I wasn't in a hurry. Neither was she, or so she said. I had watched my parents build a marriage out of small routines, and I wanted ours to grow that way rather than through a dramatic proposal that promised more than either of us understood. Tessa said she admired that about me. Later she described the same quality as a failure to commit, which may have been fair in some ways, though she rarely raised the subject before our arguments became about money.
Her career had become uncertain the previous year. A regional design firm cut its events department, and she was moved from a permanent role to contract work. She told me it was temporary, and I believed her. I helped cover more of our household expenses while she rebuilt her client list. Because her work involved artwork and exhibitions, I sometimes asked for her advice about the Riverlight inquiries.
At first, I was grateful. She knew how collectors spoke, understood contracts better than I did, and could spot people who were more interested in publicity than the actual craft. I let her organize correspondence and introduce me to curators. She maintained a spreadsheet of inquiries and deadlines, and if a visitor wanted a viewing, she often arranged it. None of that meant she owned my work or could sell Dad's furniture, but over time she'd become the person outsiders assumed handled the commercial side of the business.
She also knew where I kept the office keys. She knew the security alarm code because we sometimes went in after dinner to collect tools or review drawings. She had scanned past contracts when an accountant needed records. I never viewed those permissions as extraordinary. In a relationship, certain doors open gradually until you stop noticing they've been opened.
Nora noticed. At Christmas, after Tessa had proposed asking galleries to submit competing bids, my sister followed me into the kitchen while everyone else was watching a movie. "Do you ever talk about those pieces without her present?" she asked. I told her Tessa had expertise and was trying to help. Nora answered, "Then why does she always speak before you do?"
I was annoyed by the question. I accused Nora of never giving Tessa a chance and pointed out that the collection had become expensive to insure and store. Nora didn't argue. She looked at me for a moment, then said, "I don't care if you sell someday. I care that you're still the one making the choice."
I apologized a week later, but I didn't change anything. I had grown accustomed to smoothing over differences between the two women I loved. Tessa believed Nora judged her career ambitions. Nora believed Tessa dismissed our family history. I told myself both were partly wrong, which allowed me to avoid asking whether one of them was right about something important.
Adrian entered our lives through a gallery viewing in late winter. He was forty, neat and self-assured, with the expensive, understated clothes of a man who made his living telling other people what things were worth. He worked as an independent adviser to private collectors and occasionally arranged consignments through Northline Private Collections, a brokerage that represented buyers of significant furniture and decorative art. Tessa introduced him as someone who could help us assess our options.
He arrived at the workshop with a tablet and white cotton gloves. He complimented Dad's joinery without trying to sound sentimental. He asked detailed questions about the original library commission and photographed the maker's marks after I gave permission. For an hour, I thought he was the most serious potential adviser we'd met. Then he began discussing a sale before we'd agreed to consider one.
"The strength of this collection is that it's intact," he said. "That gives you leverage. But the market won't stay at this level forever."
"We want to exhibit it first," I told him.
"That can be arranged after a private transfer. Buyers often lend works for exhibitions."
"I want public access before ownership changes."
He glanced toward Tessa. "Of course. We can talk about that."