The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay Read Online Free

crow’s-feet appearing, his eyes positively twinkling at me with a lack of concern. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
    *   *   *
    Though it is only 4:00 P.M. when I leave the gallery, I stop on the way home at Red or Dead, a wineshop that specializes in red varietals. I positively love this store. They sell one or two Chardonnays and some good Champagnes, but if you go in there demanding a Riesling they politely suggest you go fuck yourself.
    The shop is owned by Annie and Jo, two of my friends from college who are living, breathing proof that some college relationships do last forever. Came in majoring in sex, left engaged to each other. Married November 20, 2013, the day Illinois legalized gay marriage.
    â€œHi, ladies,” I say when I see that both are working today.
    When they see me they both start grinning. “Guess what we got each other for Christmas!” Annie sings out before the door is closed behind me.
    â€œNew glitter nail polish?”
    Annie stretches out her fingers and Jo laughs. Their nails match, both purple with pink sparkles. Not for the first time I imagine my version of their evenings together, painting nails, watching True Blood, making out. I twist with envy. “Besides the nail polish,” Jo says. “Look up!”
    I look at the ceiling. “What?” I say after a moment’s inspection.
    â€œOh my God. Aren’t artists supposed to be observant?” Annie asks. She points at the space between the copper ceiling tile and the brick fireplace at the side of the store, next to the South American reds.
    â€œOh oh oh,” I say. “You didn’t!”
    â€œWe had to!” Jo cries out. “We couldn’t let anyone else have it. It’s too beautiful.”
    My heart swells. It’s one of my paintings, one that was for sale at Mitchell’s gallery downtown. It’s a night landscape—the view from my apartment window. Two hauntingly beautiful Chicago buildings, a sidewalk, a storefront. A private, quiet kiss I saw one day when the lights were on late in the store and one partner was leaving the other behind. Half the work is in movement—cars, stoplights, people, hands—and the other, buildings and row upon row of wine bottles, still like stones.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have spent so much … I mean, I would have given you a piece if I knew you wanted one.”
    â€œBut not that one. It had to be that one,” says Annie.
    â€œWas it a fortune?” I am not always privy to the pricing of my art at the gallery until after it sells. If it sells. Frankly, once it’s in Mitchell’s hands, I think of each piece of art as gone forever, never really knowing where it all goes next. I wish I could know, could even have some say, but if I were any good at pricing and marketing, I would be a gallery owner, not an artist, and therefore have no need to sign what Renee calls a “draconian” gallery agent’s agreement. But, as Mitchell is happy to remind me, our professional relationship relies entirely on trust. Trust and autonomy, that’s what we always say. That’s how we make it work. Right?
    â€œNo, no, not a fortune,” says Jo. “Okay, maybe a tiny fortune. So worth it, though. Most of our customers have noticed it right away. And the insurance assessor thinks we made a good investment.”
    â€œYou have to insure it?”
    Jo says, “Girl, aside from that case of ’63 Bordeaux that someone, ” she levels a glare at Annie, “ordered four years ago, this is the most valuable thing we own.”
    I smile and blush. “You have very expensive tastes, Annie.”
    She laughs. “Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one in Chicago who is willing to spend for the finer things. At least in the wine department. In the art department we very nearly missed out on this piece.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally. While we