Page 40 of Love Is an Art
“Good to talk to you both. My friend is calling me.” Jurgen gestures to a pale, thin guy who looks like he hasn’t seen sun in days and departs.
“How did you hear that he was someone helpful?” I ask.
“He helped another artist I know sell her first painting to a collector.”
“I see.” That sounds legitimate.
“I thought you said you didn’t know him?” she asks.
“I don’t know him. He approached me randomly at the show we met at and started talking to me. I just dismissed him.” I turn to Tessa. “But when you mentioned you’d heard he was someone to talk to, I thought I might as well talk to him and see what his deal is. You never know if he’s a scam artist.”
She stares at me, biting her lip. “And what did you conclude?”
“I don’t know.”Not for sure.I think he’s a con artist, but I have no proof.
We walk outside. The night air is warm for May, and the streetlamps create puddles of light in the deepening dusk. People mingle on the cobblestoned street outside with red, plastic cups of wine.
Loft apartments and fancy stores now occupy the converted brick warehouses of DUMBO, short for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Metal staircases and cement ramps lead up to the entrances, giving it an industrial feel. The bridge, framed by the brick buildings on either side, dominates the view as we amble toward the river.
We turn left to stroll along the sidewalk nearest the East River. The roar of the subway passing overhead on the bridge rumbles throughout the neighborhood. A breeze wafts over, the smell of sea salt inspiring that lazy, happy vacation feeling. A pathway beckons off to the right, leafy, green trees and bushes held back by curving dune fencing, giving it a beachy feel. I reach out and hold Tessa’s hand.
All of a sudden, the skyline opens up. Ahead of us is the Brooklyn Bridge and the East River, its waves lapping against the rocks separating the pathway from the river. Underneath the Brooklyn Bridge is Jane’s Carousel, enclosed in a glass building, the bright colors of the playful, metal horses visible even here.
Tessa squeezes my hand.
To the left is a large, Dutch, architecture-style building that is the Time Out Market. Black, wooden shades punctuate each brick-curved window. People dine outside at tables under beige umbrellas at Ciccarelli’s as waiters pass through, carrying and clearing plates.
ARoof Decksign is ahead.
I glance at her as she looks at me, and we both turn to head there. We climb up a metal staircase that clings to the former warehouse wall built by the Dutch in the 1600s. A large, curved window frame—now without any glass—gives a view of the East River.
“I love how they kept the facade,” she says.
“I like that the Dutch architecture is still here. Have you been to Red Hook?” I ask. “That really feels like you’ve stepped back in time to an early Amsterdam.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I thought. I took a weekend sailing class in the Hudson, and we docked there to have our picnic lunch. It was so cool. And it totally felt like we’d sailed to Holland.”
At the very top, we emerge to breathtaking views of the East River, Manhattan, and the two bridges—the Manhattan Bridge to our right and the Brooklyn Bridge to our left. The island curves a little so that we are in a tiny inlet. Boats motor by in the blue waters below.
“Should we eat here?” I ask. A wooden, lounging bench filled with people is off to one side, and tables are scattered around. Under a metal canopy is a billiard table.
“That sounds good,” she says.
I suggest she grab a spot while I pick up our food. She gives me her ramen order and sits on a bench, placing the Fresh Direct bag with our paintings next to her. All around, couples enjoy take-out dinners. There’s a shout from a group of friends playing billiards, followed by lots of laughing.
I join her on the bench and take off the lid of my ramen bowl as she does the same.
She turns toward me. “Thank you for buying my painting. I was embarrassed no one bid, so I appreciated it.”
I wave her gratitude off. “I’m sorry I didn’t bid sooner. I didn’t want to stop a collector from picking it up.” I just highlighted that one didn’t.Idiot.
“Is Wyatt the guy you broke up with eighteen months ago?” I ask. “How long did you date?”
She separates her chopsticks. “Eight months. I worked all the time, and he attended all the society events. They’re important for his career. The Central Park Zoo party and all the different not-for-profit benefits. I could never make them. We had different priorities, among other things. Not that I don’t enjoy going to those events. He found Marla and ended things with me.”
“It sounds like those are work events for him.”
She nods. “Exactly. I always found that rather ironic. He could combine work and play. I couldn’t. How long did you date your ex?”
