The girl is bold, I’ll give her that.
She has my full attention.
I can’t remember the last time someone dared to give me unsolicited advice. Most people know better. Employees at GHV have been fired for less.
The way she spoke to me…the spark in her eyes—it was admirable to say the least. I get the impression she could face down the devil and walk away from the encounter with little more than soot stains on her clothes, but as much entertainment as that encounter would provide, I’d hate to see it. I happen to enjoy what she’s wearing. Her short black dress hugs her petite frame tightly and does a fine job of revealing her long shapely legs.
She’s walking slightly in front of me, leading me around the gallery.
The experience is surreal.
I know my place in the world; I learned it in infancy. My father is the eighth richest man in the world depending on the day and the markets. I’m untouchable, beyond reproach. People cower at my feet. Grown men shiver in my company, and it’s not because I’ll run to Papa if they do something wrong. I’m the one they fear. I’m worse than he is.
If this girl knew better, she’d be running instead of walking. She’d deliver an apology to me on behalf of her gallery and beg me for my business. She’d yield on bended knees with a quivering bottom lip.
As we walk, I recall her demand that I drop my designers, and I have to fight another smile. Her entire speech was unexpected to say the least. It was like hearing a lion’s roar come from a kitten’s mouth.
A kitten, yes. Something about her is distinctly feline and fierce.
She turns back to assure herself I’m still trailing after her, and I’m granted another peek at her striking eyes, notable not only because of their color, though the pale green is quite rare, but because they’re curved up at the edges in such an alluring way.
She stops in front of a large abstract red and white collage with newspaper clippings that are hard to read from where I stand at a slight distance, trying to take the piece in. More than that, I have a hard time peeling my eyes off her to actually take in the art.
She gives me a moment to settle in front of it before she begins to speak, her tone no less confident, her chin as high as ever.
“This is one of Aaron’s most compelling pieces. It’s mixed media and newsprint on canvas. It’s approximately seven feet by five feet, signed en verso. Though it might not be obvious at first, the collage mirrors Picasso’s Guernica and is meant to be a powerful anti-war symbol. The large swathes of red portray the suffering wrought by violence and chaos. If you step closer, you’ll see that layered among the red paint and paper are newspaper clippings Aaron has managed to collect, all from April 26, 1937—the day Guernica was bombed by Germany during World War II. If you’ve seen Picasso’s work, you might recall that there is newsprint on the painting as well to reflect how Picasso first learned of the massacre.”
I nod. “As a Frenchman, I know the work well. He painted it in Paris during the German occupation. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of when the German soldiers first encountered the painting.”
Her green eyes spark as she shakes her head.
Ah, a chance to tip the scales a bit. I can’t resist.
I take a step toward her, keeping my voice low. “In 1940, the Germans occupying Paris decided to make an inventory of all bank vaults in the city, and Picasso was summoned to the Banque Nationale du Commerce et de l’Industrie where he had two vaults next to Henri Matisse’s.”
She nods as recollection dawns. “Yes, of course. He saved countless works from being destroyed during the occupation. Renoirs, Cézannes…”
I nod. Good girl.
“Picasso showed the soldiers the contents of his vault, and after he deceived them and said with confidence that the paintings housed within were worth next to nothing”—her lips curl into a smile at hearing the delicious lie—“the investigators decided to visit Picasso’s apartment, where they came across a photographic reproduction of Guernica. Legend says the soldiers inquired about the painting, asking Picasso, ‘Did you do this?’ to which he replied, ‘No, you did this.’”
Her eyes widen in understanding.
“Your story gave me chills,” she admits, looking down at her arms where the hair is standing on end.
I’ve had nearly the same reaction, though purely because of her.
“I’ll purchase the piece.”
Her lips part in shock.
“I…” She trails off and shakes her head, looking away. “You shouldn’t have let me go on like I did before. You clearly know what you’re doing when it comes to art.”
“I’m a novice, I assure you.”
Humility is not something I’m very familiar with. It feels foreign on my tongue.
“Consider the work sold,” I insist, more stern now than a moment ago. I don’t enjoy repeating myself. “Now show me another.”
Her gaze whips up to find mine.
“You can’t be serious,” she says, sounding nearly breathless.
“Why on earth would I be kidding?” My patience is suddenly growing thin. “Do you know who I am?”
At this, she laughs, a great wild sound that has my heart galloping in my chest.
With flushed cheeks, she advances on me until we’re nearly chest to chest. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Do you remember me? Surely you do.”
The question takes me aback. I frown, considering her, my gaze cutting swiftly down her figure as my brain works tirelessly to place her. Surely I would remember seeing this woman before with her dark hair and prominent cheekbones, her clean, smooth skin and full lips. There is something on the periphery of my mind, some nagging feeling that I’m missing something right in front of me.
“I admit you do feel familiar.”
“Feel,” she repeats, tilting her head curiously. “What an intimate word.”
I’m tempted to reach up and take hold of her slender neck, to tip her chin back so the light catches on her face, highlighting every detail until some memory shakes loose inside my mind. Annoyance bleeds into anger.
Who are you? I’m about to demand just as the clouds part and fate gifts me my answer.
“Lainey, I hate to interrupt,” says some young girl who’s wearing a white name tag pinned to her shirt and an uneasy frown. She looks like a college intern, which would explain why she thought it was appropriate to interrupt our conversation even though I’m the most important client they have in here.
She pays me no mind, her big worried eyes pinned on Lainey. “Could you help me for a second? This customer is quizzing me on our post-modern works, and I feel slightly in over my head. Would you—”
“Of course.” The intern doesn’t even need to finish the thought before Lainey seizes the opportunity to leave me now that the mystery is solved. She places a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm and barely gives me a departing nod. “I’ll send someone over to help you, Mr. Mercier, and I’ll place a hold on the Guernica piece, as you requested. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She slips away before I have a chance to speak. I’m left to watch her get swallowed by the crowd of people, a few of whom have been anxiously waiting to talk to me. A man nearly leaps in front of my face, cutting off my pursuit of her.
“Mr. Mercier, if you have a moment, it would be an honor to make your acquaintance,” says some guy with the overeager eyes and trademark ill-fitting suit of a journalist. He pulls out his phone and starts recording, confirming my suspicions. “Do you mind being on record? I just have a few questions about your future at GHV. There are whispers that soon you’ll be promo—”
I weave around him while he’s still talking, needing to know for certain if the woman I just spoke to is who I suspect her to be.
Physically, it fits. Those pale green eyes stood out even when she was young. The dark hair. The demure features. But the Lainey I knew was a wallflower, a child who lurked in quiet corners and kept to herself. I can’t reconcile my memories of her with the fiercely confident woman I just spoke to.
I keep sight of her in the crowd as she approaches the guest who was giving the gallery’s intern a run for her money. Lainey turns to face him with a gentle smile, and even from clear across the room, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’s Lainey Davenport, all grown up.
