Page 61 of The Distiller's Darling

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“Thanks, Jim,” Naomi called as the gallery owner left her in the space with a wave. He’d let her in, helped her carry the heaviest crates, and showed her where he kept the hanging supplies in the back room. Now he was off to a meeting, or lunch, or whatever it was gallery owners did when they weren’t actively hosting shows. He’d left her here alone to set up, with a key to the front door to lock up when she was finished.

Alonewas the key word, she reflected as she examined the gallery space. Empty blank walls and the sturdy white columns of display tables waiting for her art stared back at her. She ought to be thrilled that she was here. She’d given Iain the message about his father and had managed to escape before either of them had gotten clingy or weird about a relationship that was clearly over.

So why did it feel like she was running away? She’d been planning this show since the night she met Iain; she’d known she would be driving out to the city today. She’d checked in to a hotel near the gallery, ready to stay for the weeklong duration of her show. Opening night was tomorrow night. She’d be here. Iain would be… well, apparently, he’d be in River Hill, setting up a new distillery. Unless that last conversation had gone differently, and his father had left because Iain was expected to follow him back to Ireland shortly.

She couldn’t dwell on it. They’d agreed. Three months, then part as friends. They hadn’t managed the parting as friends part as well as she could have hoped, but they were certainly parting. Iain was moving on, working with his sister. She was moving on, too. Z Gallery was a huge win for her—Jim’s clientele were rich, and most of them had both residential and commercial spaces they liked to fill with art like hers. He’d told her when she arrived that he fully expected to sell every single piece she’d brought. When she’d opened the crate that contained her heart sculpture, he’d sucked in a startled breath and then looked up at her with an expression of pure glee on his face.

“You know how in cartoons, people’s eyes turn into dollar signs?” He’d pointed to his own brown eyes, nearly hidden behind thick-framed black hipster glasses. “Mine are doing that right now.”

She’d laughed, but it had hurt to breathe. Now, she lifted the piece carefully out of the crate, gently brushing the fragments of packing material away. She set it on the stand waiting on the central pedestal, a basic, squat white column that was set directly in the center of the gallery. Several of the lights that hung on roving tracks throughout the ceiling had been aimed at it, so the column was bathed in plenty of warm light. It was set up exactly as she’d requested, and this piece would shine as the central focus of the show. It was the culmination of months of work. Years, if you considered the journey she’d traveled in life to get to the point where she was capable of producing something so thoroughly emotive.

And as she stared at it, she felt a gnawing sensation in her stomach and a horribly strong urge to hide it away so that nobody could see it. She didn’t want to sell it. The idea of some random guy in a suit putting her actual heart on display in his condo made her ill. She’d reached for the little stack of cards intended for sale notifications twice now, the urge to write NOT FOR SALE on one of them getting stronger and stronger.

She shook her head again. She was getting maudlin. She needed to pull herself together. Taking long, slow breaths, she turned slowly around in a circle, examining her work. She’d taken each of the pieces Jim had requested out of their protective packaging and placed them carefully on their stands. The printed cards that bore her name, logo, and brief artist statements for each piece had already been slipped into the waiting plexiglass holders attached to each display. She was nearly done. All that was left was the final zhuzh, as her mother would say. The last little fidgets and moving of things an inch to the left here, half an inch to the right there that would make the set up truly perfect.

She pulled out her phone to check the time and bit her lip.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be here.

She winced. She’d spent her entire career working toward this moment. But all she could think about was whether Iain was going to be leaving. If he was going back to Ireland or staying in River Hill. If he was going to work full-time on the new whiskey. If he wanted to see her again.

Because she definitely wanted to see him. It was time to stop fooling herself. She was crazy in love with her Irish whiskey man, and every minute she spent here fiddling with her sculptures was another minute she was losing on the road back to River Hill to ask him if he felt the same. She’d done what she’d needed to do here, and she could easily make it back in time to do even more tomorrow morning if she needed to. She closed the crate that had held her heart piece and carried it back into the storage room that was hidden from view by a whitewashed wall. Emerging back into the gallery, she looked around at her work, glowing dimly in the warmth of the carefully-positioned lights. She let professional satisfaction wash over her once more. She’d done it. She turned her gaze toward the door.

The entire glass storefront of the gallery had been covered in a vinyl wrap advertising her show; it served the dual purpose of generating advertising buzz and hiding the inside of the gallery until the show was completely set up inside. It was one of Jim’s special tricks that made Z Gallery so popular. She’d long since shaken off most of the imposter syndrome that had plagued her first few years as a professional artist but seeing her own giant face and stylized signature taking up an entire window had definitely given her pause when she’d arrived.

Now, she hurried to the covered door and wrenched it open, juggling the key Jim had given her with her own car keys. She stepped out into the bright sunlight, shading her eyes against the change from the darkened gallery, and immediately collided with a solid body.

“What—” She felt arms go around either side of her to catch her, and familiar hands at her waist. “Iain? What? How—”

“Hi.” It was really him. That low, smooth voice couldn’t be anyone else, not that she’d needed the proof with the warmth of his steadying touch infusing her body with a feeling that only Iain seemed able to bring about. Every time he touched her, she was reminded how much she wanted him.

Her eyes had finally adjusted to the light, but he still seemed to have a halo shining around his head. Probably her imagination. Or maybe he was just that good. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said.

He quirked an eyebrow and lifted his lips into a half-smile. “Are you?”

“Yes! Oh—” She tugged him back through the door. “Come in here, I’m being blinded. I was just coming to see you.” She blurted it out as though it wasn’t something she’d been agonizing over practically since she’d arrived at the gallery. As if it made all the sense in the world. Maybe because it did.

Iain hadn’t quite let go of her yet, his hands still lingering at her hips. “You were?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t have left so quickly.”

“You had a show to prepare,” he said, shrugging. “Speaking of which—” He looked around, brows going higher as he took in the nearly-finished setup. “This is great, Naomi.”

“Thanks,” she said.

His gaze returned to her. “This is the real deal for you, isn’t it? The big time?”

She nodded. “There’s still a lot on my bucket list as an artist, but this is a huge step. It’ll get my foot in a lot of doors. Especially …” she stopped, feeling her heart start to race. He hadn’t seen it yet. Her body was blocking his view of the central space. She stepped aside. “Especially when they see this.”

She watched his face as he examined the final version of the sculpture she’d been creating the entire time they’d been together. It was practically an artistic record of their relationship. And it said exactly what she’d been trying to figure out how to say for the last several hours. Days, even. She loved him. She loved him, and he’d made her a better person.

His eyes widened and he moved closer to the sculpture. His hand seemed to move of its own volition, reaching out toward the large clasped hands surrounding the heart, tracing the lines of Irish barley nudging the clay fingers aside. “Naomi…”

She swallowed. “Do you like it?” Her voice wobbled a little on the last word, and she winced. She was already feeling vulnerable enough. No need to rub it in.

“It’s incredible,” he whispered. He touched the vein-striated heart emerging from its cage, then turned to her, his eyes full of some unreadable emotion. “Don’t sell it.” His voice was low, and hard. “Please.”

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