The Wishing Game(7)

Nothing like success to kill the fire that used to burn in his belly. Every flat, every condo, every brownstone he’d looked at that morning had seemed like a stranger’s home, and if he moved in, he’d be living a stranger’s life. Maybe he’d simply outgrown that old dream and hadn’t found a new dream to replace it yet.

Hugo abandoned his plan to apartment-hunt all day. Instead, he headed down to his favorite gallery in the city, the 12th Street Art Station, which managed to stay open despite the rent increases. He told himself he just wanted to see what was new, maybe grab a cup of coffee. He was always impressed by his ability to believe the lies he told himself.

Cool air slapped him in the face as he pushed through the glass doors and into the main gallery, all primary colors and funky faux cowhide rugs. He took off his sunglasses, slipped them into the case, and put on his other eyeglasses—a recent necessity he did not love.

The gallery had a new exhibit, classic movie monsters—Dracula, Frankenstein, the Blob—depicted as ancestral portraits with antique gilt frames. The show was called Great-Grandpa Was a Monster, and the artist was a twenty-three-year-old Puerto Rican woman from Queens.

Hugo liked her style and was impressed with her early success. Twenty-three? He hadn’t gotten his first solo show until twenty-nine.

Somewhere in the gallery, Hugo had a few paintings on display. He went from the main gallery to the Brick Room, where the art hung in black frames against exposed brick walls. There they were—a trio of paintings at prices so exorbitant he doubted they’d ever leave these walls. Which was fine by him. He was happy to see them in public. They were some of his best work, though not nearly as popular as his more recent paintings of Clock Island.

“I’ll have you know, Hugo Reese, it’s all your fault I can’t bring my daughter here.”

Hugo turned his head and saw a woman standing a few feet behind him. Black hair in a bob, brown eyes in a glare, and red lips in a tight line because she wanted to smile but didn’t want him to know it.

“Piper,” he said. “I didn’t know you still worked here.” A bald-faced lie.

“Part-time,” she said with an elegant shrug. “Something to do now that Cora’s started preschool. Her teacher asked if we could make a class field trip to the gallery. Because of you, I had to say no.”

She raised her eyebrow, but Hugo could tell she wasn’t angry. They were long past that.

“They’re very tasteful nudes.” He pointed at the trio of paintings he’d made of Piper over a long winter years ago. The poses were classical, a beautiful woman naked and lounging in bed. What made them Hugo Reese paintings were the bizarre scenes painted outside the large window—a circus of demon-faced clowns, a castle in flames melting like a candle, a single great white shark floating across the sky like a Zeppelin.

“It’s not the nudity that’s the problem. Cora’s scared to death of clowns.”

“They are a bit mad,” he admitted, giving his demonic circus a sidelong glance. “What was I going through back then?”

“Me,” she said, then laughed. Piper took a step forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

“You too. You look lovely.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Cleaned up, I see. No more hipster beard.” She patted his cheek. His breakup misery beard was long gone. He’d even dressed up, which for him meant a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt with no holes in it, and a tailored black blazer. And he’d cut his hair and started running again, so he looked like a human being, which was quite a step up from how he used to look, like self-loathing brought to life.

“The beard had to go,” Hugo said. “I found a spider in it one day.”

“The glasses are new, aren’t they? Very chic. Bifocals?”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

Smiling, she took his glasses off and put them on herself. The black frames looked much better on her than him, in his opinion.

“If Monet had these,” she said, looking at herself in her phone camera, “we never would have had impressionism.” She slipped the glasses off and returned them to him.

“Bad eyesight has made the career of many a painter. Myself included.” He slipped his glasses back on, and Piper came beautifully into focus again. “Tell us, how’s Bob the Knob?”

“Rob. Not Bob. Not a knob. My husband. And he’s wonderful.”

“Still pet sitting?”

“He’s a veterinary surgeon, as you know, and yes, he is. How’s Jack? Any better? Or should I not ask?”

He hesitated before answering. “Possibly? I hear the typewriter sometimes at night. Loud enough to wake the dead. And he’s cut back on his drinking.”

“Does that mean you’re moving out? Finally?”

“Apparently so.”

She gave him a look that seemed to say, I’ll believe it when I see it. But she was nice enough to keep that comment to herself.

“Is that why you’re here?” Her tone was lightly amused but suspicious. Any woman would be when her ex-lover showed up at her workplace. “Moving to the Village?”

“Considering it. You'd have to hate yourself to pay these rents around here, so I should fit right in.”

“Oh, Hugo. I swear, the more successful you are, the more miserable you are.” She was annoyed with him now. He’d missed annoying her.