Page 3 of One Year Ago in Spain
Behind her, the gallery door opened.
“Claire!” Yolanda Davis—her best friend, colleague, and the wife of the gallery owner—popped her head out. She was, as usual, impeccably put together, her dark skin contrasting beautifully with a pale pink silk blouse, her natural hair blown out. “I thought I saw you through the window. Come inside! And where’s your date?”
“Glenn went home early.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No, not really,” Claire said. “Just…not enough.”
She followed Yolanda inside and sighed gratefully as the icy blast of air-conditioning hit her skin. The melodies of a saxophone and flamenco guitarist echoed through the high rafters, and a ritzy Fifth Avenue crowd milled around the gallery, drinking sangria and rebujitos while occasionally looking at the paintings on the walls.
“Claire Walker, haven’t seen you in ages.” Jason—Yolanda’shusband—came up and greeted Claire with a hug. “What do you think of the exhibit?”
“I’ve only had a chance to see what was in the window, but…it’s extraordinary.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Yolanda asked. “The sangria is great, but the bartender’s also making tinto de verano, which is kind of like sangria, but fizzy.”
“Yes, please. I could definitely use a drink.”
Yolanda darted off to the bar. Jason started to tell Claire about the nearest painting but then broke off and, looking over her shoulder, said, “Oh, there’s the artist. Do you want to meet him? I’ll introduce you. He’s from Madrid, but he’s going to be here in the States for a couple years as a visiting professor at the New York Academy of Art. He’s a classical realist—with a touch of the imaginative. Monstrously talented and passionate, which is so refreshing in this age of soulless AI art, you know?”
Jason waved at someone. Claire turned around. She was only five-four, so she couldn’t see over the heads of the people in front of her. But it didn’t matter, because the crowd parted, and there he was.
“Matías de León,” Jason said, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Claire Walker.”
He was just like his paintings, viscerally real and rendered in warmth: Waves of black hair. Olive skin. Broad shoulders and muscled forearms that were proof of hours working with his hands.
But then, like the title of his exhibition, there was the glimmer of surreal delight—his eyes were like pools of honey in morning sunlight, rich and gold with promises of undivinable depths.
“Un placer. A pleasure,” Matías said, his English gently accented with Spanish.
Claire’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Yolanda reappeared with drinks. But when she saw Claire speechless—and knowing how, as a lawyer, Claire wasneverwithout something to say—Yolanda winked at Jason and said, “Why doesn’t Matías give Claire a personal tour of some of his paintings in the back of the gallery? You know, since she arrived late and missed the introductory speech?”
Without missing a beat, Jason said, “What a fantastic idea,” and steered Claire and Matías away from the music and the bar and the majority of the guests. Jason and Yolanda then melted into the party without even a glance back.
Claire laughed nervously. Yolanda wasn’t known for her subtlety, but what the heck was she thinking? There was no way a gorgeous Spanish artist was going to be into Claire. She dated balding dentists and the occasional accountant.
“I am so glad you could come tonight,” Matías said as they made their way deeper into the Rose Gallery. Heads turned wherever he walked.
“You are? Why?” Claire didn’t mean to blurt that last bit out, but her nerves had the reins right now.
“I was worried no one would attend my gallery opening,” he said. “But Jason has done a wonderful job with it. Are you having a nice evening?”
“Not until now.” Claire immediately felt her face flush the same red as her drink.
Matías grinned, and it was charmingly lopsided—nothing like Glenn’s perfectly symmetrical smile.
What is going on?Claire never spoke before she thought; you learned that in the first year of law school.
They reached the back wall. There were only a couple ofother guests back here, so Claire and Matías had this part of the gallery pretty much to themselves. Matías was close enough to her that she could smell the pine and spice of his cologne, and her heart thrummed a little faster.
“Although Jason asked me to give a speech earlier tonight,” Matías said, “I do not really like to talk about my work. I put everything I have to say into the art itself, you know? So, please.” He waved toward the paintings that hung around them.
Claire’s pulse sped up more, but for a different reason now. Publicly, she pretended to like paintings and sculptures and such because it was the kind of sophisticated thing that all the partners at the law firm seemed to enjoy. Being Yolanda’s friend also meant she heard a fair bit about the art world.
Yet the truth was that Claire had never been the sort who was particularly moved by art—not like the people who had annual passes to MoMA who could stand in front of a canvas and talk for hours about its complexity. Paintings were just pictures to Claire. So she started psyching herself up to come up with some eloquent lies to tell Matías.
