“Not often though. I’ve been told you’re only here a few days a week.”

She lays a hand on her chest. “Talking about me around town? Should I feel honored?”

I step toward her, trying to reclaim the space between us. “What do you do with the rest of your time? When you aren’t here?”

“Oh, what does any woman do when she’s unmarried and childless? You can’t imagine the amount of attention someone in my position dedicates to her wardrobe—shopping, fittings, alterations, all of it.”

I don’t look impressed with her teasing. It seems she’s insistent on making this a joke.

“What else, Lainey?”

“I have tea on most days, and often I’m out and about in Boston, attending some lecture or soirée.”

“And at night? Do you see friends?”

“How perfectly annoying of you to assume I have friends.”

“You’re too interesting not to be an infatuation for someone.”

“Now there’s a compliment I’ll cherish forever. Thank you.”

“Lainey,” I say, sounding insistent, like I’m a headmaster and she’s an errant student.

She leans in, her eyes alight with mischief. “I don’t see why I’m in the hot seat. Let’s turn the tables. What do you like to do with your time now that you no longer get to torment the entire female population of St. John’s?”

“I work.”

She rolls her eyes. “And outside of that?”

“I see friends.”

“People from St. John’s? I guess that’s how you knew my work schedule…”

I don’t verify that for her. There’s no point. If she’s not going to be truthful with her answers, why should I?

She huffs and steps back, extending her arm and inviting me further into the gallery.

“Well since you’re here…why don’t we look at some art? I’ll show you my favorites and tell you which to buy. You’ll be a good boy and do as I say.”

I have the sudden urge to kiss her smart mouth, to tip the scales and remind her of all her past infatuations with me. This is the girl who kept my picture under her pillow, the fragile girl who grew up.

She waves me on. “There’s a David Hockney in this side room that we had to fight to secure from the consigner. He was a longtime client of Larry Gagosian, but we won him over in the end. You’d be surprised how much sway these big branded galleries have.”

“Hockney is fine. Do you have any works by Jean-Michel Basquiat?”

She stops walking and turns back to me. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“His name. Everyone butchers the pronunciation, but it rolls right off your French tongue.”

“Jean-Michel Basquiat,” I say again, leaning into my buried accent.

Her eyes roll back as if she’s about to come, then she mimes a chef’s kiss and continues leading me through the space.

“We don’t have any Basquiats. They rarely change hands these days.”

“You’ll let me know if you hear of any coming up for sale?”

“Of course. Now, come look.”