unpeeled. It was as if her happiness were a scab, and somewhere in the sweat and murmurs and skin, it had gotten torn off, and beneath it was a wound that bled both tenderness and fear.
And Louise was acting like it was her fault, which Kate guessed it was, and acting like Kate could pull back, which Kate guessed she could. It didn’t feel like she could. It felt like the Brands were a planet and she was some space junk that had been set in orbit around them. Kept close by a gravitational pull.
The San Francisco and Oakland skylines were a relief. Spindly skyscrapers, acres of flat roofs, the staggered add-ons of new developments: these sights were familiar to her. Every car that slid through the toll carried other people with other problems. Only five, six weeks away from New York and already she had forgotten the fury of cities, the elation and anger and sadness that coursed through the air. A million hearts bouncing off walls and buildings. The joy of living in other people’s echoes.
When she got across the bridge, she pulled over into a parking spot and took out her phone. She loaded the spreadsheet of names, dates, places, every jumbled piece of information that she had gathered to make the finding aid, and scrolled through it until she found the address she was looking for. She fed it into Google Maps, her knee jittering against the steering wheel. The red slash of the Golden Gate rose behind her like a lipsticked mouth, or like a wound in the sky.
* * *
Eggers Gallery was on a busy street off Union Square between luxury shops and outposts of European café chains. Two black pillars framed a span of square windows. On the massive metal door, the initials EG were inlaid in gold. The door looked heavy, so Kate put all her strength into the handle. It flew open, nearly hitting her in the head.
A gallery attendant with pink hair intercepted her as soon as she entered.
“Can I help you?” she asked, grimacing at Kate’s chest.
Kate looked down and discovered a coffee stain sprawling across the front of her shirt. She didn’t know when that had gotten there.
“Yeah.” She swiped ineffectually at the stain. “I’m looking for Hal Eggers.”
“This is his gallery.”
“I know. Is he in?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Kate suddenly remembered it was Sunday. “But I work for Theo Brand.”
The attendant’s expression changed.
“Oh,” she said, in a much kinder voice. “Your name?”
“Kate Aitken.”
“I’m Samantha. Let me see if he’s available.”
As the attendant called Hal on a sleek landline hidden in an alcove, Kate surveyed the rest of the gallery. The front room was filled with expressive oils, including a six-foot portrait of a man in a prison uniform and a grid of colorful shapes that might be an original Ellsworth Kelly. In one corner, a noose hung from the wall, with broken glass piled artfully beneath it.
“Djiamnolski,” the gallery attendant said, coming to stand beside Kate. “A new Czech artist. Very talented. Mr. Eggers discovered him himself at Art Basel a few years ago. He’s becoming quite well known worldwide, but he’s loyal to the gallery.”
“Did you get through to Hal?”
“He’ll be over in fifteen. He wouldn’t normally meet with visitors, but of course he always has time for Theo. He said I should show you around in the meantime. Are there any artists whose work you’d like to see?”
“Do you have any from the 1980s? Like, anyone from Miranda’s circle.”
“Oh, sure. Hal represents that whole crowd.”
Samantha led Kate through a series of rooms to a bright space illuminated by a skylight. There was one other couple in the corner, talking quietly to another attendant about a sculpture the size of a Lego figurine. Samantha showed Kate black-and-white portraits of children playing in 1980s Harlem, psychedelic finger-paintings, stills from a performance piece of a woman swathed in white tulle. At last they arrived at a photo Kate recognized: Miranda, stepping through a doorway. The Threshold.
Samantha said, “One of my favorites,” which she had already said about several other pieces in the room.
“Do you still sell a lot of her stuff?” Kate asked.
“We could sell more. But there aren’t many of her prints left on the market. A lot of them have been acquired by museums, or their owners are keeping them as investments. Her value is still going up—which is interesting, because some of the other eighties stuff hasn’t aged well.” Samantha added, “If you work