Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

1

OLENA

Standing alone in the middle of the room, I peer at the menu card on the tiny table next to me. “Lincolnshire poacher and pancetta stuffed gougères.”

As if those words offer any explanation.

I opt not to take one, uncomfortable with the idea of biting into the unknown, and instead scan the room for Bradley.

Wine-drinking intellectuals huddle in reverent groups around the paintings in the Gareth Mason Art Gallery. Hushed conversations hum throughout the room and, although I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, it’s the suffocating type of chit-chat that makes me wonder if boredom can actually kill a person. The amount of self-important beard-stroking going on in this room is enough to make me question why I agreed to come here in the first place.

I spot Bradley waiting near the small bar at the back of the gallery. A staff member weaves around him carrying a platter of more pretentious appetizers, depositing it on one of the small tables scattered through the center of the clean, minimalistic space. The subtle aroma of roasted garlic in the air makes my stomach rumble with a hunger I try to ignore.

I rub my hands over my upper arms. I’m not cold; I just don’t know what to do with myself. Where do I stand? What do I do with my hands? I wish this damned dress had pockets.

I tug at the dress, smoothing the drape of the tunic-style, royal blue fabric over my leggings and hug my long ivory cardigan around me. Then, feeling self-conscious that I look too closed-off, I release the grip on my sweater and run my fingers through the ends of my long brown hair as I look around. Sweeping the soft waves forward over one shoulder in a way I hope looks pleasing, I decide my standing here alone and fidgeting is starting to look strange.

Adjusting my purse on my shoulder, I drift to a nearby painting that doesn’t have many people in front of it, not wanting to chance having to make small talk with the type of person who hangs out in an art gallery. Wait. I’m in an art gallery, I think to myself, and realize with a private smirk that maybe I’m insufferable as well. The painting before me is abstract, but I carefully plaster a thoughtful look on my face, furrowing my brow as though I see something more profound than blocks of color and bold, dark lines.

I do not.

If I had a beard, I would stroke it. I could paint that.

Bradley appears at my side and holds out my glass of wine with a polite smile. He’s slightly taller than I am, with short-cropped brown hair that’s parted at the side and combed stylishly. He wears squared, wire-frame glasses and a tailored dress shirt over dark jeans and brown leather shoes. He looks like he fits in here. I take the wine and we smile awkwardly at each other, breaking eye contact as we each take a sip. I’m sure we couldn’t look more conspicuously uneasy together unless we were wearing huge sandwich board signs bearing the text “here on a first date.” He turns to observe the painting I’ve been pretending to admire.

“Oh, this is a bold one,” he says.

I nod.

“You know the artist, Pietr Alamain-Cortez, apparently painted this after spending three years in a Kenyan prison,” he explains in a conspiratorial tone, leaning in slightly like this is a juicy secret.

“Really?” I say, then sip my merlot. I opted for the merlot because it sounded like the kind of wine a serious, fancy person would drink. I turn again to the painting as Bradley continues.

“Yes. I can’t remember why he originally went to prison. Some political misstep or another. But the painting is meant to represent the contrast between the richness of the outside world and the bleak and repetitive nature of prison life.”

This date is starting to feel like a prison, I sigh inwardly.

“Oh,” I say. My brain is starting to make a foghorn sound—just a long, droning honk. Or maybe that’s what’s coming out of Bradley’s mouth.

“Should we make the rounds?” he offers.

“Sure,” I agree, smiling, and we walk at a painfully slow pace to the next painting. This one has a small group of admirers gathered in front of it, deep in discussion about the painter’s choice of brush strokes and how they do or do not evoke the emotion of the piece. I suppress a smile when I realize they are dead serious.

One of them, an unusually tall man with sharp features and a shock of black hair, clocks Bradley’s presence and greets him warmly with a handshake. The man, who I overhear is called Dale, asks Bradley how his research is going, ignoring my presence at his side. Dale stands beside a bored-looking woman with braided gray hair wearing a turtleneck and a long, floral-print skirt. She doesn’t look at me.

I absentmindedly fidget with the hem of my cardigan while they catch up and, when it’s clear no one is going to bother to introduce me, I tap Bradley on the shoulder and tell him quietly I’m going to keep looking around.

I pass another table and check the menu card: “Blistered shishito peppers with sriracha aioli glaze.”

Unbelievable. I’m hungry enough to eat, but the food here feels too foreign. I walk past, taking a long drink of my wine, and momentarily regret ordering a red; it always stains my teeth and I end up looking like a ghoul. Damn it. Too late. I run my tongue over my teeth self-consciously.

A sudden eruption of laughter from a large group across the room makes me jump. I turn sharply to see what the commotion is about, holding a hand to my chest as I struggle to steady my nerves. The abrupt, jarring sound is still ringing in my ears and my shoulders are up at my neck, bracing for more. I force myself to exhale and consciously lower them but I still feel on edge. I continue walking, fixing my gaze in the direction of the loud group, monitoring the source of the threat.

No longer watching where I’m going, my face and right arm connect suddenly and forcefully with a wall of a man wearing a scratchy wool blazer. He twists around in alarm at the unexpected impact, knocking my wine glass into my chest. Merlot upends onto my dress and the glass tumbles from my hand, shattering on the floor.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” I hear him say through the thick buzzing in my senses, the sound of the breaking glass echoing in my head.

When I finally look up, beady eyes stare back at me, distorted to appear even smaller through glasses with thick, smudged lenses. The man’s round face, framed with thinning hair and a bushy gray beard, is etched with concern.