Page 1 of Caper Crush
Chapter one
Pushingupmyfakeglasses on my nose, I shuffle closer to the two other women to listen in on their conversation about the ultramarine abstract painting in front of them. I resist the urge to touch my straight, gray hair. I’ve learned that once I put on a wig, I shouldn’t touch it.
This art gallery is a square, white-walled room in Tribeca with paintings hung a foot apart, about twenty colorful pieces in total. Between the cold air-conditioning and the pops of color, I feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of a vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. Next to the entrance, the gallery owner sits behind a shiny, white-laminate counter, typing on her laptop. Two large paintings are spotlighted in the storefront windows. My ultramarine painting, unfortunately, didn’t merit that prime real estate.
These two women are a mismatched pair. One looks like an Upper East Side matron, immaculate, brown hair, clearly professionally blow-dried that morning, armored in a crisp, two-piece skirt suit. The other woman has wild, gray hair and is wearing a long, flowing skirt, turquoise and gold bangles covering her wrists.
“Is this the one Jade recommended that we look at?” Coiffed Woman asks.
Bangles Woman peers at the label. “I think so. She said to look at the works by artist Miranda Langbroek.” She steps back, her multiple bracelets jangling as she puts her hands on her hips and stares at the painting.
“I don’t see what’s so special about it,” Coiffed Woman says. “Doesn’t it look like every other abstract painting out there?”
I cough. And that’s why people say no good ever comes of eavesdropping about oneself. I need to armor up, but I still take criticism about my work personally.
The two women look over at me in concern.
“Are you okay?” Bangles Woman asks.
“I’m fine. Got something lodged in my throat.” I clear my throat. “I think what makes this painting unique are the brushstrokes here building up the paint, almost like waves of color washing over you.”
“Oh, interesting,” Bangles Woman says. “I see that now.”
“Are you thinking of buying it?” Coiffed Woman asks me. Her perfume smells of honeysuckle.
That’s a tough question to answer. Some buyers like competition and, if someone else is interested, will buy it immediately to scoop it up. But others back off. Plus, I don’t want to actually lie and say I’m going to buy it when I’m the artist trying to sell it. I never know if my disguise will actually work. But I really do need to sell this painting. I need the money. And my agent, Jade, will stop representing me if I don’t take off soon. I didn’t sell anything at the last little show she got me into.
“No,” I say. “I love it, but I don’t have the budget to buy it.”
“Our dealer said we should get in now before this artist becomes popular after the Vertex show,” Coiffed Woman says.
“But I don’t know.” Bangles Woman frowns.
This is torture. WhydidI think covertly persuading art patrons to buy my work was a brilliant idea?
“You should only buy it if you love it.” I don’t want my painting abandoned in a closet.
“I love the colors,” says a male voice to my left. “Do you know the price?”
A tall, lean guy with thick, ruffled, black hair glances over at me.
William Haruki Matsumura.
William is the nephew of my uncle Tony’s partner, Takashi Matsumura.What is he doing here?
Our glances meet.
He’s good-looking, if you like the Secret Service type. I don’t. I never know what he’s thinking, which bothers me. He’s quiet, so he could be full of deep thoughts. Or not.
Don’t let him recognize me.He’ll probably give the game away if he does. But there’s no way he could. I’ve aged my skin with shadows and highlights to look like a sixty-five-year-old woman, even adding a bump to my nose. Straight, silvery locks hide my wavy, red hair, and I’m wearing glasses. It’s not like we see each other that often. Once a year, if even, at Uncle Tony’s parties.
Bangles Woman looks at him, and her eyes widen in appreciation. She steps closer.
“Do you like it?” She puts her hand on his arm suggestively.
He smiles, looking down at her hand. “Yes, very much.”
Ugh. He’d better still be talking about the painting.Keep your attention on my painting. That’s what’s important here.
