“I think you're going to have some options here,” she said, looking ecstatic. Gray was floored. In a matter of days, she had swept him out of his lethargy, gotten slides of his work to the right places, and opened several doors.
“You are an amazing woman,” he said with eyes that said it all.
“You are an amazing man, and an extraordinary artist.” She made a date with him to take his work to all three galleries on Saturday afternoon. She said they could use her van. And as promised, she showed up in the morning in a sweatshirt and jeans to help him load up. It took them two hours to take everything he wanted downstairs, and he was embarrassed to have her work. She had already played fairy godmother to him, he hated to use her as delivery person too, but she was game.
She had brought a sweater and better shoes to change into when they went to the galleries that were expecting them. And by five o'clock it was over. He had offers from all three galleries, who were wildly impressed with his work. Gray couldn't believe what she had done, and even she had to admit she was pleased.
“I'm so proud of you,” she said, beaming at him. They were both exhausted but delighted. It took another two hours to get all his work back upstairs. He hadn't made a decision yet about which gallery to choose. But that night he did, and she thought he had made the right choice. It was an important gallery on Fifty-seventh Street, with a large branch in London, and a corresponding gallery in Paris, with whom they exchanged work. It was perfect for him, she said confidently, thrilled with his choice.
“You are incredible,” he said, smiling at her. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was so moved by what she'd done. They were sitting on the couch in his living room as he said it. The room was an even bigger mess than it had been earlier in the week. He had been painting all week, inspired by her energy, and hadn't bothered to tidy up. She didn't care and didn't seem to see it. He loved that about her too, in fact there was absolutely nothing he didn't. As far as Gray was concerned, she was the perfect woman, and he wanted to be the perfect man for her, and give her all that she had never had and needed. There was little he could do for her except be there for her, and love her, which was precisely what he wanted to do. “I love you, Sylvia,” he said quietly, as he looked at her.
“I love you too,” she said softly. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to, but the days and nights they had spent together meant something. She liked the way he thought, and what he believed. She loved his integrity and what he stood for. She even admired his work. There was nothing they needed to do about it, nowhere to go with it, no decisions they had to make. All they had to do was enjoy it. It was all so simple, for the first time in both their previously complicated lives. “Do you want me to cook dinner?” she asked, smiling at him. The only decisions they had to make were where to eat, and whose place to sleep at. He liked sleeping at her apartment, and she preferred it. His was too big a mess, although she liked visiting him there and seeing the progress on his work.
“No,” Gray said firmly, “I do not want you to cook dinner. I want to take you out and celebrate. You got me a terrific gallery this week. I would never have done that myself. I would just have sat here, on all of it, too lazy to move.” He wasn't lazy, far from it. But he was modest about his work. She knew many artists like him. They needed someone to make the moves and bridge the gap for them. She had been happy to do it for him, with remarkably good results.
They had dinner at a small French restaurant on the Upper East Side that night, with good French food and fine French wine. It was a genuine celebration, of them, of his new gallery, of everything that lay ahead. And as they went back to her place in a cab, they talked about Charlie and Adam. Gray hadn't seen Adam since he got back, or even called him, and he knew Charlie wasn't back yet, and Gray hadn't called him either. He often didn't call either of them, especially when he was engrossed in his painting. They were used to his dropping off the face of the earth, and called him when they didn't hear from him. He described his friendship with them to Sylvia that night, the depth of it, and their kindness to him. They talked about why Charlie had never married, and why Adam never would again. Sylvia said she felt sorry for them. Charlie seemed like a lonely man to her, and it saddened her to hear about his sister and parents, enormous irreversible losses for him. In the end, losing them had cost him the opportunity to be loved by someone else, which multiplied the tragedy exponentially for him.
