Getting Back to Delaney

An Excerpt From: GETTING BACK TO DELANEY

Tyler watched as Delaney walked away, her black skirt twitching seductively with every click of her heels. She was beautiful all right, but too uptight for his taste. He liked his women down to earth, like his ex-wife Clarissa. She had been a free spirit—a little too free. He had taken her to a folk music concert in Yosemite National Park and the next thing he knew she was gone—run off with a guitar player from one of the bands.

This woman was nothing like Clarissa. Except for the playful splash of freckles across her petite nose, the woman seemed wound as tight as her hair. Her eyes had flashed once when he made his comment about the purple painting, reminding him of the elusive green flash that sometimes occurs when the sun sets over the ocean. There was fire in those eyes, he thought, and probably an Irish temper to go along with it.

Seeing her—with her tailored suit, perfect makeup and not a hair out of place—he understood why the gallery was so sterile. And way too white. Except for the paintings, everything was white. The walls were white, the counters were white, even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. He had to admit she did have an eye for art, except of course for the purple blight, which seemed so out of place with everything else.

He took his time walking in and out of the small, walled-off rooms, making mental notes about what he did and did not like. He found a rack of cards, prints of many of the pieces on display, and decided to buy several to show his brother the type of art she had in her gallery.

He pulled the cards from the rack and walked over to Delaney’s office. He stopped in the doorway as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket before looking up. The decor of the small room surprised him.

If the gallery was the Arctic Circle, her office was the Tropic of Cancer—warm, inviting and comfortable, with little potted plants adding their fading greenery to the room. Here the floor was bare of paint and the rich wood grain reflected the warm glow of a Tiffany lamp that sat on the oak desk in the center of the room. The walls were painted Tuscany gold and an organic wall hanging made from a dozen earthen-colored yarns and cords hung on the wall directly behind her. The woman’s head was bent down over her paperwork so she didn’t notice him standing in the doorway. The lamplight softened her features, enveloping her in a warm glow. He could hear her humming and as he listened, he recognized the melody of an old Moody Blues song, “Nights in White Satin”.

Maybe she isn’t as uptight as I thought.

Tyler shifted his weight, causing a floorboard to creak and alerting Delaney to his presence. She looked up suddenly, taken aback by Tyler’s seemingly sudden appearance.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to buy these,” he said, waving the note cards in the air as evidence.

“Oh, okay.” Delaney looked at her black heels left abandoned to the right of the door and remained seated.

Tyler followed her gaze, saw the discarded shoes and couldn’t help but smile. When he looked back, she had crossed her ankles and tucked her feet far under her chair.

She’s not going to get up without her shoes.

Walking over to the desk, Tyler opened his wallet and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. He watched as Delaney went into sales mode, counting the cards and adding up the cost.

“Ten cards at three dollars each is thirty dollars plus tax, which comes to thirty-two, thirty-three. You wouldn’t happen to have exact change, would you?”

Tyler smiled. He thought it amusing that she wasn’t willing to walk to the cash register without her shoes.

“I can come back to get the change another day,” Tyler suggested. “I live in the neighborhood.”

As he spoke, his eyes were drawn to the woven wall hanging mounted behind her. He walked around the desk to have a closer look.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Delaney twisted in her chair.

“This is amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Is it for sale?”

Delaney seemed taken aback. “For sale? Why no,” she stuttered.

“That’s too bad. I really like this.” He ran his hand over the swirls of yarn. “It’s modern yet earthy. Do you have a way of contacting the artist? My brother might be interested in something like this.”

“I’ve had that old weaving since college. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the artist’s information anymore.”

The way her voice became high and tight made Tyler think she was lying but he didn’t question her any further. He wasn’t being one-hundred-percent truthful either. While he was in the habit of asking people about their businesses, this was more than professional curiosity. His brother was opening a new gallery across the street on the same block and had asked Tyler to check out the competition. He was pretty sure this woman wouldn’t be pleased when she found out about a new gallery opening up on the same block.

And if he had anything to do with it, the place would be an instant success—at least that’s what his brother had told him when he begged him to create the marketing plan.

He felt a little bad for not being honest but it was just business. Besides, he rationalized, there was no reason why both galleries couldn’t be successful. She had a nice little place, too modern and sterile for his taste, but very professional. It reminded him of the other gallery he had visited over on Main Street. Some German guy with ultra-modern paintings, which were so large they took up entire walls. He hoped his brother’s gallery wouldn’t be anything like that or he’d have a hard time figuring out how to promote it. Delaney’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Mr. Szymanski, it’s getting late.”

Tyler understood her unspoken request.

“Of course. Thanks for letting me snoop around. I’ll be back for my change later next week.”

Tyler left her office, note cards in hand, his mind already tackling the details of his brother’s new business. He walked out the gallery door, tucked the cards into a pocket of his board shorts and then picked up his bike. Before climbing aboard, he paused a moment and took one last look into the brightly lit gallery. As he was checking out a large painting in the front window, movement deeper inside caught his eye. The gallery owner was running from her office toward the front door in her stocking feet. Almost there, she stopped running and went into a full slide, coming to a stop in front of the door. He heard the click of a deadbolt and then watched as she walked back to her office.

Definitely not as uptight as I thought.