Page 63 of A Small Town Spring

The boy was on my mind plenty before last night.Now it’s hard to think of anything but him.His eyes, his hands, his smile, his cock.

The car slides to a stop, double parking in front of the gallery, so I get out quickly, thanking my driver.I straighten the purple paisley tie tucked into my gray waistcoat before strolling in.I spot Jack and Pete first, who are staring at something with concerned looks on their faces, and follow their gazes to see Toby.My entire self relaxes at being near him again until I realize his face has an expression I’ve never seen before.He appears… helpless.

That’s when I notice the man standing near him.He’s a shade shorter than Toby, clean-shaven, with thinning gray hair.He’s not as beautiful as Toby, but he has an appealing face, lines and all making him look handsomely rakish.He’s wearing a citrine-colored blazer and expensive-looking jeans.Loafers.His eyes are the same color as Toby’s, if a touch diluted, and I know this must be his father.

There’s a woman with them, tall and sharply beautiful, her black dress with its feather motif giving her the appearance of a crow.Her gaze is focused on Toby in a way that instantly activates my possessive instincts.I’ve never been particularly jealous about my partners before, but Toby is the exception yet again.

Fernanda makes up the fourth vertex of the square, standing out in her ruby red dress and jet-black hair, talking and gesticulating in a way that seems like she’s overcompensating for something.

I cross the room, smiling vaguely at the people in my path, and reach the group in time to hear Fernanda say, “Let me show you the other gallery rooms, Miss Fieldstone, Mr.Wheaton.”

“Nathan, please,” he says, giving her a toothy smile.“And I’d love it if Tobes would show us around.”

Toby looks at Fernanda, who gives him an encouraging smile.“Fine,” Toby says, sounding eerily blank, then his gaze lights on me and his eyes get wide.He holds a hand out and it feels like he’s asking for a lifeline, which I’m only too happy to provide.I get to him in two long strides, slide my hand into his, and squeeze gently before letting go.

“Hello, you,” I say to him under my breath.

His mouth is pinched, and his eyes are stressed, but his voice comes out steady as he makes introductions.

“Kingston, I want you to meet my dad, Nathan Wheaton.And this is his friend, Sally Fieldstone.”

“Fieldstone Gallery, Hempstead Heath,” she says quickly in a breathy English accent.“We’redeeplyinterested in Toby doing a show for us.I would do absolutelyanythingto get you to commit,” she adds, stressing the anything in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

Fernanda interjects herself.“Yes, well, there will be time to discuss future offers later.For now, let’s congratulate Toby on his marvelous success.”

“Yes,vastquantities of congratulations, Toby,” Sally says, fluttering her eyelashes.I cringe at her penchant for stressing her words as if speaking in italics.“Can we get aselfie?”She whips out her phone, moves closer to Toby, and snaps a pic before he can respond.

Nathan Wheaton offers me a dry, warm hand to shake.“Pleased to meet you,” he says, sounding like he means it.“Are you an artist, Kingston?”

“No, I’m a literary agent.”

“That’s where the money is, isn’t it?”he says knowingly in a not-quite-posh London accent.“Not in the writing, that’s for damn certain.”

“I do the best I can for my clients,” I say neutrally.“When did you arrive in New York?”

“Just today, actually.Jet lag is an absolute bitch.I had to practically snort a double espresso to stay up for this, but, well, it’s been ages since I’ve been to Manhattan, so when I heard about Tobes’s show, it gave me the perfect excuse.I’ve got some friends in the city to catch up with.And there are some shows I want to see.Including this one, of course,” he says, glancing around.“I understand Tobes has been making every art critic in New York cream their panties.Boy takes after his dad—ha ha.”Nathan Wheaton might have come off as caddishly charming twenty-five years ago, but now he just seems boorish.

“I can see why,” Sally echoes, leaning into Toby’s physical space again.“Who wants to look at the art when you can look at theartist?”

Toby looks faintly horrified and Fernanda steps in.“Sally, dear, have you heard about the dustup with Roxanne Robespierre and that collector of Greek antiquities?”

“That was a holy mess, wasn’t it?”The two women head for the next gallery with their heads together, and I have to give Fernanda props for distracting Sally with art world gossip.

“The next batch are landscapes,” Toby says stiffly, leading the way.I suppose he wants to get this over with.I have no idea what’s going on in his mind, but he seems like a shadow of his usual self.He’s not the most outgoing person ever, but this is a side I’ve never seen—quiet and cowed.

“Tobes?”I mutter into Toby’s ear in an effort to cheer him up as we walk shoulder to shoulder into the next gallery.

“He’s the only one who calls me that,” he whispers back.“I didn’t know he’d be here.With an acolyte in tow,” he adds, meaning Sally Fieldstone.

“These are more like it,” Nathan says when we come into the next room with the British seascapes.“The little American houses are quaint, but these are more dramatic.Well done, you,” he says to Toby, but it doesn’t sound much like a compliment.“Reminds me of my beach series.Sold out opening night, if I recall correctly.I had people begging me to do more.Should have charged twice as much for those.”

“Yes, these are veryalive, verymoving—in more ways than one,” Sally says.She’s not wrong, but still, her breathless commentary bothers me.

Toby’s only response is to say, “There’s one more room.”

The five of us pass into the gallery hung with the portrait collection.While Sally and Fernanda engage in animated conversation, I glance at my portrait, still stunned by its power.My gaze drops to the information card on the wall, and I start when I see one of the red dots indicating it’s been sold.Was that there yesterday?I didn’t notice in the moment.Who on earth would have bought this painting, and why didn’t I think to ask Toby to take it off the market?I have to let that go for now, because Toby’s dad is looking at the portraits with a curl of distaste on his lips.

“These are… different,” he says, looking at the one of Stacy, curvy and serene, her tight black braids so glossy and active they look like they’re mid-swing around her shoulders.He stops in front of one of Ivy.She’s working in the painting, a smear of clay on her cheek, but no less beautiful for it.I confess I don’t love it, despite its obvious aesthetic appeal; I’ll never not be slightly envious of the decade she got to spend with Toby before I even knew he existed.That card has a red dot as well.

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