At first, Irene would just give Leo what he asked for to make him go away. But once that money was gone, then what? He’d keep coming back. Irene started saying no, putting her foot down, forcing Leo to stick with a budget. Once she understood her power over the man, she noticed that wielding it—not abusing but managing it—was satisfying in its way.
When Leo had finished his latest dick-waving sculpture series, he wanted a proper fete for the unveiling. He’d given Irene an itemized budget, expecting to get a nice check in return. Irene told Leo that she’d arrange the party. She wasn’t being punitive or parsimonious. Irene needed more donors for her arts-education nonprofit and knew that Whitman could likely bring in some fat-wallet patrons. Irene borrowed a friend’s seldom-used studio for the gathering. It was a drafty old barn just south of Hudson, New York.
Irene recognized Owen the moment she saw him. He was simply an older, handsomer version of his younger self. Age had blunted his too-feminine features. And he still had that shiny, almost black hair. She’d never forgotten that night, the sex especially. She’d had only three partners up to that point. But that night was special. At least, she thought it was. She thought for sure he’d call. When he didn’t, it hurt.
As Irene, now thirty-one, was debating whether to go over and reintroduce herself to Owen, she saw a woman sidle up next to him. Wife or girlfriend? Irene wondered. Either way, she felt more jealous than she should have. Irene cringed in private embarrassment. She shouldn’t feel such things toward a man she hadn’t seen in almost a decade. Irene kept watching Owen and the woman, who she’d soon learn was called Luna. She seemed out of place, Irene thought. Luna was dressed for an office—boots, skirt, blouse—but she had on a long military jacket over the professional ensemble. Maybe she worked at one of the local colleges, Irene thought. She definitely wasn’t from the city. Her hair and makeup weren’t right for that. Irene was good at spotting city dwellers among the upstaters. There was always a tell—an excess of cashmere, a physique too lean or too toned, professionally highlighted hair, or a ring that cost more than a car.
Whatever Owen and Luna were to each other, it wasn’t casual acquaintances. It seemed unlikely they were a romantic couple, because they didn’t greet each other with a hug or kiss. They stood right next to each other, in front of a floor-to-ceiling poster of Leo Whitman standing next to his piece. While the image measured over eight feet high, it wasn’t to scale. Leo Whitman was about four foot six in the picture. Irene watched as Owen bumped Luna’s shoulder. That was their first point of physical contact. Irene circled the room to get a different angle on them. Luna was squinting to read Leo’s pompous mission statement.
“Is this considered good?” Luna asked.
“It’s considered big,” Owen said.
“Is it solid?”
“That would be impossibly heavy,” Owen said. “It’s just aluminum siding. The whole thing probably weighs a couple hundred pounds.”
“What do you think is inside it?” Luna asked.
“Nothing,” Owen said.
“I can’t tell you how disappointing I find that,” Luna said.
“Why? What do you want inside it?” Owen asked, grinning.
“Candy,” Luna said.
“Like a pi?ata?”
“Yes. Then I’d give a chain saw to a child and let them slice open the tin. Actually, I’d probably put a sardine lid on it—you know, the kind that you roll back with a key. It would take at least four kids to muscle off the tin—”
“Why do you keep bringing kids into this scenario?” Owen asked.
“I thought they’d be the most keen on the pi?ata angle,” Luna said.
Irene laughed. Owen and the woman looked over at her. Irene blushed in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” Irene said. “I’m a chronic eavesdropper.”
“Who isn’t?” Luna said with an open, friendly smile.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Owen.
Irene stifled a laugh. “I’m Irene Boucher,” she said, extending her hand.
“Hi. Owen Mann, and this is my friend Luna Grey.”
He wouldn’t call her a friend if they were more than that, right?
“A pleasure,” Irene said, shaking Owen’s hand, then Luna’s.
There were so many things that Irene wanted to say. None of them felt quite right.
“I need a drink. What can I get you?” Luna said to Irene.