We were pulling away from the cottage in Sadie's truck when I received a call from my boss back in New York. It was late afternoon and the property, which had been chaotic with the noise and movement of the workers all day, was finally still. The wind could be heard against the sides of the house and through the shimmying branches of the surrounding trees. We were the last to leave and I rolled up my window and turned the radio volume down, flashing the phone at Sadie for permission before taking the call.
"Jesus Christ," Cynthia said as soon as I put the phone to my ear, without waiting for a greeting or a clue that it might not be me answering, "You're alive! Shit. That was insensitive. I'm sorry, sweetie. Are you doing ok? How's the niece?"
"My nephew is fine, Cynthia, thanks. What's up?"
Cynthia was a middle-aged woman who had owned the gallery for almost three years. She had purchased it from the previous owner, a distant cousin of her father who had employed her right out of art school when she made the big move from California to New York. She was well connected and charming, good at attracting young crowds to the gallery, but you always got the sense that she wasn't paying attention when you spoke––until three months later when she asked for an update on a very insignificant detail that even you had forgotten you mentioned until that moment. I was curious what she could possibly be following up about now.
"Well, I know, sweetie, that you're not ready to come back yet, and I totally understand, Rhode Island must be divine this time of year, don't get me wrong, but I have the most wonderful news." She paused for effect and then she chuckled, tiny rapid laughs like bullets. "Well, do you want to hear it? I have a buyer for your work. Isn't that wonderful, sweetie? Did you even expect it?"
"What piece?" I asked, surprised. I had been trying to sell my work since I had started working at the gallery, before Cynthia was the owner, strategically placing my paintings close to the private selection in the back, buddying up with the featured artists and asking them if they knew anyone who might be interested. The high of having my work in shows faded a few years after school when there were never any bids. It was an amazing feeling to see my paintings on the white walls with the name cards underneath somewhere in Brooklyn, and to hear college students or socialites discussing my influences or meanings as they browsed, but it didn't pay the bills.
"That's why I'm calling," Cynthia said. "Not a piece, darling, the buyer was interested in the charming photos you sent. But I told him they weren't for sale."
"The photos?" I paused, confused. I had sent Cynthia a stack of the photos I captured for Amelia's laundry room to be framed by the gallery's vendor at a discount. I never meant for them to be seen. That day was the first time I had picked up a camera since high school. And someone wanted to buy them? Sadie briefly lost control of the wheel to look over at me in the passenger seat.
"I told him the photos were part of a show we were doing on one of our in-house artists and that I couldn't sell them until then." She waited for me to react. "Wasn't that clever? So you have to get your ass down here, sweetie, to plan the show! It's been a real mess since you left. But I'm not complaining!"
"Up here, Cynthia. Pennsylvania is below New York," I corrected.
"Whatever. Just get up here. It's wonderful news! We'll do a whole show for you. Talk soon." And then she hung up. Just as fast as she had appeared, she was gone. I turned to Sadie, who was looking between me and the road, the speed barometer pushing eighty miles per hour.
"Cynthia sounds like a bitch," Sadie said.
"She wants me to come back to New York."
"Like I said. A bitch. Just when I made a friend on the crew she has to take him away."
I laughed and tossed the phone between my hands. I still couldn't believe it, even as I said it. My own show! A buyer! For my photos? I had been waiting for this moment for years, ever since I had dropped my resume off at the gallery, not knowing that I'd be stuck there for so long selling other artists' work. Now it was my turn. "She said there's a buyer for my work. I've never had a buyer!" I was practically bouncing on the seat.
"It sounds like this calls for a celebration. Hee-haa." Without warning, or much grace, like a rider on a bull, Sadie turned the steering wheel hardover so fast that the truck's ass practically flew in the air behind us as the front tires screeched along the highway pavement and the truck U-turned into the opposite lane. All four of my limbs sprawled out and pushed against the cabin of the truck, desperately clinging to any surface I could find to keep myself from flying out of the window. She didn't miss a beat, just accelerated.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Trinkle's!"
"Trinkle's?" It sounded like we were yodeling to each other.
"A little gay bar ten miles from here."
"I didn't realize there were any gay bars out here."
"You gotta know where to look. There won't be none of that Sex and the City crap to tip you off."
Sadie turned up the volume of the radio and tapped on the steering wheel. Then my phone started ringing again. It was Darren. "Hey, Darren. What's up?" I said. Sadie laughed at the mention of his name and turned the volume back down.
"Are you on your way back to the house? I was thinking of ordering pizza," he said.
"Pizza sounds great, but I'm actually going out with Sadie."
"Where are you going? Maybe I'll call Anna to babysit and join you."
I looked at Sadie. She could hear the conversation and started laughing. "Don't tell him," she whispered. "Don't tell him!"
"Oh, just a small place around here. You probably wouldn't know it," I said, holding back my laughter.
"What's it called?"
"Trinkle's."
There was silence. And then, "I'm going to make Noah something to eat and then I'll call you back," was all he said. Then he hung up.
We burst with laughter. "I wish I had a drink right now," I said.
Sadie tilted her head at something on my side of the truck. "Open the glove box."
I pulled it open and there were three cans of warm beer waiting for me. "You're crazy," I said. I left the beers in the box, closed it, and turned the radio back up. Then I thought of Darren at home with the baby, making dinner and trying to explain, once again, that I wasn't home, but that I would be back. I wondered how many times Noah would have to hear that before he stopped believing it. After all, his parents said they would be right back and then he never saw them again. I still wasn't convinced he understood that. "Maybe we shouldn't go," I said.
"Why?"
"I feel bad leaving him alone with the baby. Maybe we should go somewhere closer to town."
Again, without warning, Sadie jerked the truck around and headed back in the direction of Windber with a screech of the tires. I was convinced I was injured from the sudden spin, but I had a full range of motion in my neck. I checked to make sure the bandage was still there, which it was, and I was relieved that there were no other cars on the road or else there would have been a collision. "What was that?" I asked. "Can't you give a little warning next time?"
"You said we should go somewhere closer to town..."
"I said maybe. Maybe!"
"I can go back." She gripped the wheel and waited for an answer.
"Slow down," I said, looking at the barometer.
Sadie released her foot from the gas pedal, only slightly. "There won't be anything gay closer to town."
I thought about it for a moment, the trees of the state forest passing me by faster than this morning. I finally found a friend, just when I needed one, and everything Sadie was saying was making me feel better. A night out with her would probably do me some good. Plus, I thought, it's not every day there's something to celebrate, especially lately. "Let's do it," I said. "Let's go to Trinkle's."
"Warning!" Sadie yelled over the radio. She looked in the rearview and the truck pirouetted like a figure skater on ice. Any more turns and there would be no rubber left on the tires. If we continued in this direction, at this speed, beyond the bar and the mountains, the sun fading behind us, we'd be in Manhattan by the time it set, at a real gay bar like Stonewall or Marie's Crisis, both down the street from the gallery. I imagined my photos on the walls, and no one else's, my name everywhere, and a handsome older man offering me enough money for a downpayment on an apartment on the Upper West Side. I tried to imagine Darren and Noah there, too, but the image was blurry.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I can't believe we're already at chapter 25!!!!
I'm thinking of giving the novel a facelift. What do you think of this potential cover?