Page 15 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“After this collection, how does dinner sound?” He checks his watch. “I seem to have kept you out all day, and something tells me you forget to eat when you’re on deadline.”
I stop beside a table of displays, my heart hammering. How can he read me this easily? Everything about him and this day has felt so right. Could I have another love after all this time? “On one condition.”
He waits eagerly.
“We can eat at my house.” The words feel foreign, inviting him into my space too dangerous, but something inside me can’t stop making these sorts of mistakes.
He beams, nodding. “You know, I—”
I freeze and don’t hear his response.
The light falls, streaming through the slatted windows, on a smaller display. I step away from Sebastian, leaning closer to the case, my lungs shuddering, all the warmth disappearing.
“What are those?” I can barely get the words out.
An older gentleman, one of the tour guides, slides over, his face rosy and round.
“Good eye! Hand-painted tin figurines from the late eighteenth century from a private collection, artist unknown. It’s rare to find objects like these in such good condition. You might have seen them on the promotional materials.”
A piercing cold spreads from the center of me.
The glass display holds a set of painted tin figures. Not soldiers, but instead men and women of the day—businessmen, servants, as well as the elite—painted as if they’re going about their day-to-day lives. In the middle is a woman, skin bronzed, hair brushed up into black curls, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped gown with a red rose at her waist.
I bring my hand to my lips. My fingers tremble.
I’d thought these were all lost. How are they here?
I don’t need an exhibition label or didactic text to know whose these were.
I knew the creator.
I loved him.
I never thought I’d see work by his hands again.
“How much for them?” My voice is rough and doesn’t feel like my own.
The tour guide stands back, pale blue eyes wide. “Th-they aren’t for sale, ma’am,” he stutters. “They’re on loan from a private collection.”
“Then contact the owner,” I say sharply. “I’ll pay for them, whatever the price.”
Sebastian appears at my side. “Vivian, are you okay?”
“No.” I grip the glass, staring at the figurines. I’m not okay. Sebastian reaches for my hand, but I keep it firmly on the case.
If I touch him, I’ll fall to pieces. I’ve never wished so strongly and so urgently that the ground would open and swallow me whole, plunging me into darkness, where at least I couldn’t feel pain like this.
How stupid could I be?
To his credit, Sebastian remains by my side, respecting my space, as the guide goes to get his manager. A petite blond woman breezes in, at first smiling; her frown becomes more pronounced the longer they talk. Soon, she picks up a phone to make a call. I watch it all like an out-of-body experience. All I want is to get the figures and get out of here. I can barely breathe past the lump in my throat.
After ten tense minutes, the guide and his manager return. “This is highly unusual, but we’ve spoken to the owner, who wishes to remainanonymous. These pieces are quite rare,” the manager says, gesturing to the display. “And, unfortunately, the seller won’t sell for less than half a million dollars.” She holds her hands up in a display of helplessness, as if that will resolve the matter.
“Done.” I open my purse and pull out my checkbook. “Who do I make it out to?”
Sebastian’s eyes widen, his expression more than curious.
The tour guide and his manager both drop their jaws, and they scramble to do the necessary things to secure my purchase.
