I waited outside the café for a minute before catching sight of Valerie walking toward me. Easy to spot in the crowd of tourists and office dwellers on lunch break, she strode toward me, tall and elegant, wearing a white dress that contrasted with her dark skin.
“Justin,” she called, holding out her arms. We embraced and the enchanting trace of her perfume stirred a strong sense memory of the moment months ago when we had broken off an embrace, both staring at the spot above her bed where a painting had until recently hung. “Good to see you,” she said, smiling genuinely, and I struggled for a moment but succeeded in bringing my attention back to the present moment.
“You too,” I replied. “You look great.”
“So do you,” she said, “except for this outfit. What are you wearing? Did you pay for these clothes by the pound? When will you ever learn to dress yourself?”
“I was working. Just left off to come see you. I didn’t have time to get fancy. Sorry.” Valerie was always ribbing me about my clothes. It was a habit from back when we were a couple that apparently had not ended along with our half-hearted romance.
“Well, I hope the new piece is good enough to make up for your destitute appearance. Let’s go in and get some food. I’m famished.”
Valerie ordered a Niçoise salad and I asked for a club sandwich. As soon as the waitress walked away, Valerie turned on her serious face.
“I need you to do me a favor Justin. If you can.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Not like the last favor I hope.”
“No, this one will not involve you nearly being murdered, international travel, or any illegal breaking and entering. I want you to help me open the new space in Los Angeles.”
“What?”
“My new gallery Justin. It’s almost done. I sent Emilio down to project manage but he’s in over his head. I think he’s heading for a nervous breakdown. He split up with his boyfriend a few weeks ago. He’s taking it hard and his mind’s not on the job. The grand opening is a week from today. He’s never going to get it all done.”
“Why me?” I asked. “I’m not a gallery manager. Why don’t you go down and take over?”
“I can’t right now. I have to be in New York until Friday for some finance meetings. I’m leaving on a red eye tonight. I don’t know anyone else who is,” Valerie held up a finger, “one, capable of pulling this together and,” she added another finger, “two, might be free to go on a moment’s notice. You’re good at organizing things, you’re calm under pressure, and you don’t have a job. Didn’t you manage the student gallery your last year at school?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, a little exasperated.
Valerie gazed steadily at me. “I’ll forgive you for dumping me and taking up with my old friend Gabrielle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, I managed to get an Olafur Eliasson piece for the opening. I know you want to see that.”
“Fine,” I answered. “But I didn’t dump you. If anything, it was the other way around.”
****
I received an email from Valerie’s personal assistant later in the afternoon with my flight info. I should have said no to her but, truthfully, having something to distract me from thinking about Nice and Gabrielle and trying to figure out how I felt seemed like a good idea. My flight left in the morning.
I spent the rest of the afternoon working in my studio. By early evening I was covered with grit from welding and grinding. I had dinner plans with Ashna so I took Valerie’s advice and changed into some clean clothes after a quick shower.
It was one of those very rare summer days in San Francisco when it stays reasonably warm in the evening with the wind and fog trapped on the west side of the hills that divide the Mission district—where I was meeting Ashna—from the Sunset. I pedaled slowly up Mission Street, enjoying the balmy feel of the air and the low, golden sunlight casting long shadows. Shopkeepers were pulling down their steel shutters and closing up for the night. Revelers were being disgorged from Ubers and Lyfts and drifting into the bars. I passed my favorite building on Mission Street—a stark white mid-century with orange color blocking between the windows that made it look like the Eames storage unit’s big brother. The raised metal lettering above the door said CJN Dentistry. Dr. Nogueiro was my dentist. I had chosen him, years before, because of the building. A block farther on, I bunny hopped the curb and dismounted in front of my destination. Ashna stood out front, looking down at her phone. I called to her and she glanced up, saw me, and smiled.
We hugged and I held the door for her. At the end of a long corridor of shiny polished concrete the host was waiting for us.
“Reservation?” He asked.
“Yes, for Ashna Khatri.”
“Right this way.” He turned, menus in hand, and led us into a massive courtyard enclosed on all sides by tall buildings but open to the sky and adjoined on the right by an indoor dining area with large windows and doors leading out.
“Perfect night for al fresco dining,” I said as the waiter led us to a table near a massive arbor of flowering morning glory. It was early for dinner and we were among the first guests.
“Yes,” Ashna scowled at me over her shoulder. “The weather is simply divine. Lord Mountbatten has invited us to peruse the countryside in his chaise and four but dear Emily is sick with the gripe so I fear we shall not be able to accept his offer to picnic by the mill stream.”
I held up a
