Faking It (26 page)

"And then you paint," I respond.

"Yeah. I paint what I see, and what other people don't see. 'Cause you got to see this, and you got to see it for what it is."

"So, what is 'it'?"

"Life," he says simply. "People. The good stuff."

Like their subjects, these paintings are innately beautiful--abstract, literal, human, and personal. They are also rough and textured, unbalanced, and sometimes even harsh. Viewing this art feels almost voyeuristic, much like seeing everything about a person in one glance. Process and narration are evident in each piece. Layers of weathered newspapers, flyers, and found objects are washed with color to construct the scaffolding behind a strong drawing hand and confident use of color, shape, and form. The subject and material blend in formal voice, creating a texture and even scent of life. Individually, these pieces are sensual; together, they are compelling.

The images aren't clean, they aren't perfect, and they aren't always refined. But they are real. They are telling. Alive. The show comes together in a world of tone, light, and atmosphere. It gets under your skin until it seeps out of your hair. You
feel
this art. To view it is to truly experience city life, be it Boston or the Big Apple. And it feels good. Pleasurable.

Jesse Bartlett has something to say, and he is just beginning to learn how to say it. He's the kind of artist you'll want to discuss someday at a cocktail party, bragging that you knew him when. And you'll have every right to brag, because he's worth the experience. You won't forget it. Neither will I.

And neither, hopefully, will those belly dancers.

Unlike previous 'bouts of reading bliss, this time I hung off every word. I'd heard this style before--I was sure of it: the words, the rhythm, the voice...but where? Was it at a conference? In a journal article? A student paper?

"Cool, huh?" said Sam. "A bit of overkill, maybe, but vivid. Let's go see this exhibit, okay? It's at a gallery on

Beacon Street

."

"Who wrote it?" I asked. Before he could answer, the phone rang. Sam jumped up to answer it, still holding the paper in his hand, now closed and rolled into a cylinder. He handed off the phone to me, and I forgot about the review and its unknown author.

***

We took the T to the

Park Street

stop and walked the rest of the way. Early evening had settled in, and a chilly autumnal breeze whistled its arrival. Sam and I huddled close and walked quickly, almost passing the entrance to the Paris Gallery, its name embossed on the squeaky glass door in simple, gold block letters. The gallery was a small loft space on the second floor with buffed, honey-colored hardwood floors and well-lit, white walls showcasing a collection of prints and paintings. The exhibit had officially opened the night before, but a reception was already underway for tonight as well. I spied a man wearing a black blazer, ripped jeans, and a t-shirt with a silkscreen print--I correctly guessed him to be Jesse Bartlett. He stood near one of his more elegant, yet darker paintings, a flute of champagne in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, his eyes hidden behind long, bleached bangs, talking to a rather blonde couple.

Sam and I circled the gallery, spending time in front of each frame. We'd been to exhibits together before, but none matched the experience I'd had at any museum or gallery with Devin. Viewing a work of art with Devin was practically a spiritual experience; I could transcend time and space with him, and every time he would show me a new way of seeing, ways I think even Picasso never would have thought of. And it wasn't just Devin's knowledge that made those visits so enlightening; witnessing his own transcendence from
seeing
to
being
was equally illuminating.

A hushed chatter filled the gallery, and I felt a sense of belonging. "I like it here," I heard myself say to Sam in a quiet, calm voice. He didn't respond. A pretty woman in her early twenties approached us with a tray of champagne flutes and offered one to each of us. Sam took one while I graciously refused, asking for a ginger ale instead. She offered to check for me.

Just as we finished viewing the final painting, I sensed someone behind me and turned around: my vision fixated on the flute of ginger ale first; followed by the cuff of a Versace jacket sleeve; up the sleeve to the shoulder, and finally to the face, meeting sparks of sienna.

"This has to be for you," he said, holding out the glass.

Chapter Twenty-nine

I
BECAME A SCULPTURE.

Devin.

He extended his hand to Sam. "Hi, I'm David Santino, co-owner of the gallery."

David.

"Sam Vanzant," he shook hard, "and this is my fiancee, Andrea Cutrone." Devin--David--took my hand into his own, gently.

"It's nice to see you, Andi."

For the moment he seemed unfazed by Sam's introduction of me as his fiancee. But Sam perked upon hearing him refer to me as "Andi" and looked first at me, then at him, then back at me.

"You two know each other?"

I tried to speak, honestly. Opened my mouth, but an incomprehendable dribble not unlike a failing ignition starter emanated instead of words.

"I..eyuttuttuttya..eeya..."

"We had mutual friends at Brooklyn U," Devin--David--said.

Past tense?

"Really?" Sam replied, continuing the conversation. "Sweetheart, you didn't tell me you know the owner here."

"Oh, I've only been here for about six or seven months. Georgia Paris is the other owner." He pointed to a classy, silver-haired woman who had joined Jesse Bartlett and the blonde couple. "I sold my other business, sublet my apartment in the city, moved here, and became a partner. Georgia's teaching me everything she knows so I can take over."

He was responding to Sam but looking at me. I could feel my pupils dilating, my sockets widening as he spoke the words "my
other
business."

"What'd you do before?" Sam asked.

Wait for it...

"I was in the service industry." He winked at me. Rat-bastard--he deliberately left himself wide open. I swore the hardwood floor was quicksand and I'd just sunk down to my knees.

"Well, fancy meeting us here. Small world," Sam replied.

"He knew the dean." I finally stammered an answer to a question long gone. Both men looked at me, perplexed. "At BrooklynU." I turned to Devin. "Didn't you?"

He grinned. "You look great."

"So do you," I replied, my face flushed, my insides stirring. "I almost didn't recognize you." I was meeting him for the first time all over again and reacting the exact same way: clumsy and bumbling and exhilarated all at once. "David," I said out loud, a reminder to myself. This was whom I was meeting.

"So, whattya think of the exhibit?"

"Good stuff," Sam said, taking a quick look around. "We read a great review of it in the
Boston Leisure Weekly
this morning, and it was dead-on accurate."

"Thanks--I wrote it."

How could I not have known? How could I not have even guessed?

Oh my God--it was YOU!!!

My exclamation turned heads. I regained solid ground again, alert and at attention.

"Yes, Andi. I'm a writer now, too. I have an occasional review in the
Boston Leisure
. I'm trying to make it into a regular column, though. Still an amateur, I guess."

"You were always a writer," I insisted, echoing a familiar voice from a previous time in a previous relationship.

"Well, you've got a flair for narrative," said Sam. "Andi and I are both memoirists."

"Yes, and I happen to know that
she
is quite talented," said Devin, still grinning. Didn't his cheekbones hurt?

I beamed while my heart pounded and Sam put his arm around me and pulled me towards him, giving me a proud kiss that was intended for my cheek but instead reached my right temple. "You got that right," he said.

After a quick pause in the conversation, Sam asked Devin the way to the men's room, then excused himself.

"So..." I started. He knew what was coming. "You really left the business, huh."

"Yep."

"How come?"

"You know, it's funny. I swore the only reason I'd ever stop being an escort was because I'd lost a limb--certainly not because of some moral conscience."

"You had a moral conscience?"

He flirtatiously cocked an eyebrow, which broke my straight face.

"Actually, I stopped enjoying it. Doing it just got more and more pointless--not for them, but for me. There didn't seem to be anything for me to want anymore."

"When'd you stop?"

"'Bout a year ago, I think. Shortly after you left."

"What'd you do?"

"I divested myself from the business, turned it over to Christian, and I had a shitload of cash laying around, so I decided to take a long vacation in Europe. Italy, Spain, France, you name it. I found every big museum and backstreet gallery imaginable. Even got robbed one time, smack in the middle of the day, although I only had a couple of travelers' cards and the equivalent of fifty bucks on me... ya know, American Express really is good about getting stolen cards replaced?"

Sam returned before I could continue the conversation, and Devin reached into his pocket. "Here," he pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "I'm almost always here. Give me a call and we'll have lunch sometime."

I took the card and studied the number and had to look twice at the name:
David Santino
. I still wasn't used to it.

"Thanks." My voice sounded distant.

"Well, I've got to tend to my patrons. Thanks so much for coming." He shook Sam's hand again. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Same here."

He turned to me. "And so nice to see you again."

"Welcome to New England," I said and winked. A final smile erupted from him, and he crossed the floor to schmooze with another couple.

Sam turned to me. "How 'bout that," he said.

"Indeed."

I sipped my ginger ale.

"Sweetheart, what are you smiling at?"

Chapter Thirty

W
E SAT AT A TABLE IN A PERUVIAN COFFEEHOUSE down the road from the Paris Gallery in Boston two weeks later. We laughed when we saw each other, both dressed in faded t-shirts, jeans, and leather jackets. He eyed the diamond and sapphire ring on my left finger.

"When'd you get engaged?"

"End of May."

"Hm," he nodded. "Seems like a good guy."

"He is."

David dug his fork into the slice of fudge cake we were sharing.

"I think it's great that you're writing," I said.

"I kept a journal the entire time I was in Europe. I wrote a lot about my father and growing up, and about you, too."

Tears watered my eyes.

"And then, one day all I wanted to do was paint. There I was in Positano, completely lost in the sunset, dying for a set of oils. And then, it came to me--and I swear it was in my father's voice: 'You're an artist, David.' And that was it. I came home."

"Then how come you're not painting now? I mean, you're a gallery owner instead."

"Because for me, the true love isn't in making the art; it's being surrounded by it. I once had a client who had a brother who worked in a bookstore. She said he could have easily been the next Vonnegut or Ellison, but he absolutely loved being around the books. That's what felt like home to him."

I understood.

"And that's what the gallery feels like to me. For me, art is born out of my witness. I guess it's the same with you and memoir."

"Precisely. I suppose that's why I've always loved rhetoric--it's always in response to something else."

"I can write about it, talk about it, see it. Might as well show it and sell it too, because I also do that very well."

"Ya sure do. So... I guess you left New York because of Devin?"

"A city of eight million people--you'd be surprised how often I would run into my fucking clients."

"Why Boston?"

"Good art scene. Good city. Good opportunities. I met Georgia, one thing led to another, and the rest is history."

I sat quietly, taking long and slow bites of cake.

"Do you ever miss being an escort?" I finally asked.

He bit his lip and shook his head. "Surprisingly not. Do you ever miss being in New York?"

"Surprisingly not."

We sat and stared and smiled at each other.

"Do you ever miss
me
, Andi?"

I studied the cake crumbs on my crumpled napkin and didn't answer.

"Why'd you call me?" he asked.

"I'm not sure."

"I'm glad you did."

"Do you ever miss
me
?" I asked.

He blushed and grinned again and took his final bite of cake.

"So when's the wedding?" he asked.

"Next October," I replied. "A year from now."

"Hm," he answered. "Not June, when school's out?"

"We both wanted an autumn wedding."

I paused.

"Are you seeing anyone?" I asked.

"Not right now. I mean, I've been dating, but nothing's stuck so far. I'd like to, though. Get into a serious relationship, I mean."

We paused again, and David looked at his watch.

"I gotta get back to the gallery."

We left the coffeehouse and walked down the street, stopping at the corner. The sun brightly blazed over Boston, framed by a cobalt blue sky. I felt toasty in my leather jacket and squinted through my shades. I looked up at him, forgetting how tall and towering he could be.

"I'm glad you called," he said again. He took me into his arms and held me close.

"Oh Dev," I practically cried into his jacket. "I do miss you."

His scent reawakened strong memories.

"I miss you too," he said, stroking my hair.

He kissed me gingerly on my forehead. I looked at him through glassy eyes and iridescent lenses.

"Seeya, David."

"Seeya."

I began to walk away.

"Hey Andi!" he called as I turned the corner. I spun around and he quickly caught up to me and leaned in close. "I gotta ask: how's the sex with Sam?"