The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay Read Free Page A

“Well, that’s the thing about you, Lily,” she says sadly. “You never want anything to change.”
    My heart sinks. I know what Renee is talking about. Not just about my decade-long residence in my crappy apartment, or the five-year stint as a barista at the Starbucks across the street, or even the way I paint the same subjects again and again, over and over, in morning light or nighttime, from the left and then the right, and then straight on again. She is talking about her and me. About how she has moved in new directions that don’t include aging friendships with thirty-two-year-old fiscally unsound visual artists.
    We have nothing left to talk about.
    â€œNo, you’re right,” I say lightly, but I take back my hand. “I’m working on it. And now there will be change, no matter what, right?” I say in a falsely chipper voice. “Who knows what the future holds?”
    But Renee only raises her eyebrows. It is as though she is saying, “I know what it holds. And I am not impressed.”
    *   *   *
    The Helms gallery was, for a brief time, my favorite place in Logan Square. Now it feels like the principal’s office. It is sandwiched between a taxidermy shop and a bespoke handbag designer, and, because of Mitchell Helms’s particular brand of high/low taste, it seems to actually tie the two neighbors together. I text Mitchell when I’m five minutes away so he knows to expect me. He tells me to come straight upstairs.
    Upstairs is an iron spiral staircase in the middle of the second gallery that leads to a little glassed-in loft where Mitchell oversees his kingdom. Downstairs there are assorted staff members to greet me, but after the most cursory of hellos, I climb up the stairs, clang, clang, clang, and surface at the foot of his large chrome and glass drafting desk. When he turns toward me, I feel that thing, that thing I always feel around Mitchell. Renee calls it chemistry, but I know it as something else. I feel like I am wearing too-high heels and a too-short skirt and a too-sheer blouse. The effect is at once intoxicating and uncomfortable.
    â€œLily,” he says on an exhale. He has this way of saying my name like he invented it. My imaginary heels grow higher. Then he looks me over and says, “You’re empty-handed.”
    Inwardly I cringe. I have been avoiding, at all costs, letting Mitchell discover how stagnant my painting has become over the last few months. Every two or three weeks I’ve been dusting off something old from my stash and passing it off as a new work. But I haven’t even done that lately. When was the last time I showed him something “new”? It must have been before Christmas.
    â€œNothing?” he asks me, a little sadly.
    â€œNothing,” I admit. “I’m sorry, Mitchell.” His eyes look genuinely concerned. I think he must know something is wrong. For a moment, just a fleeting one, I consider trying to tell him about how I’ve been painting the same thing for the last six months, over and over again, unable to get it quite right. Sometimes I have gotten lucky and made something I like, and sometimes I have even given something to Mitchell to sell. But mostly I am treading the same waters over and over again, day in and day out.
    â€œLily, don’t apologize to me. This is how it works. Sometimes inspiration comes, sometimes it doesn’t.”
    I exhale. He’s right, of course. It’s never how it’s worked for me before, but nothing has really been the same for me since my art started to sell. Maybe I just need to tune out some of the pressure.
    â€œThe only thing is,” Mitchell continues, “people are asking.”
    Or, maybe I need more pressure.
    â€œI don’t want a long fallow period to depress your stock.”
    Mitchell is always talking about my artwork like it’s an offering on the Dow Jones. I cannot imagine trying