Part 2 (1/2)
”Guys like you don't date women like me.” She was desperate to explain and failing.
The wind had picked up even more, now, whipping at the corners of his leather coat when he turned back to look at her.
”You're right, Sarah. We don't date girls like you.” He slid into the truck and paused before pulling the door shut. ”We marry them.”
CHAPTER 2.
”The lighting guy was here this morning, the carpet guy's coming this afternoon, and the plumber will be here tomorrow.” Rivka's husky voice filled the telephone clamped to Sarah's ear. ”It's all coming together, Sarai. I can't tell you how excited I am.”
”Your own gallery.” Sarah cradled the phone against her shoulder while she signed papers. ”Who wouldn't be excited?”
”What do you think we should call it? I was thinking The Gallery on Second.”
The gallery was going to be on Second Street. Sarah smiled. ”Makes sense.”
”Or how about The Second Street Gallery?”
”That sounds good, too.”
”You're not helping!” Rivka shrieked.
Grimacing, Sarah held the phone away from her ear. Darren Ramsey, Sarah's personal a.s.sistant, took the papers she had signed and slid another sheaf onto the desk. All four of Sarah's magazines were due to head to the printer in less than a week. She had a million things to do for each one of them, but she had taken Rivka's call anyway. How could she have refused? She was just as excited for her sister as Rivka was herself.
Giving Darren a thumbs-up to take the last set of forms, Sarah mouthed, ”My sister.” The young man grinned. He'd met Rivka.
”I'll hold your calls,” Darren whispered mischievously, ducking out of the office in time to miss being hit full-on by a wad of crumpled paper.
”...a big favor to ask you, Sarai.”
While making faces at Darren, Sarah had missed the first part of the conversation. ”Sorry, Riv?”
”You know how my mind works, right?” Rivka laughed.
Sarah heard the jingle of bracelets. She imagined her sister nervously running her hands through her short, curly hair--a telephone habit she'd had for years.
”The creative part, I mean.”
”n.o.body knows how your mind works,” Sarah teased.
”If anybody does, it's you,” Rivka shot back, not teasing.
Sarah was surprised.
Rivka sounded serious. ”You know how I get when I'm in a creative frenzy, right?”
”Sure.” Sarah's reply was hesitant and a little wary. Rivka was clearly trying to get at something. The question was, what? And what part would she want Sarah to play in it?
Though she loved her sister dearly, Sarah had no illusions about what Rivka might have in mind. Since they'd been children, it had always been Rivka who'd come up with the seemingly brilliant ideas, leaving Sarah not only to do the leg work, but also the clean up. They'd collaborated on everything from lemonade stands to puppet shows, and while many of Rivka's projects had been unquestionable successes, just as many had been dismal failures. Sarah had learned to be on her toes whenever Rivka asked a favor of her.
”Remember the treehouse club?” Rivka sounded like a little girl again. ”How I thought we could charge admission to the clubhouse to pay for drinks and snacks? And how everybody showed up and paid their quarters, but I didn't have any drinks and snacks to give them?”
Sarah laughed suddenly at the memory. ”I remember Benny Mason threatening to beat you up, and me running down to the mini-mart to buy some Twinkies.”
”You see? That's exactly what I mean. You were always my right-hand woman, Sarai. You're the one who always took my scatterbrained ideas and made sure they worked.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair, the magazine production schedule temporarily forgotten. ”What are you trying to say, Riv?”
”I have all these great ideas, but when it comes to the follow through...” Rivka laughed again, with no hint of embarra.s.sment. ”Except for my paintings, Sarai, I'm hopeless.”
”Yes.” This time Sarah wasn't teasing. It was true, and they both knew it.
”I want you to take partners.h.i.+p in my gallery. I need someone who I can trust, Sar. I need someone who can put up with all my bull and follow through. Will you do it?”
If Rivka had asked Sarah to raise her children for her, Sarah could not have been more honored. Running Rivka's gallery was in a far different league than running down to the mini-mart to buy snack cakes. This time, her sister had obviously thought about asking for Sarah's help.
”You want me to run your gallery?”
”Partners.h.i.+p,” Rivka corrected, ”but yes.”
Sarah didn't know what to say. The idea frightened and flattered her. ”I don't know anything about running a gallery, Rivka.”
”You don't need to, hon. You just need to know everything about running me.”
”What about Mick? Can't he handle it?”
Rivka's snort was so loud Sarah had to pull the phone away from her ear. ”My Mickey? That blarney-tongued charmer? C'mon Sarah! When's the last time I let Mick handle anything but my left--”
Sarah laughed out loud. ”I get the picture.” Mick was a wonderful husband and brother-in-law, but Mr. Responsible he was not. Mick's idea of keeping things straight was knowing which of his guitars needed tuning before he went on stage.
”So you'll do it?”
Although she was flattered by her sister's offer, Sarah had been burned too many times by the fire of Rivka's enthusiasm. Honor or no, she wasn't about to agree to the partners.h.i.+p before she'd asked a few more questions. ”What do I have to do exactly?”
”Oh, you know. Make sure things happen. Keep my head on straight. Make sure I do what I say I'm going to do. You're good at that.”
”Who else is in this partners.h.i.+p?”
”Me and Mick, of course. We're the creative angle, though I can see that causing one of us to sleep on the sofa more than a few times. You know I love my Mickey, Sarai, but the man can be so stubborn!”
Sarah laughed silently. Rivka calling Mick stubborn was the clearest case she had ever seen of the pond calling the ocean wet. The pair of them were both of artistic temperament, p.r.o.ne to the ecstasy and agony of creative successes and failures. Their marriage was one of the most volatile, pa.s.sionate, yet loving marriages Sarah had ever seen.
Still, Sarah couldn't help but envy Rivka a little. Her sister had found her soul mate, what Orthodox Jews called the baschert. The one person in the world so perfect for you, no matter how you met, you knew he was the one. Rivka had met Mick at a concert. They'd been married three months later.
With a sudden s.h.i.+ver, Sarah thought of Alex Caine's last words to her. What had he meant by, ”We marry them?” Had he been implying something? Obviously not, since he hadn't called her. The showing had been more than a week ago. She hadn't given him her phone number, but when did that ever stop anybody? She was listed in the book. Then again, she hadn't called him either. Sarah sighed. She just couldn't seem to get him out of her mind.
”Sarai? h.e.l.lo? Earth to Sarah Lazin!”