Mansplainer Read online

  Chapter 9

  Meadow

  It’s almost lunchtime as I sit behind the counter at Pathways on my laptop. I probably have a zillion unopened emails. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but annoying crap I don’t want to deal with litters my inbox. I open them one by one, deleting or replying.

  Shannon stands a few feet away from me, taking down the last of Sparx Birdmann’s paintings so they can be shipped back to Wisconsin. He takes a deep breath, putting the last canvas on the floor. “That about does it. The chicken done lost its head.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a tiny smile. If I indulge him, he’ll just get going full steam ahead, and I’ll never get anything done.

  “Are you sure about this Henry guy? I mean… it’s possible the guy’s hotness could have tainted your view of his talent. Any man that runs away from a date with you has something wrong with him.”

  I drag myself away from e-mail. “I know he’s a bit bizarre, but the man is probably the most talented sculptor I’ve seen. Bar none.”

  Shannon narrows his eyes and gives a little sniff. “I just don’t get why he would walk out in the middle of dinner. That’s so random, and I mean that in the worst possible way. I get the sensitive artist thing, but that’s just plain rude.”

  “Yeah, I had to sit at a table with two huge bowls of chowder with just me sitting there. I got thrown some major shade. His behavior was really weird, but I think something more was at play there. Something he wanted to tell me but couldn’t, you know? Like he doesn’t trust me yet to reveal it.”

  “I know all too well.”

  I glance around the open gallery. “And I’m sure that he’ll have this place packed with his fanbase.”

  “But have you thought about… never mind.”

  I try and fail to hide my amused expression. Henry’s visage has haunted my thoughts and dreams more than I can count since he left me high and dry at the restaurant. I placate myself with the fact that his behavior is weird. But it’s more than that. He intrigues me in a way I’ve never known. Like he’s the potato, and I have the peeler in my hand. “What?”

  “What if he’s a no-show or worse yet, what if he’s just as batshit cray-cray with the customers as he was with you at the restaurant?”

  My heart pounds with devastating speed. That can’t happen. I will not let it happen. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

  “Positive thinking isn’t enough. Sounds like this Henry is a real recluse. Almost to the point of being mentally ill. I know you have a little… thing for the guy. Normally, I’d indulge you, give you a little push even, but this guy? I think it’s a hard no from Shannoncamp.”

  I take a sip of my now cold skinny latte and wrinkle my nose. I need to nuke it a minute in the microwave in my office. “Yeah, he’s shy and strange, but some of the clients like that sort of thing. It’s an anomaly for New Yorkers.”

  Shannon sighs and leans back in the chair, stretching his long legs. “As long as it’s in moderation. A little strange can be kinda cute, but too much calls to mind a sociopath.”

  Sociopath? The melodramatics have now crossed the line into the absurd. “Shannon, come on, he’s not like that.”

  He spears me in place with a knowing stare. “You have no idea what he’s like. That was the whole point of the dinner. But he blew it.”

  I shake my head, willing the words away. But they don’t fly away like I want them to. Instead, they lay thick between us, frustrating and accurate. “True, but you don’t have to be so negative.”

  “I’m only looking out for my best friend.”

  I put the Styrofoam cup back down on the coaster with a thump that’s a little more pissed than I want it to look in front of my perceptive friend. Henry’s already crawled underneath my skin like a midnight episode of Unsolved Mysteries. “That’s sweet, but I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

  He rises to his feet and picks up the canvas. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He lowers his voice as if we’re in on a big secret. “You need me. I’m your testosterone whisperer.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Between the two of us, I’m sure I have more. Testosterone, that is.”

  “Good point.” He chuckles. “I’d better put this in storage. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.” I nod and turn my attention back to the computer screen.

  Opening a new web browser window, I visit the website for Pathways. Images of Henry’s vases are displayed prominently on the homepage with the date and time of the showing. A new pang of anxiety flutters through my stomach. I don’t want to cede Shannon’s point because I can almost hear him uttering the four words that always make me cringe.

  I told you so.

  I think about seeing Henry at the restaurant and his weird behavior. I start to wonder if it’s a bad idea to go through with this on some kind of a wild whim. If things go badly, my reputation as a gallery owner may not recover in this cut-throat city. I have so much riding on this show, I’ve had Shannon send out e-vites to all of the critics and the who’s who of the New York art scene. Failure looms in front of me, just out of reach, but still within striking distance.

  I can’t let it win.

  At the sound of the door opening, I’m excited about the prospect of a new customer until I see who walks inside. I’d recognize the shiny bald head and leering gaze anywhere. He’s neither smiling or frowning as he says, “Hi, Meadow.”

  “Hi, Greg.” If a fairy godmother could grant me one wish it would be to make him disappear. “What brings you to the East Village?”

  “My publicist came across an invitation to your next showing. I had to come and confirm it for myself. Henry Garrison? It has to be a joke, right?”

  I shake my head and give him a light laugh, playing along. “No, it isn’t. In fact, I seem to remember giving you the scoop at the charity dinner.”

  He walks toward me, hands deep in his pockets. Probably playing with himself like a common pervert. “Thought you were joking. This is disappointing, even coming from you.”

  Even though I want to slap his smug face, I keep my tone cool and professional. “I feel it’s the best option for Pathways right now.”

  He snorts a laugh like a recipe that includes two parts superiority with one part incredulity. “Let’s face it, you’ve never been the savviest woman in the business, but come on.”

  He’s on my turf. In my gallery. I’ve had just about enough of this blowhard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Henry is one of the most talented–”

  “I get paid for my opinion, so you should respect the value of this free advice… Henry is a total wackjob. There are rumors about him, Meadow. Rumors that you’d do well to pay attention to. He’s not right in the head.”

  I swallow hard. Henry might be a little bizarre but mentally ill? No way. “You’re wrong. He’s not a–”

  Greg holds up one of his stubby paws in front of my face. “Meadow, you’re making a huge mistake here. Henry doesn’t have what it takes to make it on a national level. His skills are slightly above amateur on a good day.”

  My fingers tingle with the need to smack that smug look off his face. I lift my chin. “Artists who are ‘slightly above average’ don’t win the Guggenheim Fellowship.”

  If it’s possible, Greg’s already overgrown potbelly puffs out even more at his righteous indignation. “That was years ago when he was a kid in college, right? What the hell has he done since then?”

  For some reason that I don’t want to explore, defending Henry is imperative. I can’t stop myself. And I won’t. Bullies like Greg are cancerous sores on the ass of the art industry. “He’s been working on his art. Improving. Growing. He’s not motivated by money.”

  “It doesn’t make any damn sense. This guy had the world by the tail. He was the ‘it’ artist that everyone was raving about. And look what he’s turned into… some eccentric hermit who barely leaves his studio
for coffee. I don’t even know what the guy looks like, except for the one or two photos online. People are even whispering that he’s actually dead and some wannabe is in that SoHo loft playing the biggest game of catfish the internet has ever seen. Have you seen him, Meadow? Have you?”

  I nod because this is one rumor I can lay to rest right fucking now. “Yes.”

  He dismisses my verification with a flippant swipe of his wrist. “Whatever. The point is that you’re wasting your time with this so-called showing. You’re wasting your time for this pathetic excuse for a human being. You always did like the stray dogs, Meadow. But you know what happens when they gain more confidence. They bite the hand that feeds them.”

  I glare at him. I want to call him out for having the balls to insult me in my own gallery, but I know that I have to be careful what I say to the mighty Greg Silverman. He’s so powerful that one bad critique could send my business into a tailspin. And the pompous asshole knows it. I think the audacity is what pisses me off most of all.

  He rears back and looks me up and down. “Meadow, even you can do better than Henry Garrison.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion but–”

  “Let me remind you that I’m paid for my opinion.”

  “Right.” I bite my tongue to keep it from spewing a string of four-letter words. “Greg, it was nice of you to drop by, but nothing you say will change my mind about the showing or Henry. It’s a done deal.”

  “Such a shame. I thought you were one of the smart ones. Well, it’s your funeral. Have a nice day, Meadow.”

  “Bye.”

  A sigh of relief hits me as I watch his pillowy ass retreat to the sidewalk. Maybe he has a point, but why did he have to be such a prick about it? He probably scowls at babies and puppies just because he can.

  Shannon waltzes out of the storage room, and as I stare at my friend, the unwelcome moisture of tears prick the back of my eyes. But I won’t let them fall. Meadow Hughes is made of sterner stuff. “Where the hell were you? I could have used some backup.”

  “Busy.”

  “Shannon, do you really expect me to believe that it took you that long to put away one damn painting?”

  Glancing at his watch, he scowls. “Okay, okay. You got me. I put the canvas in the back, and just as I was about to walk out of the room I heard a terrifying sound.”

  “What?” But I already know the answer. The dulcet tones of a weaselly, dismissive, little man with ‘you couldn’t find my cock if you used a magnifying glass’ syndrome.

  “Greg Silverman’s voice, of course.”

  “Of course. So, you left me out here to fend for myself? What kind of best friend are you?”

  Shan raises his brows. “The kind that doesn’t want to put his foot in his mouth. What makes you think I can sit idly by and listen to that windbag? Besides, I have a happy aura today. I’m not trying to ruin that.”

  At the mention of his positive energy, I nod. Sometimes, his happy aura is what gets me through my daily drudgery. Even though I own this gallery which is a dream come true, it’s still a business. And keeping a small business in the black can be a pain in the ass. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  “So, how much did you hear?”

  Shan stops only long enough to throw some punching motions in the air as if Greg still stood there with the fluorescent bulbs failing to illuminate his yellow teeth. “Everything. I am the queen of eavesdropping, after all. And air attacks.”

  Laughing at his antics feels better than a sigh of relief. “Don’t I know it. Any thoughts?”

  “Greg needs to get that stick out of his ass. And I volunteer. Just call me the CEO of the Shannon Cross. We’ll come to your office and wedge the stick out for free! Then we’ll ask you to donate blood and make a donation. For Silverman, it’s like killing three birds with one yank.”

  “Stick? It’s more like a branch on a sequoia. You might need to bring the jaws of life on your visit because even your arms aren’t big enough for that job.”

  Eyes twinkling, he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out for several seconds. “But…”

  “What?”

  He takes a deep breath. “He brings up some interesting points about Henry.”

  “You’re not with him on this, are you?” I say, tossing a pen at his head. It feels good to launch the tiny missile.

  He ducks for cover and shakes his head. “Of course not. You know I’m on your side. Always. It’s just that…”

  “Shannon?” I can tell he has more to say and he’s trying to play it cool so he can support me. He shouldn’t be worrying about Henry because that’s my job. I’m not in so deep that I can’t swim my way back to shore, if needed. He should have faith in me, but my lack of confidence in my own ability to handle Henry and his proclivities is shaking Shan’s as well.

  “Henry may be a little more eccentric than the artists we’re used to.”

  “I told Henry we would make him feel comfortable. We’ll work through it, right?” I use my most reassuring tone. There’s no way he can know how this has caused nervous energy to flow through me like an electrical wire. I’m losing sleep. Sucking down caffeine after two in the afternoon. All because failure is not an option for me.

  “Could be a tall order, but sure. I’m up for the challenge. And you know what else I’m up for?”

  “What?”

  “Lunch.”

  I chuckle, since it seems the worst of the Shannon third degree has passed without major incident. “Whatsoever do you wish to eat, queen of eavesdropping and air punching?”

  He puts a finger to his lips and juts out a hip. “I’m thinking sushi. What do you say?”

  I nod. “Maybe we should keep things a little more affordable. I’m thinking more like sandwiches.”

  “From the bodega around the corner?”

  “That sounds good.”

  He frowns. “Cheap sandwiches? You gave the last of our disposable income to the charity, didn’t you? Okay, okay, I’ll go along with that for now, but after this showing with Henry Garrison is a success, you’re taking me to Nobu.”

  Not if, when. “Sure.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Of course you are.”

  He grabs his cell phone and one of those three-fold paper menus that always seem to be laying around. “You want the usual, right?”

  “Yeah.” I hand him a twenty-dollar bill.

  I laugh as he saunters away, Shannon style. Then, I look at my laptop screen at the homepage for the Pathways website. Please don’t let me down, Henry. With a sigh, I click over to check my emails again.

  A few minutes later, Shannon walks through the door holding a brown paper bag. He puts it on the counter and says, “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Digging into the bag with renewed energy, I grab my smoked turkey, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. I take a bite and smile at the flavor. “See, Doubting Thomas, yummy!”

  He takes his ham and cheese sandwich out of the bag and nibbles at it. “If we can both say that three hours from now after the cheap food hits our digestive tract, I’ll concede. But not one moment before.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And I meant what I said about Nobu.”

  I can see the Nobu idea isn’t going away anytime soon. Good thing business dinners are tax deductible which helps offset the hefty price tag. “That place isn’t even about the food. People go there to see and be seen.”

  He waves his hand down the length of his body like Vanna White turning letters. “That’s the point. All of this fabulosity needs to be on display.”

  “Speaking of seeing and being seen…”

  “What?”

  “Greg might be right about one thing. Henry is a bit of a recluse. The day we met, for a second I thought he might leave me outside his loft standing on the stoop.”

  “You didn’t need Silverman to tell you that. You witnessed that up close an
d personal.”

  “Yeah, but I’m hoping that I can get Henry to come out of his shell. I was excited about the show before Greg came here ‘throwing shadows’ as you call it.”

  Shannon looks at me with a deadpan expression. “It’s called ‘throwing shade.’ Don’t you ever watch Housewives? Hell, Meadow, you live here.”

  “Whatever.” I shake my head since I don’t share in Shannon’s penchant for all things reality TV. “My whole point is that I wanted to have Henry’s art here from the moment I saw his beautiful vases online, but Greg’s negativity makes me even more determined to make this the best showing that Pathways has ever had.”

  Because if you admit the truth to yourself, he doesn’t just intrigue you. You like him.

  “That sounds great.” Shannon smiles. “And now I’m dreaming about all the things I want to order on the menu at Nobu.”

  I chew my food and swallow. “You have to learn to appreciate what’s right in front of you… a delicious Boar’s Head sandwich with all the fixings.”

  “Now, you’re starting to sound like Josh. He’s always ragging on me because I want more of everything. But how can I help it? I’ve always had champagne taste on a Boon’s Farm budget.”

  “I’m so happy that you’re not alone.”

  He stops chewing long enough to nod. “Yeah. Now, we have to work on you, missy. It’s okay to be a bad-ass career woman, but you can be soft and loving at the same time you’re changing the world one clucking chicken painting at a time.”

  I shrug, feeling hopeless about my romantic prospects. “The only thing I need to work on is this showing. There’s so much to do between now and then.”

  He winks. “That’s why you have a fabulous best friend like me to help out.”

  Chapter 10

  Henry

  Snip. Scrape. Snip. Scrape.

  I stand in my kitchen, watching as the peels circle the drain. Taking a few seconds, I send the current crop down the garbage disposal in a groundmass of apple perfume. Verdi naps by the window in her usual spot. A sense of calm washes over me as I put the apples in the bowl, grinning like a child at Christmas time. Nothing chases away my performance anxiety like baking fresh apple pies. I don’t love baking as much as sculpting, but it makes me happy. And the taste makes me even happier.