excited she was about him, it was still too soon. It was for him too. But he was getting there faster than either of them had planned, and so was she. Seeing his work, and knowing he had dared to be vulnerable with her, made her care about him even more. She gave him a look that had no need of words, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“I love your work, Gray,” she whispered.
“You're not my dealer,” he teased her. “All you have to love is me.”
“I'm getting there,” she said honestly. In fact, faster than expected.
“Me too,” he said clearly.
She stood staring at his work for a long moment, as though she were on another planet. Her mind was going a million miles a minute. “I want to find a gallery for you. I have some ideas. We can go look at their work this week and see what you think.”
“Never mind what I think. It depends on what they think too. You don't have to worry about that. You have enough to do, and I don't have enough for a show right now anyway,” he said modestly. He didn't want to take advantage of her connections. What he felt for her was entirely personal and private, it had nothing to do with his work, or wanting an introduction from her, and she knew that.
“The hell you don't have enough for a show,” she said forcefully, as she would have to one of her young artists, half art dealer, half pushy stage mother. But a lot of them needed to be pushed. Few if any of them ever realized how talented they were. Not the good ones anyway. The young show-offs were rarely as good. “Look at all this,” she said, gently moving things so she could see what was in his stacks. It was gorgeous stuff, as good as what was in progress on the easels, or better.
Once finished, his paintings seemed to be lit from within, some by candlelight, some by fire. There was a luminous quality to them that she had never seen in recent work. It was straight out of the Renaissance and the work of the Old Masters. And yet it had a modern-day feeling to it. It was the technique that was so remarkable, and which was a lost art. She knew he had studied in Paris and Italy, just as her daughter was doing. In Gray's case, it had given him a great foundation. She thought his work was nothing less than brilliant and inspired. “Gray, we have to find you a gallery, whether you like it or not.” It was the kind of thing he would have done for one of his previous women, helping them to find a gallery, an agent, or a job, more often than not with disastrous results. No one had ever offered to help him, except maybe Charlie. But Gray didn't like to impose on anyone, particularly his friends, or those he loved.
“I don't need a gallery, Sylvia. Honestly, I just don't.”
“What if I find you one you like? Will you at least look at it, and talk to them?” She was pushing hard, but he loved her for it. She had nothing to gain from it, all she wanted was to help him. Just as he had done for so many for so long. He smiled and nodded in answer. She had already decided who to call, there were at least three possibilities that were perfect for him. And she knew that if she thought about it, there would be others, uptown galleries, important ones, that showed work like his. Definitely not galleries in SoHo like her own. He needed an entirely different venue. London and New York. The right galleries would have connections in other cities. That's where he belonged, in her opinion.
“Don't worry about this,” Gray said gently, and meant it. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don't need another project. I don't want to make more work for you. I just want to be with you.”
“Me too,” she said, smiling at him. But she also wanted to help him. Why not? He deserved it. She knew that artists were typically terrible businessmen and incapable of selling their own work. That was why they had dealers. Gray needed one too. She was determined to help him. And hopefully, to have a relationship with him. That still remained to be seen. But whether she did or