it over with. It’s not Duane. It’s Sheila, my publicist. Well, she’s on my callback list, too.

“Yeah?”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“Sheila?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I’m scraping my jaw off the industrial carpet with the heel of my
Leboutin
.” Her voice carries the husk of late nights and too many cigarettes. “You answered the fucking phone. Are you kidding me? You don’t call me back
all week
, and you answer “yeah?” I was getting ready to leave you a speech dumping your ass. I have it written out, typed up,
beta’d
and everything. I’ve been rehearsing. You’ve got some kind of luck, boy. One more trip to voicemail and I was
done.
”

The great thing about Sheila is she can talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I usually only have to nod, smile, or on the phone, grunt in the affirmative. It’s a good relationship. I do my part.