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“If they love me, then why are they leaving me?”
Jonah’s mahogany brow lifts. “They aren’t leaving you. The dour duo knows exactly what they’re doing by featuring Kazuo for their opening night—messing with your head.” He dabs lipstick on my lips, emphasizing each word. “Because the one thing those terrible twins know is how easily you are to mess with. But, don’t worry. We’re going to make a splash tonight and show them we think their little gallery is cute in a lemonade stand kind of way, and that we aren’t threatened by them at all! Eyes closed.”
I dutifully close my eyes as Jonah mists my face with a deluge of setting spray. “Can we just send them a nice card or something? Besides, should you be going anywhere when you’ve got the sniffles?”
He huffs. “Girl please. You know, for a fact, this is just some damn seasonal allergy, though allergy to what I do not know. It’s not like there’s a tree growing in this part of the city, no matter what this gallery is called.”
The Orchard Haus is so named for the apple trees I had growing in my backyard when I was a kid. My dad liked to tell me that eating one of the golden apples was like eating drops of sunshine. Those trees were always a safe place for me, filled with happy moments. I wanted to capture that same vibe here in my gallery.
Jonah affixes a lash strip on my eyelid. Asian hair is both a blessing and a curse. I never have to worry about my body hair, yet that same fine hair on my head is limp and lifeless. My eyelashes? Non-existent.
“Besides, I just downed a handful of pills and chased them with some fine bourbon mixed into my hot toddy. I’m good for the rest of the evening.”
I side eye Jonah. Not for the first time I wonder if he’s got some monster strain in him. He’s all sinewy muscle and fluid grace. If he says he’s part naga, I would believe him. “Is that healthy?”
“Don’t try to be my doctor now.” He twirls his finger, indicating that I should turn in place. “Once I’m through, you’ll be a living piece of art, anyway.”
Once I’m through? “Um, what do you mean? Aren’t we done?”
Jonah’s eyebrows scrape up to his hairline, a furrow denting his forehead. It’s a rare feat to see his black skin show a hint of a wrinkle. “Done? We just did hair and makeup. We’re in the home stretch now, though.” He starts draping some fabric across my torso.
“Jonah. I’m already wearing a dress.” The simple floor length black slip is giving the understated elegant vibe that I want to project. A little bit of classy, a little bit of “this old thing?”
Jonah doesn’t seem to be having it. The man doubles over in a full body cackle. “Oh child! Here I thought you wore this dress like you would a smock: easy to take off and you don’t care if it gets messy.”
I gawk at him. “This is vintage designer!”
He purses his lips. “And it’s cute in an IDGAF way. On the one hand, that’s a vibe, but definitely not on brand for you. As we are going to be seen to-geth-er,” Jonah emphasizes each syllable, drawing the one word into three, “we will be representing this gallery. And what do people expect? Vintage, yes, nostalgia, but in a new perspective. You make people see value in what’s been discarded. That’s your damn strength, your brand, and it kills me you don’t see it. Arms up.”
My arms shoot straight up like I’m a referee signaling a touchdown. It’s futile to defy Jonah when he’s in work mode. And when he has a vision for an exhibition, wild horses couldn’t drag him away.
Which is one of the infinite reasons I hired him and prayed to any deity that will listen that he would stay with Orchard Haus forever.
I glance at the clock. “Do we have time?”
“As if the party would start before we arrived,” he scoffs. “Don’t worry about a thing, baby girl. We’ll take however long we need. Because you know what? When I’m through, all everyone will talk about is you and your gallery.”
Remi Storm
The Neue Groveis everything they advertised. Clean, modern, elegant. Just enough pretension to intimidate outsiders without alienating serious buyers.
I hate how much I love the space. I hate seeing the turn out of trusted acquaintances and colleagues. And I especially hate that they used my favorite caterers who serve the best hors d’oeuvres.
Jonah was right. The party didn’t start until we arrived. The drawback to that is I had to smile and nod when colleague after colleague assumed I sponsored Liesl’s venture.
That she called it the Neue Grove—with the tagline, “where artists grow”—is not lost on me. It is both a play on her last name and an overt jab at the Orchard Haus. So similar that it’s a natural assumption that we are in collaboration.
No wonder some of my favorite artists like Kazuo had no problem hopping aboard their newly minted exhibition. He is so happy to be a headliner, and thanks me profusely when he sees me, as if I arranged it. I try to tell him differently, but I can say nothing as he hugs me, lifting me up as he jumps for joy.
I can’t begrudge him his moment of glory, especially when his art reflects his grief at being separated from his family while fleeing their country’s hostile regime. He grew up as an orphan, yet has always held the belief that his family is alive somewhere, and his art helps him connect with his past.
On top of that, it’s not every day that Asians are celebrated, let alone Asians in the diaspora. So, instead of refuting the statement that I endorsed the gallery, I stuff my mouth with a bunch of pigs-in-a-blanket.
Of course, this is the moment when Tessa Lyonne, one of my largest clients, drifts into view. She is a striking woman, statuesque in her signature platinum bobbed hair and white suit. Addison and Liesl flank her on each arm, saying gods only know what.
They seem thick as thieves, but Tessa’s face lights up when she sees me, her cerulean eyes sparkling as she strides over. “Remington!”
I’m saved from choking on a mouthful of meat pastries when Jonah sidles up to me, and deftly offers Tessa a hug. “My dear Tessa, how enchanting you are this evening.”
