Page 5 of Vow Of Fire

“I can’t believe we managed to pull this together.” I watched two well-known critics from Frieze and Artforum standing in front of the largest piece, Cartagena, 4 a.m., saying nothing, which I’d learned to read as a good sign.

The exhibition almost hadn’t happened. We’d had a few setbacks, but Chloe and I had worked extra hard to make the night a success.

Last month, our shipment from Colombia had almost been destroyed. There’d been a breach at the docks, and our container had been ripped apart. Thankfully, Mateo’s paintings weren’t stolen. I didn’t know what we’d have done otherwise. Tickets for this show had been sold out for months.

“We did good,” Chloe decided, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing server.

We clinked glasses.

As I sipped, the light caught the slim tennis bracelet at my wrist, and I felt the familiar little swell of pride. I’d bought it for myself two years ago, the morning after the Agora turned its first real profit. It was a private toast to the fact that I’d built something out of nothing, with no one’s name on it but mine.

Chloe was everything a gallery assistant should be, and I was lucky to have her. Despite being younger than me by four years, we’d clicked the moment she’d arrived early for her interview and found me struggling under boxes of stationery supplies. She’d rushed up, taken some of the boxes off my teetering pile, and stayed to help me unpack. I hadn’t bothered interviewing anyone else.

Now she managed the day-to-day running of the gallery, leaving me free to focus on acquiring new artists, public relations, and networking with auction houses, magazines and other important people in the art world.

She’d watched me get dumped twice, held my hair after the first time, and bullied me into therapy after the second. She was the closest thing I had to family.

“Well done, ladies,” Vincent said, gliding over. “I see we already have several red dots on key pieces. This will keep the bank accounts healthy for a while.”

He looked handsome and distinguished in his three-piece Savile Row suit and neckerchief. At sixty-two, with white hair swept back from his tanned, lined face, Vincent Calabria was considered something of a silver fox. And of course, being British, he oozed an old-world charm that the buyers loved.

Despite being my accountant-slash-financial advisor, his knowledge of art was almost as good as mine.

“Numbers are my bread and butter, art is my passion,” he’d told me once.

“We even have an offer on the small study on the south wall,” Chloe informed him with a grin. “It’s on hold for a buyer in Geneva.”

He gave a satisfied nod.

“Where’s Alberto?” I asked him. My logistics manager should be here. He’d had an invite, not that he needed one. “I was expecting to meet his new girlfriend.”

Vincent shrugged.

“Maybe he’s running late,” Chloe said.

“Could be.” Alberto wasn’t the most punctual of people.

“Fabulous collection, Eve,” a woman in a stunning alizarin-red Donna Karan gown said, coming to stand next to me. “Pity the artist couldn’t be here tonight.”

I’d met Helen Beaumont at Columbia, where I was finishing my master’s degree in art history. She’d been a sophomore to my senior, and we’d had many deep conversations during late-night study sessions in the Commons about provenance ethics, restitution, Nazi-looted works, and the origins of avant-garde art. Now Helen was a buyer for a handful of very wealthy art lovers. A good person to know.

Chloe excused herself to talk to one of the caterers who were flitting around with silver trays laden with crystal glasses and canapés, while Vincent got cornered by a fashion designer and art aficionado who’d just had a very public break-up with his husband of ten years.

“Thank you.” I flashed her a warm smile. “Unfortunately, Mateo had a family commitment and wasn’t able to come this time.” His wife had gone into labor the night before he was due to fly out, so he’d canceled his trip. Another hurdle we’d had to work around.

“I don’t suppose it matters. His reputation precedes him.” Helen cast me a sly grin. “My client is interested in acquiring the Ashes & Bone tonight.”

“An alluring piece. I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Let’s have lunch soon.” She moved on, leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

“Miss Cruz, could we get a photograph of you outside the gallery?”

I recognized the reporter and her photographer. They worked for a small, local publication, the kind that was stocked in food markets around the city.

“Sure.”

I set my glass down on one of the cocktail tables, nodding politely to a man who looked like he was about to approach me, then followed them outside.