Page 23 of Sawyer
Phoebe’s father. A prize for any gallery, and all the more interesting because they were not finished works. Practice ones leading up to paintings?
Then it struck her that Phoebe’s last name was Anderson, not Kennison.
“Can I grab you a glass of wine?” Phoebe asked, turning around, a professional smile firmly in place.
“We already had ours with dinner,” Brooke said to be gracious, “but I’d take a café if you have it.”
Because every place worth its salt in Paris could offer you a café—at any time of day.
“Perfect. Anyone else?”
Kyle held up his hand and so did Dean. Madison only shook her head.
Brooke almost smiled. She’d always admired Madison’s straightforward nature. Maybe it was because Brooke had learned how to smile through her teeth young. But in this case, that might be helpful. They were here to get to know the woman Sawyer had said could quote Shakespeare. Madison’s way wouldn’t work.
Brooke wandered closer to the side door Phoebe had gone through. “Sawyer mentioned you referencing a quote fromKing Johnbut he didn’t say what it was.”
The hissing of the coffee machine sounded as Phoebe popped her head out. “He did, did he? Most men think I’m a lit geek when I do that. Maybe that’s why I liked him so much. He even knew the play I was reading and some other fun theater stuff I won’t bore you with. But it blew my mind that he could reference the source of my quote down to the Act.”
“And the quote?” she asked.
“Oh, right! I got excited, thinking about it again. Do you ever replay wonderful moments in your mind?”
“All the time.” Dean nodded enthusiastically. “That’s what makes life so awesome.”
Brooke fought a smile. Such a Dean answer.
“Can I hear a drum roll for the quote?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m mostly kidding.Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.I told Sawyer I do everything to make sure that is not me or my life.”
Brooke gave in to her smile at that, which Phoebe returned before stepping back in to finish their cafés.
Dean sidled up to her. “I suddenly remember Sawyer saying he met his last girlfriend at a poetry reading.”
Brooke straightened his scarf Parisian style to do something with all her restless energy. “I seem to recall she was getting her PhD in English literature.”
“Doc has a type.” Dean sent her a knowing look before approaching the doorway Phoebe had disappeared through. “Hey, Phoebe! Can I help you with those?”
Moments later, he and Phoebe were handing out steaming cafés.
Dean took a sip, a fish-for-information smile on his face. “Thank you, Phoebe. This is perfect. Paris has the best coffee, don’t you think?”
She only nodded, gazing at them warily, like they were people from an opposing fashion house.
“You know,” Dean continued, “quoting plays like that made me wonder. Do you have a degree in English literature?”
“From Oxford. I can also give you the results of my Rorschach test?—”
“That would be great,” Madison answered before Brooke could roll her eyes.
Phoebe burst out laughing. “If it weren’t for how weird this all is, I think we’d get along. Similar senses of humor. But you’re here to see if I have a gallery worthy of Sawyer’s talent. I’ll address my fitness to go out on a date with him in a moment.”
Brooke knew when a woman was taking control, and the pronounced sound of Phoebe’s stylish boots on the floor drove the point home.
She gestured grandly to the sketches. “These are practice sketches from the famed artist, River Kennison. You probably already know he’s my father. I don’t advertise it—I droppedhis name and the hyphen before it some time back because I kept getting sought out by his fans. He used to give these to me when I was a kid because I loved seeing what he’d done while I was at school or when he disappeared for days in his studio. I thought they would show the kind of standard I want in my gallery. This branch of the renowned Anderson Gallery in London. Which I’m sure you know my mother owns.”
Well, she’d wondered about the last name, hadn’t she? Brooke couldn’t fault her honest delivery, but she could hear a wall in someone’s voice as they talked. What would it have been like to be the child of a famed artist like that? To not be sure if people liked you for you but because of who your parent was.
“My mother is old school. She likes to show artists with track records, the ones everyone follows.”
