half an hour, before sending emails to the handful of people she knew in the New York art world.
Andrew and Gil returned home not long after, Gil already asleep. Andrew put him down and joined her on the sofa.
“My dad had this whole speech prepared at dinner,” he said. “About how the time I’ve spent on the grill is not a bad thing, because at least for all these months, I haven’t been contributing to corporate greed like I did in my old job.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “The Hollow Tree.”
Andrew nodded. “Indeed.”
Elisabeth could not stop checking her phone. The lack of replies offended her, even though she realized it was a Saturday. She buzzed with anticipation, with an urge to see her plan come to something.
“You okay?” Andrew said.
“I am,” she said, and it took her a minute to realize what he meant.
Elisabeth grew more and more antsy, until finally someone responded—the editor from the Times who covered Manhattan galleries.
Sorry, I don’t know a soul there. Brooklyn is another world. I’ve heard Matilda is fantastic, though. Hope all’s well!
She would have to cast a wider net.
Elisabeth logged on to BK Mamas for the first time in weeks. It was now called BK Families and Caregivers, in an effort to appease all sides.
She typed without stopping to think.
Hey mamas! My son’s incredible babysitter is about to graduate college with honors. She’s one of the brightest young women I’ve ever known, a super-talented painter, with amazing taste in art. It is her DREAM to work at the Matilda Grey gallery, which I understand is opening this coming fall. Does anyone have an in? I can vouch for this girl—she is THE BEST. (Please help me stop her from making a colossal mistake and marrying her creepy British boyfriend and wasting all her talents!!)
She posted it, vowing not to check for responses for one hour.
Nomi texted after ten minutes: Man, you are OBSESSED with your babysitter. You’re not gonna leave me for her, are you?
Elisabeth was pleased. If Nomi had seen it, that meant other people had. The post hadn’t gotten lost in an avalanche of questions about bedtimes and diaper rash and horrible in-laws and Spanish immersion classes for kids under two.
When she checked, the post had one like—Nomi—and one comment, from a woman she didn’t know: Not a creepy Brit! Does he have bad teeth and everything? I dated one or two of those in my day.
Not helpful, but still, Elisabeth wrote back: Teeth right out of central casting. And a bad accent to match.
It was mean, but the more activity a post got, the more people would see it. She added a second reply. This one just said Ha ha!
A moment later, another comment appeared, from Mimi Winchester.
Hi E! One of my dearest friends runs the place!! Email me!!
Anyone but Mimi, Elisabeth thought, knowing what it would cost her to ask this woman a favor. Mimi would hold it over her head for the rest of time, find a way to use it as proof of her own superiority.
But she thought of Sam. Sam had been there for her; Sam had listened. Sam had stopped her from making a huge mistake. When Elisabeth thanked her, Sam said she hadn’t done anything, but that wasn’t true. If not for Sam, she might be pregnant with twins right now.
Elisabeth composed an email to Mimi, telling her how Sam had applied to the gallery in London, how the gallerist there had loved her. She fudged a bit, saying, deep down, Sam had her heart set on New York, but this boyfriend was filling her head with other ideas.
Wouldn’t it be perfect if they hired her? Elisabeth wrote. She wants to be in New York, they’re opening up in New York. Feels meant to be. But, and I realize this is a tall order, I feel like they would have to reach out to her…
Mimi said she would see what she could do.
On Monday, Mimi followed up to say her friend had contacted the London gallery, and they remembered Sam and would add her to their interview list now that they knew she was headed for New York.
When Sam arrived to work the following Thursday, she did not stop to say hello or greet the baby. Instead, she said, “The craziest thing just happened. I got an email from Matilda Grey.”
Elisabeth felt giddy.
“Who’s that again?” she asked.
“It’s not a person, it’s a gallery. Well, it’s a person too,