The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay Read Free Page B

to do what he does—to balance some kind of business acumen with the tastes and whims of buyers and the egos and frailty of the artists. As a particularly frail artist myself, I don’t know what I would do without him.
    â€œSomething new is coming,” I lie. Then I remember why I’m here. “However. I’m having a little issue with my studio. It isn’t helping the situation. I have a favor to ask.”
    â€œHm?” Mitchell steps out from behind his desk at last. He towers over me at six foot something. My imaginary heels are starting to totter. “Wait,” he says. “Come here. I forgot to give you something.”
    For a moment I dare to hope he’s got some kind of check for me. Maybe I lost track of a quarterly payment? Forgot to cash something from months ago? But when I get closer he puts his arms around me, pulls me in for a quick peck, and then goes back for a real kiss that I feel up and down my spinal column like a cold wind off Lake Michigan. When he pulls back he shakes his head at me and says, “I can never get over the way you smell. Like cured acrylics and candy.”
    â€œI need to stay with you for a week,” I blurt out. “I’m being evicted.”
    Mitchell drops his hands from my arms. “How can that be?”
    I don’t care to explain the whole situation. “It’s complicated. I, um, I have to be out in a week.”
    â€œWell…” He waits a long time. I can see the wheels turning as he goes shopping for an excuse. “Of course you can stay with me,” he says.
    â€œReally?” I start. I was being too pessimistic. My heart sort of twists up, relief mixing with surprise mixing with something else … maybe just a tiny shred of apprehension.
    â€œAt some point. Of course,” he says. “Not now, though, Lily. Not when we’re working together professionally too. You know that’s not good for us. It’s too confusing. You painting, in my house, you’d have no privacy to work, I’d have no perspective on your work, it would muddy the waters.”
    â€œI know that. But it’s kind of … almost … an emergency,” I try.
    Mitchell takes me by the waist and leads me to one of the armchairs that face his desk, sitting himself down and then pulling me to him. I feel like a child, even though I am thirtysomething. “Let’s table this discussion for later,” he says. “Someday you’ll be too big a star to keep down in my galaxy here.” He waves his arms to indicate the gallery spaces below. “That’s when we’ll talk about the next level between us. Now is the time for you to focus on your work.”
    â€œBut I won’t have any place to work,” I say, feeling petulant.
    â€œBut of course you will,” Mitchell says. “Just because I’m not going to catch you every time you feel like you might be falling, that doesn’t mean you can’t catch yourself. And won’t you feel better when you do?”
    I shrug. “I guess,” I try, wondering if he’s caught me mid-plummet lots of times and I just haven’t noticed.
    â€œYou will. I promise.” Mitchell brushes something off my face and presses his lips to my cheek. “I have to get back to work now, but listen, we can talk about this later, right? Maybe after this show this weekend. It’s killing me. I can’t focus on anything else. This artist is completely outside his own mind. But the works … It’s going to be spectacular if it doesn’t fall completely to pieces.” He laughs. “I could say the same thing about you, Lily.”
    He could, I think. But it would be nice if he didn’t. “I’m not falling to pieces,” I say aloud. “Or if I am,” I add quietly, “it’s nothing new.”
    Mitchell smiles at me as he takes his place back behind his desk, his