Page 205 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

I glance back at Jackson, who’s standing exactly where I left him. He gives me a thumbs-up, and now I’m laughing again. He’s really taking this coach thing to the next level. I appreciate the dedication.

Straighten your face, Marlow. I take a deep breath and then pull the door open.

Inside, my heels click across the concrete floors announcing my arrival before I reach the back office. I’m met on the gallery floor by jet-black hair upswept in a taut chignon in the back and a three-inch high swoop that falls to the side over her left ear, red-framed glasses with matching boots that feed out from under her shin-length military-style black jumpsuit.

This might be an intimidation tactic, but I feel good in my outfit, so I raise my chin. “Amelia.”

No smile or joy to see me, but that’s not new. It’s ironic how you can see things differently, sometimes for what they really are, when you come at a situation from a different perspective. Maybe this is just her opportunity to finally get rid of me.

A few people meander through the space, but for the most part, we’re alone in this corner of the building. She says, “I’m short on time. As you can see, I have no help today.” Interesting angle. Fire the employee and then complain you have no help.

I can work with this. “Why was I fired?”

“You stood up our biggest client.”

“The client showed up at my home, which made for an uncomfortable situation. He further admitted that the business was not the point of the meeting. Why would I go to a meeting with someone who had no intention of discussing business?”

“Since when do you care?”

The shot at my integrity lands firmly where intended, my pride. That only drives me harder. “You know I care about the gallery, the art, my job. I work hard, sometimes at all hours to make sure a show goes off without a hitch. That doesn’t begin opening night. That begins months, sometimes years prior, when I not only find the talent but also pull the collection together.”

“You always did have a big sense of self-importance, Ms. Marché. This is not Los Angeles. This is New York, the epicenter of the world. Who controls the art world in this city? I do. Not you.”

Since this is going nowhere, I debate on how to move forward. Appealing to her softer side is not an option. She’s harsh in her appearance all the way to the depths of her soul. But thinking back on what she said, she expected me to go on that date. Sure, I set the wheels in motion and set up the meeting, but she was thrilled to hear I was going. And she’s never thrilled about anything concerning me.

“There’s something I just can’t figure out. Maybe you can fill in the blanks.” She tucks her hands in her pockets like she’s invincible, a slight sneer rolling down the bridge of her nose at me. Her limits are being tested. I’ve not seen it much, but this situation has the makings of a scene that neither of us wants to be a part of.

She says, “I don’t think we need to discuss this any further.”

“Did you tell Mr. Casteleone where I’m staying? The address and the apartment?”

Her gaze lengthens over my shoulder to a customer who’s touching the white walls. It’s annoying when they do it, but it happens all the time and is easily cleaned after the fact.

“Amelia, I think you had a hand in this. I had just changed the address in my file the day before. You are the only one here with access to that information.”

Her hard gaze darts to me. “What was the harm in getting a ride to the restaurant?” A hand so nonchalantly sways out. “You had an opportunity to seal deals for his other collections, and you blew it.”

“I have a boyfriend?—”

“It’s too bad you let that stand in your way.” She removes her glasses and taps the arm against her chin. As if all the potential she saw in me has been lost because I got a personal life, she hums in quick disgust. “My mind’s made up. I can’t work with someone who so callously disregards something I care about so deeply.”

A surge of anger rushes my veins. “And what is that exactly? It’s not the gallery. You’re rarely around, and when you are, it’s to pretend you’re running this place.” I realize how calm and even my tone remains. That gives me the strength to tell my truth. “I run it. If I leave, so do a lot of the artists.” I don’t even know what I am saying, much less if some of the artists I’ve built relationships with would follow me to some other gallery.

“You’ve always been disobedient. I can’t have mutiny from my crew, or this ship won’t sail. I’ll mail your final paycheck. Lola has paperwork for you to sign. I’ll make notes of this exit interview for your file . . . just in case. Also, if anyone calls for a recommendation, I want to have my facts straight.”

“Who hurt you so badly that you’re taking it out on the rest of the world?” I don’t catch myself before using another line from Jackson.But if the shoe fits.

“Everyone, darling.” I recognize the anger. I’ve harbored the same for so long, but I’ve been given the choice to change my approach and the direction of my life. Maybe she needs the same.

“It doesn’t have to be like this. We can turn this around.”

She turns on her heels but stops not three steps away. “Your father’s criminal misdeeds have cast a shadow of secondhand embarrassment on the gallery. You are never going to get my job no matter what you do or your connections.”

The lowball shot to the gut is somehow not entirely unexpected, but it still hurts. “Trust me, Amelia, I’ve been blindsided as well. If you feel the need to hold his actions against me, do it. But let me remind you that you had no issue when he was buying fifty-thousand-dollar art pieces like it was a fire sale.”

It’s tempting to leave in a blaze of glory after burning the place down—metaphorically speaking. I’m just not sure that I’ll feel better after doing it because the reality is, she’s never been a great boss or a team player, but somehow, I’ve been oblivious to the fact that she was harboring so much hatred toward me. As much as I feel the urge to dissect our relationship for the past four years, that will take some time to work through, which is not now while standing in front of her.

“Money’s money, honey.” Her guard falls, her body seeming to find comfort between us as if we’re good friends. Mine remains firmly intact. She says, “I suggest you focus more on your career than a boyfriend, Marlow. You’ve been given a gift with that face but looks fade, so you better hone your other skills.

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