The Art of Appreciation (28 page)

By the time she reached Gretchen’s office, her professional smile felt painted on. Gretchen nodded to the chair in front of her desk. “I have great news for you, Abby.” Her smile matched Abby’s in brightness and veracity. “We think we’ve found a way through the thorny issues we’re having with Paris over these terra-cottas. The Louvre is very willing to discuss the security arrangements and whatnot, but they want to do it in person. Jean said something about not being able to decide if their things would be in good hands without meeting the person who will be tending to them. It might be a Gallic thing.” She smirked. “Or it might be the fact that he spent the whole New York party staring at you.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach. “Either way, Abby, you’re going to be in Paris for Thanksgiving! City of Lights, no family obligations…it’s a great opportunity.”

Abby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “But…I have Thanksgiving scheduled off. I have plans.”

Gretchen’s smile became strained, but her voice remained even. “Yes, you do. In Paris. I don’t have to tell you how important these pieces are to our exhibit. They are
essential
.”

“Can’t you send Vickie?” Abby asked weakly. “She’d love the chance to travel.”

“Vickie will have her chance with the African masks.” The smile dropped, and Abby saw the steel in Mrs. Gretchen Dahl that had kept her firmly seated in the desk she occupied and the museum profitable in a harsh economy. “Abby, I have to wonder how committed you are to your position. You’ve only seemed to be half-here since you came back from your sabbatical. Though you’ve been better just lately. Your job is one many people in our field would kill for; you do realize that, don’t you? And right now your place is in Paris, dazzling that silly man and getting me my terra-cottas. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Gretchen. Crystal.” Abby rose from her chair as Gretchen put on her professional smile again.

“Glad to hear it.” Gretchen picked up her pen and a piece of paper in clear dismissal.

Unable to stomach resuming work on the contracts, Abby returned to her office only long enough to grab her coat and mutter something about lunch to her startled intern.

Treading angrily through the crunching fall leaves, she thought about the work of the last few weeks—hell, the last couple of months. Gretchen, as big of a bitch as she was being at that moment, had one thing right: Abby hadn’t really been present in her work since she’d returned from Santa Cruz. Each day it became harder to get out the door of her apartment, harder to drag herself through another call or another grant session, harder to resist going home to paint out her frustrations.

Harder still to keep herself on the coast where she’d lived for her entire adult life.

She stopped to look in a storefront window, adjusting her collar and scarf with quick, angry twitches. Checking to see if she’d gotten the look right, she was startled to catch the expression in her eyes. Even in the ghostly reflection of the glass, she could see that they were empty.

“I’m not happy.” She watched her window-self nod in acknowledgment.

Though it would have been easy to lay the credit or blame for her change of heart at Matt’s door, it was bigger than just that. Her trip to California had changed something inside her. She didn’t want to drag herself up the career ladder anymore, rung by painful rung, kicking at whoever happened to be beneath her. Massaging egos, racing from one place to another, fighting the clock to meet deadlines, critiquing and caring for the creations of others…it all made her tired. She wanted to be creating something herself, to feel the drag of paintbrush bristles against canvas and to see the colors and shapes in her mind bloom in front of her eyes.

Even more than that, she wanted to feel strong arms around her and to know she was at home.

And none of that started with her going to Paris.

Abby turned and walked briskly back toward the museum, determined to convince Gretchen that she was not going to France over Thanksgiving. She practiced what she was going to say, imagining herself speaking firmly about fairness and limits to authority.

She marched to Gretchen’s office and opened the door after a perfunctory knock. Gretchen looked up, her mouth hardening into a thin line at Abby’s expression. She waited expectantly as Abby took a deep breath and readied herself to speak. What she said startled them both:

“I quit.”

M
ATT
I
GNORED
T
HE
P
HONE
through three calls, but the steady knocking at his door made it too hard to concentrate. Cursing and dropping the carving knife at the foot of his sculpture, he grabbed his T-shirt and stalked toward the glass studio door.

He was still pulling the shirt over his head when he flipped the lock. By the time he was situated, Chris was marshaling his mischievous twinkle into an apologetic smile.

“Did I disturb you, cuz? I tried calling a couple of times but got the machine. Claire saw me downtown and told me to just bang until you opened up.” He grinned as he watched irritation war with apology on Matt’s face until he stepped back so Chris could enter.

“Hey.” He grabbed Chris’s duffle bag and hauled it onto his shoulder.

“Hey, no, I can get that,” Chris said, making no move to take his bag from Matt. When he’d made the polite protest and was ignored, he laughed.

Matt walked into the studio, clearly expecting Chris to follow. “I expected you back when Abby left.” He looked around for some safe place to drop the bag and realized that his haven was a mess. Besides the statues he was currently working on, there were various half-finished and abandoned projects. Clothes and discarded towels littered the floor. What little space was left hosted an array of dirty dishes and takeout containers. Only Abby’s corner remained untouched and as neat as she’d left it. His eyes immediately shied away from her easel, and he dropped the heavy bag onto his desk.

Chris leaned against a counter. “Been in Philly, visiting my mom. My grad school application was accepted for UC Santa Cruz—you schooled me good—but they couldn’t fit me into the program until the next cycle begins in January.” His voice trailed off when Matt picked up his knife and began shaving clay from one of Zoe’s ankles.

Chris started wandering around the studio, studying the sculptures on the various tables. A few showed promise, and a few were surprisingly wretched. All had been indifferently abandoned, and the drying clay was cracked and unworkable. He stopped near a half-bust modeled on Abby’s painting of a laughing Charles. “This
was
a nice one, Matt. Has Claire seen it?”

Matt stared at the bust with a blank look. After a minute, he shrugged. “No idea. I can’t remember the last time she was here.” He returned to his carving.

“It was a week ago,” Chris said. He waited but got no response. Shaking his head, he moved to a cloth-covered figure in the far corner of the room. He tugged at a corner of the fabric, and it slithered to the floor at his feet.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” Matt protested.

Chris raised his eyebrow and let the cover stay where it lay. “Why not?” Revolving the table on which the bronzed sculpture of Abby sat, he whistled. “This is…wow.” He traced the metal arm with a gentle finger.

Matt winced before sitting on the table behind his sculpture, thus blocking his view of Chris and his bronze. It didn’t stop him from remembering the perfect curves of arm and leg, the delicate toes detailed with as much love as the mass of hair that was held on top of her head with one exquisite hand. “You think so?” Matt asked, his voice low.

“Hell yes! I know human figures aren’t usually your preference, but…damn! It looks like she’s going to step off the pedestal. This is the best thing you’ve done yet.”

“Maybe. Toss that cover over, okay?” As soon as the cloth settled over Abby, Matt rose and picked up his wire loop.

“So I was wondering…” Chris started gathering up food containers and stuffing them into an already half-full garbage bag.

“Of course you can stay. Your room’s just like you left it.” Matt took a breath and let it out. “It’ll be nice to have a voice in the house again.”

“Woo-hoo-hoo! Listen to you, Mr. Fortress of Solitude! How the mighty have fallen, and how your tune has changed.” Chris was rewarded with a genuine laugh and a relaxation of Matt’s shoulders. With the containers disposed of, he began picking up dishes. “I knew you’d miss my sparkling wit. Not to mention my mad
Brady Bunch
maid skills. You need an Alice.” He balanced a final cup on the top of his pile.

Matt dropped his tools beside Zoe’s foot. He sat on the table behind him and scrubbed his hands over his face while Chris went into the kitchen to deposit the load of dishes. He returned and leaned next to Matt. “Rough fall?” he asked, gathering Matt’s tools in one hand.

“You could say that,” Matt sighed. He started picking clay out from under his nails.

“Plans?”

“Christmas, at first. Then we pushed it up to Thanksgiving.” Matt shrugged. He stood again and held his hand out for his tools. “I need to finish this, I guess—this and the other one. Then maybe I’ll take a few more commissions…” He trailed off, looking unenthused.

Chris ignored Matt’s outstretched hand and padded over to the sink. He started the water running and plunged the tools under the warm stream before answering. “Not tonight, you don’t. Tonight we’re gonna grill slabs of meat, drink many beers, and try to figure out how these two beach bums ended up waiting for women instead of peeling them off of us.” He snorted laughter and slapped Matt’s taut belly with the back of his hand as he passed him, heading for the kitchen. “Still not bad for an old guy. At least your mopery hasn’t led you directly to the fridge. Nothing sadder than a boardhead who needs a ‘bro’ for his moobs.” He turned in the doorway and pointed at his duffle. “Get that, will you?”

It was Chris’s third belly laugh in five minutes that drove Matt to drop his knife and go looking for his cousin. Memories of the whiskey-fueled heart-to-heart they’d shared the night before were blurry, but he’d had a slightly brighter outlook when he’d woken up.

He found his cousin sprawled on the sofa, eating a bowl of ice cream and talking on the phone. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and Chris waved him off.

“Swear to God! Jason in a bear suit. I wish I’d seen the dog bite him in the ass myself—” He laughed harder. “Yeah, the things semi-pro athletes will do for a little scratch on the off-season are horrifying. Makes what he did for Matt seem like child’s play, though I don’t know what was worse: the dog or Zoe.” He glanced at Matt and sighed. “I’ll have to let you go. Matt’s here and looking pissy. Talk to you soon.” He handed Matt the phone and heaved himself off the couch. A moment later his door closed.

Matt sank down on the same cushion Chris had just vacated. “Hello?” he said tentatively.

“It’s me,” Abby said. “I tried to call you last night, but you didn’t answer.”

“Chris showed up. We got to eating and talking…and drinking…a lot of drinking.” He groaned and was pleased when Abby laughed. “I’m busting my ass to get these sculptures done by Thanksgiving, I promise, but any weekend would be good. Who says we have to aim for a holiday, right? I just want to be with you, Abby.” He heard the rawness in his own voice.

“Matt.” She cleared her throat; Matt hoped it was from an emotion other than laughter at his neediness. “You’re right. I’d say forget holidays, too, but it’s not necessary. I quit.”

“Abby, I…I don’t know what to say. Shit.” Elation at not having to deal with Abby’s work schedule warred with shame. He flopped against the back of the couch and rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand. “Is this because of me?”

He didn’t even know that he was hoping for a polite lie until she answered honestly. “Yes and no. If I’d never gone to Santa Cruz, I’d probably work at Shaw Museum until a better deal with a bigger museum came along. Repeat cycle until I ended up a director somewhere.” Her tone became urgent. “But, Matt, that’s not the best thing now. Listen to me: this is not your fault. There is no fault. You made me face a part of myself that I’d locked up for a long time, and I realized I like that Abby better.”

“But how will you live? I mean—not long term, but for now? Will you be okay?”

“Well, I’ll be persona non grata for a while, but I’ve got some money stashed away that will hold me until something comes along. I might have exaggerated a bit about the ‘nickel an hour and a bank account at zero.’ I’m not a kid, you know. If I learned anything from growing up with artists, it was that you sock some away in the good times because they always end…until the next wave of money rolls in. That’s why I’ve been so focused on you taking advantage of the Baker deal, I guess. Silly.” Her voice held a note of expectation.

Again with these damned statues
, Matt thought, and the rubbing on his forehead changed to pounding. “Not silly. Smart.” He willed his heart to agree with his head. “Speaking of which, I left my Zoe uncovered when I came out here to recapture my pirated call. I need to get back to work.”

“Oh. Okay.” Abby sounded startled. “I didn’t mean to keep you. I just thought you’d like to know…” She trailed off, sounding disappointed.

“I’m glad for you, Abby, if that’s what you really needed to happen.” He searched for the right words that would show his support but not pressure her. He fought the urge to say,
Damn everything else. Come home to me.
Because, really…God knew where else she might have to go now that she’d be job hunting. He didn’t think he could handle saying goodbye again if she got a job quickly.

He hung on to what he knew was solid. “We’re still on for Thanksgiving, then? I swear, these will be done then, Abby, and I need more than a weekend.” He waited anxiously for her reaction.

Abby’s voice was flat. “Thanksgiving for sure. It can’t come soon enough for me either. Do you want to come out here, or…”

“Whatever works for you,” Matt said. “Abby, did I say something wrong? Because I’m getting a strange vibe here.”

Abby sighed. “Nope. Just reminded me about being a grown up.” She chuckled weakly. “Not my favorite state of mind right now. I’ll let you get back to work. Call me tomorrow?”

Matt agreed and ended the call after their usual endearments. He’d meant to make things better, but he had a feeling he’d done the opposite.

And he had no idea why.

Thunking his mug down on the table, Matt tapped a tempo on the edge, his eyes roving over the faces in the pub. In the hour since since he’d slammed into his house, already ripping off his tie and kicking off his shoes, he hadn’t been able to sit still. He’d insisted that Chris accompany him to grab a burger at the bar, but his dinner had turned out to be a basket of fries and three beers, so far.

“So,” Chris said, pushing a fresh beer to the side to join the one that was warming near his elbow. “Didn’t you tell me Claire was against setting you up for more commissions?”

“Claire doesn’t know what she wants,” Matt grumbled. “She spent the first half of the summer telling me I have a great future ahead of me, then does a one-eighty after…”

Chris’s brow furrowed. “Did you get the job?”

Matt laughed roughly. “Of course I did. Are you kidding? Easiest sale ever.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer. “I just played it like you always say: charm the hell out of the wife and suck up to Mr. Deep Pockets. Claire, bless her reluctant little heart, got me a five-figure deal before we even left the table. All I had to do was busts of their family in full Greek god or goddess style. Oh, and fix any flaws, like Deep Pockets’ double chin.” He laughed again and downed his drink.

“
Had
to do,” Chris said thoughtfully. “Do I detect a past tense there?”

“That you do, my friend.” Matt pointed at his cousin. “Very perceptive of you. I say ‘had to’ because, when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. Claire had notes for the contracts all prepared, we shook on it, everyone left happy…and Claire had to stop halfway back here because I couldn’t breathe. I called the buyer from the side of the road and quit.” He stretched his arms out in mocking display. “You see before you the dumbest man ever.”

“Not so sure about that.” Chris drained his mug. “Have you called Abby?”

“Let’s not bother her with this tonight.” Matt’s voice was brittle. “She told me last night that she’s packing up to go to Maine—R-and-R at the family cabin while King Dipshit—” he pointed at himself “—gets his act together. Little does she know…” He jumped to his feet. “Want to go to The Catalyst? Play a little pool? It’s too quiet here.”