grandeur [hs au]

chapter 5

As a general rule, I try to avoid situations where I don't feel control. I don't like getting caught off guard or feeling like someone pulled one over on me.

In the gallery, I have control. I know art and don't have to prove myself. My expert opinions are well conveyed to clients who come to be on my side. Going out with my friends, I have control in who I spend time talking to and if I allow anyone to leave with me. I know who I am and I can take care of myself.

Yet here I am again, nervous in anticipation of seeing Harry and his questions. I can't help but scoff at myself and those lead butterflies that nest deep in my tummy, unsure of what I'm walking into. All morning my mind drifted from what I was doing at the gallery into a list of questions I formed to ask Harry. I thought that maybe having information I wanted to know in mind would help me step into this meeting prepared. I don't want to leave without some answers.

How do you know my father?

Why did you come to La Grandeur?

Why did my father yell at you to leave?

How did you know I paint reproductions?

Why do you need my help?

Are you really a photographer?

What's your last name?

I made sure to dress in something more professional for our meeting together rather than just my outfit for my later plans at Wanderlust. This fitted, burgundy jumpsuit always made me feel powerful. When I walked to my car with earphones in, I imagined myself as an action movie hero, strutting away from an exploding building. My current reality couldn't be any different.

Standing now outside Harry's luxury apartment in the West End, I can hear the muffled notes of a slow, melancholic song. I lay a few heavy knocks against his door and it jars me by shifting open slightly with the weight of them. The song pours more heavily into the hallway, not one I recognize.

"Harry?" I call out into the gap. Nothing. "Harry!" I call a bit louder to compete with the music, to no avail. I could just walk in, but I don't want to interrupt if he's in the middle of something. I made sure to send him a text when I left La Grandeur on my way here, so he should be alerted to my impending presence.

I certainly don't want to just leave after I'm already here, either. I've spent all week steeling myself for this moment. I need more answers. I think he owes me that. I'll look at every painting he wants to show me until my eyes dry out if it means understanding his interest in my painting abilities and knowledge of my family. With a deep breath I steel myself to push the door open further.

"Harry, it's Caroline," I yell out once more before crossing the threshold into Harry's apartment. I'm met with a bright white foyer. The only things in this entryway to prove someone lives here are the large mirror straight ahead of me and a pair of running shoes by the door. There are arched entrances on either side of the room, and I decide to follow the sound of music through one of them.

The place nearly looks like a museum in its own right, the lighting resembling many of the fixtures found in La Grandeur, though quite dimmed in this evening hour. Little spotlights shine attention onto different paintings on the wall to my right and some farther into the room. The bright white walls, textured like long little sea waves, help keep the room light and provide contrast against the black marble floor.

Across from me stand floor to ceiling glass panes displaying the glimmer of Boston Harbor's lit up nighttime presence. It's an impressive view, really. The whole exterior wall of the living room shares this grand perspective.