structure, following it to the canopy, the last of the golden sunset rippling across the glass. “What is this thing? Is this a bus stop?”
My eyes were back to him.
The question threw him off, uncorking whatever steam he’d built up. “It’s not a bus stop. It’s a pergola, built in the late 1800’s.” His own eyes softened as he took in the structure.
“And you know this because . . .”
“Because I went on the Underground tour.” Finished with the distraction, he asked again, “How do you know Eveyln?”
“So, what’s underground and why would one go down there?”
The light changed and he guided us across the street. “What’s left of Pioneer Square after a fire in the late 1800s.” I was about to make a sarcastic crack, but he circled us back one more time. “Why did Evelyn ask me to introduce you to her?”
“Because I’d never met her before,” I said in hopes of ending his questioning. “You still haven’t told me how you got my number.”
“Are you telling me that it’s a coincidence that you have the same last name?”
Deflated, my shoulders dropped and I softly replied, “No, it’s not a coincidence. She’s my grandmother.”
“Did you not know you had a grandmother?” I could hear the skepticism in his voice.
“I knew, but we’d never met before that night.” I couldn’t look at him, embarrassed to be talking about my family garbage, which, even I didn’t understand. I looked around and noticed more people walking up and down the streets. “Are we done? Because the rest of this story would take more minutes than are left in the night.”
The pause was long, but he finally answered, “For now.”
“Where are we going anyway?”
“It’s First Thursday art walk,” he said as we walked deeper into the Pioneer Gallery District. “I thought you might like to see some art.”
Dubious, I looked up and asked, “Was this before or after you found out my last name was Vanderbie?”
“Before.” I wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t ask any more questions.
We spent the next few hours walking in and out of gallerie s. Our debates lingered safely on the context of art. Around the truths and lies, the real and the make believe, the good and the evil.
One artist in particular, an oil painter, held us both captive. His small canvases forced us to step close while the minute details grabbed hold, daring us to look harder, to follow the lines off the canvas and search for what treasures lay hidden underneath.
I was completely consumed. So much so, I didn’t notice when Quentin had stepped outside, his dark silhouette reflecting through the front window, his hand holding a cell phone to his ear. I weaved through the other art viewers, unintentionally shivering as I crossed into the chilly evening air. Quentin’s eyes followed my every movement. He ended his call as I neared, and pulled his coat off, draping it around my shoulders. He was everywhere. The musky scent of him rising all around me. Every sense in my body heightened.
“There are two more galleries on the next street over,” his voice soft in the night air. “Do you have time?”
“Sure.” I had no idea what time it was, but I knew I wasn’t ready to go home. I looked up to his face and quietly asked, “Are you going to tell me how you got my phone number?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really.”
We started to walk down the street, when his low voice murmured, “Evelyn.”
Of course, Evelyn. How she had my number, I have no idea.
Washed in a scent of contentment, we rounded the corner and crossed a street cutting a diagonal path across the otherwise traditional city grid. It was a short, odd street, which abruptly came to an end at the mouth of an alleyway. The dark opening pulled me like a magnet and I was unable to stop my feet from moving toward their new trajectory.
“CeeCee, the galleries are this way.”
It began, like it always began, at the base of my
My eyes were back to him.
The question threw him off, uncorking whatever steam he’d built up. “It’s not a bus stop. It’s a pergola, built in the late 1800’s.” His own eyes softened as he took in the structure.
“And you know this because . . .”
“Because I went on the Underground tour.” Finished with the distraction, he asked again, “How do you know Eveyln?”
“So, what’s underground and why would one go down there?”
The light changed and he guided us across the street. “What’s left of Pioneer Square after a fire in the late 1800s.” I was about to make a sarcastic crack, but he circled us back one more time. “Why did Evelyn ask me to introduce you to her?”
“Because I’d never met her before,” I said in hopes of ending his questioning. “You still haven’t told me how you got my number.”
“Are you telling me that it’s a coincidence that you have the same last name?”
Deflated, my shoulders dropped and I softly replied, “No, it’s not a coincidence. She’s my grandmother.”
“Did you not know you had a grandmother?” I could hear the skepticism in his voice.
“I knew, but we’d never met before that night.” I couldn’t look at him, embarrassed to be talking about my family garbage, which, even I didn’t understand. I looked around and noticed more people walking up and down the streets. “Are we done? Because the rest of this story would take more minutes than are left in the night.”
The pause was long, but he finally answered, “For now.”
“Where are we going anyway?”
“It’s First Thursday art walk,” he said as we walked deeper into the Pioneer Gallery District. “I thought you might like to see some art.”
Dubious, I looked up and asked, “Was this before or after you found out my last name was Vanderbie?”
“Before.” I wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t ask any more questions.
We spent the next few hours walking in and out of gallerie s. Our debates lingered safely on the context of art. Around the truths and lies, the real and the make believe, the good and the evil.
One artist in particular, an oil painter, held us both captive. His small canvases forced us to step close while the minute details grabbed hold, daring us to look harder, to follow the lines off the canvas and search for what treasures lay hidden underneath.
I was completely consumed. So much so, I didn’t notice when Quentin had stepped outside, his dark silhouette reflecting through the front window, his hand holding a cell phone to his ear. I weaved through the other art viewers, unintentionally shivering as I crossed into the chilly evening air. Quentin’s eyes followed my every movement. He ended his call as I neared, and pulled his coat off, draping it around my shoulders. He was everywhere. The musky scent of him rising all around me. Every sense in my body heightened.
“There are two more galleries on the next street over,” his voice soft in the night air. “Do you have time?”
“Sure.” I had no idea what time it was, but I knew I wasn’t ready to go home. I looked up to his face and quietly asked, “Are you going to tell me how you got my phone number?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really.”
We started to walk down the street, when his low voice murmured, “Evelyn.”
Of course, Evelyn. How she had my number, I have no idea.
Washed in a scent of contentment, we rounded the corner and crossed a street cutting a diagonal path across the otherwise traditional city grid. It was a short, odd street, which abruptly came to an end at the mouth of an alleyway. The dark opening pulled me like a magnet and I was unable to stop my feet from moving toward their new trajectory.
“CeeCee, the galleries are this way.”
It began, like it always began, at the base of my
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