The Collector
Page 68

“Just be safe. I’ll settle for safe.”
“I’m sitting on the roof of a very secure building where only a scant handful of people know I am. I’d say I’m safe.”
“Stay that way. Now I should go, hit the paperwork.”
“And figure out how to untangle things with Luke.”
“And that.”
“I’ll walk out with you. I need to take the dog for a walk anyway, and pick up a few supplies.”
“What dog? I didn’t see a dog.”
“He’s easy to miss. You know you can bring your paperwork here if you don’t want to be alone,” she said as she led the way back to the little elevator. “It’s a big place.”
“I probably need a little brooding time, and I expect Ash is coming back tonight.”
“He is, with dinner. But like I said, it’s a big place. You’re my girl, too.”
Julie gave her a one-armed hug as they stepped out onto the main floor. “Work and brooding tonight. I may take you up on it later this week.”
She set her empty glass on the wet bar, picked up her work bag as Lila came back from a detour into the kitchen with a little blue leash studded with rhinestones.
“Oh!” she said when Lila picked up the little white ball that was Earl Grey. “He’s so tiny, he’s so adorable.”
“And very sweet. Here.”
She passed him to Julie, who made kissy noises and coos while Lila got her own purse. “Oh, I want one! I wonder if I could take him to work. He’d completely disarm clients and they’d end up buying more.”
“Always thinking.”
“How else am I going to get that major raise, my terrace apartment and a tiny little dog I can carry in my purse? I’m glad I came by,” she added as they walked out. “I came in feeling frustrated and stressed, and I’m leaving feeling like I just finished a good yoga class.”
“Namaste.”
They parted ways on the sidewalk, with Julie slipping into a cab hailed by the efficient doorman. She settled in for the ride downtown, checked her e-mail. Nothing from Luke—but why would he contact her? She’d figure out how to approach him, but for now she had enough messages from work to keep her occupied.
She answered her assistant, contacted a client directly to discuss a painting, then, checking the time, decided she could reach out to the artist—currently in Rome. When a client wanted to negotiate, it was her job to broker the best deal for the gallery, the artist and the client.
She spent the ride soothing artistic moodiness, boosting pride, hammering a bit of practicality. Then advising her artist to go celebrate because she believed she could persuade the client to purchase the second piece he’d shown interest in if they made it seem like a deal.
“You have to buy paint,” she muttered when she ended the call. “And food. I’m about to make you almost rich . . . Mr. Barnseller! It’s Julie. I think I have a very good proposition for you.”
She signaled the cabbie as she went into her pitch, pointed to the corner, fumbled out her wallet. “Yes, I’ve just spoken with Roderick personally. He has such an emotional attachment to Counter Service. I did tell you he worked in that diner to support himself through art school? Yes, yes, but I’ve explained your reaction to it—and to the companion piece, Order Up. They’re wonderful individually, of course, but as a set, so charming and compelling.”
She paid off the cabbie, wiggled her way out of the cab, balancing phone and bag. “As he’s so reluctant to break the set, I’ve talked to him about pricing them as a set. Personally, I’d hate to see someone else snatch away Order Up, especially since I believe, strongly, Roderick’s work is going to go up in value very quickly.”
She let him wheedle, express reluctance, but she heard the closing deal in his voice. He wanted the paintings—she only had to make him feel he’d gotten a bargain.
“I’ll be frank, Mr. Barnseller, Roderick’s so reluctant to break the set he won’t budge on the price for it alone. But I was able to convince him to agree to two hundred thousand for the set—and I know I can get him to agree to one-eighty-five—even if it means adjusting our commission to make both of you happy.”
She paused a moment, did a little happy dance on the sidewalk even as she kept her voice cool and professional. “You have wonderful taste, an exceptional eye for art. I know you’ll be pleased every time you look at the paintings. I’m going to contact the gallery, have them mark them as sold. We’ll pack and ship them for you. Yes, of course you can settle that with my assistant over the phone, or come in and see me tomorrow. Congratulations, Mr. Barnseller. You’re very welcome. There’s nothing I love more than putting the right art with the right person.”
She did a second dance, then contacted the artist. “Buy champagne, Roderick. You just sold two paintings. We got one-eighty-five. Yes, I know I told you I’d ask for one-seventy-five. I didn’t have to go that low. He loves your work, and that’s as much to celebrate as your forty percent. Go, tell Georgie, celebrate, and tomorrow start painting me something fabulous to replace the ones you sold. Yes, I love you, too. Ciao.”
Grinning, she texted her assistant with instructions, automatically veering around other pedestrians. Still looking at her phone, she turned at the short steps of her building. And nearly tripped over Luke.
He’d been sitting on her front steps for nearly an hour, waiting. And he watched her progress down the sidewalk—the rapid-fire conversation, the pause to bounce from foot to foot, the big, happy grin.
And now her jolt of surprise.
“I went by your gallery. They said you’d left early, so I figured I’d wait.”
“Oh. I went by to see Lila uptown.”
“And got some good news in the last block home.”
“A good sale. A good one for the gallery, for the artist, for the client. It’s nice to be able to broker for all three parties.” After a moment’s hesitation, she sat on the steps beside him, and for another moment watched, as he did, New York rush by.
God, she thought, how could a twice-married, twice-divorced urbanite feel so much the way she had at eighteen, sitting on her parents’ stoop in Bloomfield, New Jersey, with her high school sweetheart? Stupid in love.
“What are we doing here, Luke?”