Art of the Lie Page 9

  “And…exhale, two, three, four,” he quipped, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “You’ve got to relax before you explode.”

  “I know,” she said, laughing and feeling just a fraction of tension dissipate from her shoulders. “So this is why I’ve been busy, obviously.”

  “It looks like it’s been a very successful evening. Congratulations.”

  She wondered if he’d just forgotten to let go. Not that she minded, really.

  “Thank you,” Lindy responded. “It’s been quite a night.” She blinked a few times, suddenly aware that the dizziness she’d felt earlier was returning. Maddox said something and she didn’t catch it, but when she asked him to repeat it her lips felt slightly numb.

  “I asked if you were feeling all right. You just went even paler.”

  “I think I need some fresh air,” she admitted, glancing toward the door. Without missing a beat, Paul took her arm and escorted her across the room to the side exit, where the door had been wedged open with a brick to allow a breeze. The gallery was on a corner, and the less-trafficked street that ran past the side door was quiet, not even the usual gaggle of smokers disturbing the cool night air. He led her to the edge of the raised brick flowerbed that lined the sidewalk. Lindy sat down gratefully, letting her head drop close to her knees.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, wondering if she’d apologized already. “I think it was the champagne. I don’t usually drink very much and I haven’t really eaten except for a few hors d’oeuvres.” Things were already starting to clarify again, the horrible swimming feeling in her head and stomach soothed away as the cool air and quiet imposed themselves on her fevered nerves.

  “How much champagne did you have?”

  “Two glasses,” she said, and felt a little grumpy when he laughed. Only a little, though; she knew quite well what a lightweight she was. It was pretty laughable.

  “I prescribe a late dinner.”

  “I should’ve eaten earlier, I know. I was just too nervous before the show. I thought I might throw up, and that wouldn’t have calmed me down any.”

  “True. So what are you doing after the show is over?”

  “Going home and collapsing from nervous exhaustion.”

  “Okay. You’re making it hard to ask you to dinner.”

  “Oh.” She sat up, a little faster than was wise, and had to close her eyes for a second while her brain caught up with her head. “Thank you, that’s very nice of you, but you don’t have to—”

  “But I want to. Assuming you’re not already seeing somebody?”

  She nearly said she was, but stopped herself at the last second and shook her head. No, she was not seeing anybody. Richard was a friend. There was nothing else there. She was a free agent.

  Lindy was suddenly keenly aware of the length of Paul’s thigh against hers, the contrast between that heat and the sharp, cold edge of the brick on which they sat. Aware of his hand, still on her shoulder, a gesture that had turned into something like an embrace once she’d sat up. Seconds ticked by and the high-pitched whine of the nearby streetlight was slowly drowned out by the rush of Lindy’s own heartbeat as she met Paul’s gaze.

  “Well,” he said, and then the mood shifted back to normal as they both cleared their throats and scooted slightly apart from one another. “So, dinner?”

  Lindy stood up, smoothing her snug black pencil skirt back into place. She answered him with genuine regret. “I would love to, but I’m really worn out. I think the closest I’m getting to dinner tonight is ordering a pizza on my way home and hoping the delivery guy doesn’t beat me to the door. And I think some friends of mine are also planning to storm my apartment after this.”

  “Then tomorrow night.”

  “Well. I’m not really sure if…”

  “I know, I’m taking shameless advantage of you in your weakened state. But I really would like to take you to dinner. Of course, we can still also meet and talk about business. Whether or not you agree to dinner. The two are not related in any way.”

  She couldn’t help but be flattered, and the flattery managed to break down her already limited resistance. She believed him, partly because she trusted Stella’s assessment of him as nice. Rotten ex-husband notwithstanding, Stella was usually a keen judge of character. Besides, Paul was smiling in an endearing way that didn’t entirely match the corporate image that was obviously his usual demeanor. It was a quirky, cockeyed grin that made him look at least five years younger.

  “We still don’t have a contract.”

  “I’ll take my chances. I have to admit, I was very pleasantly surprised at our meeting,” Paul said with a slight deepening of his grin that revealed actual dimples. “Okay, surprised and intrigued. When Stephen first told me about you, I thought ‘knitting’ and I was picturing a little old lady. Or at best a middle-aged spinster. But then I talked to you and saw your picture with that article, and it was clear you were no middle-aged spinster.”

  “No, knitting is very cool right now,” Lindy countered. “It’s all the rage with the indie-rock, microbrewed-beer hipster crowd.”

  “So I’ve been schooled,” he said. “Shows how far from hip I’ve become.”

  She tried to picture him in low-slung jeans, an old concert t-shirt, maybe an unbuttoned western-cut Urban Outfitter shirt over that…no, it was impossible. He had never been, would never be, a hipster. The very thought made her giggle. She found it hilarious anyway that a whole crowd of people suddenly seemed to think it was very cool to act and dress like the art school kids had pretty much always acted and dressed. Only in somewhat brighter colors, with costlier furniture and much less angst.

  Paul Maddox had a very different kind of cool. A moneyed cool.

  The noisy rattle of the crash bar on the door made Lindy and Paul jump as it swung open. Richard, hand still on the bar, leaned out and gave Paul a very obvious evil eye.

  “Everything okay out here, Lind?”

  Lindy would swear his voice was an octave deeper than usual, and she wondered for what had to be the millionth time why she was even interested in men in the first place, as ridiculously as they so often behaved. Richard took his protective big brother act far too seriously sometimes. And seeing him now, when she was in the middle of what seemed to be a promising talk with another guy, was confusing her already overworked libido.

  “Everything is fine, Richard. I just needed some fresh air. Too much champers on an empty stomach. Mr. Maddox was keeping the bad guys at bay.”

  Richard threw Maddox a head nod. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Paul Maddox, Richard D’Arco. Mr. Maddox runs the Red House store chain. Mr. D’Arco is an artist. He lives in my building.” She was just annoyed enough at the interruption, and just interested enough in Paul Maddox’s dinner invitation, to want to downplay her relationship with Richard. But then she felt a sting of regret at the obvious and immediate hurt in his eyes.

  “Eva’s about to close up shop,” Richard said. “And you need to eat something. I think your dad and Mikey are heading back to Cranston tonight, but everybody else is headed for your place now. Do you want to ride with me or with Tess?”

  In just a few sentences, Richard had managed to clarify just how well he knew Lindy after all. At least as far as their public friendship went. She had to give him credit for thinking on his feet, even as she wanted to smack him for interrupting what had been a potentially warm moment with Paul.

  “Tess isn’t going home tonight?”

  “I think she planned to stay up and wait for reviews with us.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I’ll ride with her then.”

  “Fine, see you back home. Nice meeting you, dude.”

  He disappeared back into the gallery, letting the door swing closed behind him. It bounced gently against its brick doorstop a few times, making an unpleasant scraping noise. Lindy sighed. She wondered how many times Paul Maddox had ever been called “dude” in his adult life.

  “So, I’d
better get back in there,” she said. “Thanks for standing guard, I really appreciate it.”

  Paul stood and held a hand out, lifting Lindy to her feet and sweeping the door open for her with a gallant gesture. “Look, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you and I have to admit I’ve laughed more in our few conversations than I probably have in the last month or so. I’d really like to take you out. So if not dinner, then how about the symphony matinee on Sunday? I have great seats.”

  She felt her heart leap up in her throat, but swallowed her trepidation and answered with a bravery she didn’t feel. “Sure, Sunday. I’d love to.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lindy admitted afterward that the reviews were very gratifying, well worth waiting up for. Both of them. She shut her laptop after a final unsuccessful browse for more news then looked up and chuckled at the bleary-eyed crew slumped all over her living room.

  “You guys are the best, but you all look like zombies and I’m afraid you’re going to eat my brains. Plus I’m dying for a shower. So who’s going home and who’s crashing here?”

  Allison had opted to leave since she lived ten minutes away, Tess was already pulling one of Lindy’s two futon sofas out flat, and Richard had only to walk across the hall. He would have been happy for further excuses to stay, but he couldn’t think of any. The rest of her friends had left hours earlier, and Richard had already spent as much time as possible clearing away the inevitable litter of empty cups, beer bottles and pizza-smeared napkins the small crowd had left behind.

  “Good thing your neighbor puts up with your crazy all-night parties,” Richard pointed out, stopping to help Tess wrangle the futon.

  “Did my neighbor’s generosity also extend to cleaning up after said all night party?”

  Richard just smiled. Futon flattening accomplished, he headed for the door and Lindy followed.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. It’s the least a fellow artist and guy who lives in your building can do.” He meant to sound amused, but realized he hadn’t fully hidden the touch of bitterness from his tone.

  “If I apologize for that, will you stop pouting?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “Richard.” She caught his arm before he could close himself into his loft. “I’m sorry. It was mean. You know you’re one of my best friends. I was just pissy because you interrupted when he was asking me out, okay? But I freely admit that my behavior was uncalled for.”

  He frowned, remembering why he’d followed her out there in the first place. She’d be singing a different tune if she knew he’d fully intended to interrupt any action that might be taking place. “It’s no big deal,” he said lightly. “Apology accepted.”

  “Besides, he did ask me out after you left, anyway. So no harm done.” She was beaming, happy to share her exciting news with her friend. He tried to reflect the same enthusiasm but knew he failed miserably.

  “Congratulations, Lind. Knock ’em dead.”

  “Yeah, I plan to.” She sounded a little less than sure. “It’s tomorrow, actually. Or rather, today. The symphony.”

  “Wow. You work quick. You should probably get some sleep, kiddo.” He started pulling on his door, sliding it across the sight of Lindy’s puzzled expression as she lifted her fingers in a little wave.

  “Good night, Richard.”

  “G’night,” he said, just before the door clicked shut.

  * * * * *

  “So I admit I didn’t stay up to wait for reviews like you and your friends did, but I did get up and look for them first thing this morning. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Lindy said, a little embarrassed that Paul knew she’d actually held a gathering for the sole purpose of waiting for those two reviews, positive though they were. “Every little bit helps. And Richard insisted. Everyone else, too. Insisted on waiting.”

  She adjusted the linen napkin in her lap and let her eyes scan the restaurant, hoping she didn’t look like she was gawking. She had eaten at the Glastonbury Hotel restaurant once before, as a kid, but she hadn’t anticipated how luxe the dark paneling, heavy chairs and thick carpets would seem to somebody whose usual idea of eating out involved vinyl-clad booths and sticky tables. This was the afternoon tea crowd, comprised entirely of expensive-looking women in groups and expensive-looking couples on dates. She didn’t know if she fit the bill quite as closely as Paul did. Although he was the one breaking the mold by wildly ordering champagne.

  “You seem to have a nice crowd of friends.” He was looking at the label, observing the cork the wine steward displayed. It looked, to Lindy, like a piece of cork; to Paul, it was evidently special enough to earn a nod of approval. As the champagne was poured, he went on. “And we have a friend in common, actually. I ran into Stella Cooper at the gallery. We went to business school together.”

  “She mentioned that. And it’s Devlin, by the way,” Lindy corrected. “Not Cooper. She goes by her maiden name again now.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “Divorced?”

  She nodded. “For several years, I believe.”

  “Good for her,” he said, to Lindy’s surprise. “Coop was an asshole. She’s well rid of him. So how do you two know each other?”

  “She owns a boutique in town. I had a booth at an art show in the city a few years ago, and she discovered me. Started selling some of my stuff, and helped me network with some other local business owners. And she also pointed that interviewer my way, I think, so I got the write-up in the paper. Without Stella I would still be doing temp work and only trying to sell a few things on Etsy.”

  “That sounds like Stella. So that’s where she got off to. Interesting.”

  “Got off to?” Lindy took a sip of tea and then nibbled a finger sandwich, stoically resisting the temptation to stuff the entire delicious morsel in her mouth. It was a dense artisan bread topped with something savory, and the tangy flavors paired nicely with both the tea and the dry champagne.

  “After she and Coop got married and left town. We didn’t keep in touch. I’d heard she was divorced and back in town. I didn’t get much of a chance to catch up with her last night, though, she took off pretty early. Said something about having to check on her dogs?”

  “That sounds like Stella,” Lindy agreed.

  “Well. Tell her to give me a call some time. My number hasn’t changed. It would be great to catch up.”

  Over the course of the meal Paul asked Lindy about herself, her schooling and all the other baseline information one typically gathers during an early date. In return, Lindy learned about Paul’s family, his company’s commitment to the local art scene, and his recent experience acquiring and attempting to train a large and rambunctious puppy. Somewhere over dessert, they briefly digressed into a discussion of movies—they each named their top ten and Lindy was pleased to find there were two instances of overlap.

  It was a good date. She couldn’t fault a single thing about it. Pleasant conversation, delicious food, a few shared laughs. Even the symphony had been perfect, a crisply paced program featuring a world-famous violinist.

  When he brought her home, he walked her from the car to her door and waited while she opened it, and he kissed the back of her hand much as Stephen had done but with an entirely different look in his eye. It was a look Lindy thought she could probably get used to, given enough time and sufficient motivation.

  * * * * *

  Their next date, the following Saturday, came a few days after Lindy’s second official meeting with the Red House staff. It was another good meeting. Stephen’s mood seemed better, and Lindy met several more members of the creative team. Paul had closed by asking her out again once the others left the office. A fine end to a fine day, in Lindy’s mind. It wasn’t until they were halfway through their dinner date that she worked up the courage to ask Paul about the one part of the meeting that had bothered her.

  “I was wondering why you didn’t have a contract ready Thursday? I don’t really min
d, because I wasn’t sure I was ready to sign a contract. And I don’t think you’re trying to take advantage of me or anything like that. But I thought a contract was what you wanted.”

  “It is,” Paul agreed. He was slicing a ribbon-thin piece from his filet mignon and using it to dab just the right amount of béarnaise sauce from his plate.

  “Well, then?”

  “Is it what you want?”

  Lindy thought about it as she sipped her chardonnay, appreciating the strong vanilla notes and the hint of peach in the finish. “I guess so. I would be crazy not to jump at the chance, right? Everybody seems great to work with. And I’ve heard nothing but good things about the company. I even shop at Red House when I can afford it.”

  Paul grinned. “As a designer you could probably swing samples of anything you wanted. We could even write that into the contract.”

  “Oh, that’s tempting.”

  “And that right there—what you just said—that’s why I didn’t bring out a contract on Thursday.”

  She could see the hint of regret in his face as he said it, but still wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

  “What’s wrong with finding samples tempting?”

  “Nothing. But you’re still only tempted. You’re still trying to be convinced.” Reaching across the table to squeeze her hand, as if to emphasize that he was okay with it, he continued, “The thing I haven’t heard from you is ‘Where do I sign? When do we get started? Let’s talk terms’. You’re not eager to do this, Lindy. Even though you think you should be, you’re not.”

  Lindy started to protest, but shut her mouth when she realized Paul was absolutely right. She had been to meetings, she had talked about designs, she had thrown ideas out there. But the one thing she had never done was ask to sign a contract, or say she was ready to do so. She’d been hedging all along.