False Impressions. Laura Caldwell

them.

      “Of course I have traits from the McNeils. We share the same name, after all.” I smiled to show him I was making light of the situation. He had a hard time reading sarcasm or irony, I’d noticed.

      He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

      I told him more then about the gallery itself—a sparkly and interesting space. The gallery was nearly triangular in shape, and two full walls were glass windows, facing different directions. As such, there were always odd angles of light, even when it was gray out.

      When it was sunny, the light was filtered by the museum-quality film on the glass, so as not to fade the paintings. Many times, the sun seemed to create an orangey flash outside the gallery. Whenever I stepped closer to the glass, though, tried to look more intently, it had disappeared.

      He asked me more questions about the gallery. We continued to eat. At some point our conversation lapsed.

      “I heard from Theo,” I said, apropos of nothing. “A postcard. He’s in Thailand.”

      My father made a face. “That’s one of the most patience-trying places in the entire world. Why is he there?”

      “Mostly to escape. I think also to surf.”

      Another face. “Not much surfing there, except near Phuket.”

      When, I wondered, had my father spent enough time in Thailand, or reading about it, to know exactly where one could surf?

      I thought of the postcard. “I think that’s where he is,” I said. “Phuket. He mentioned there was lots of diving and rock climbing. He’s into that, too.”

      My father nodded.

      “He asked if I was dating,” I said. Why I was telling my father this, I had no idea. But it felt pretty okay.

      “And what will you tell him?”

      “The truth. I haven’t been really ready to date anyone.” I paused to see how this further emotional disclosure felt. And again—pretty okay. I thought of Jeremy. “But I feel like I could be ready to do that again.”

      My father nodded. Said nothing. So I changed the topic to the one I now felt prepared for. “I hear you might be moving.”

      He looked at me, from one eye to another, as if he were trying to look inside them, to read my reaction to the concept.

      When I opened my mouth, I found out how I felt about it. “I don’t want you to leave.”

      Was that a smile on my father’s face? His facial expressions changed little from one to another, but I thought I saw his eyes crinkle a little under his coppery glasses.

      “Is it possible you’ll stick around Chicago for a while?” I asked.

      “It’s possible.” He smiled again. I could tell that time.

      “I don’t want you to go,” I said.

      “Thank you, Izzy.”

      “Hey, maybe you should start dating, too,” I said.

      He groaned.

      “No, really. When is the last time you dated?”

      “Suffice to say, a long time.”

      It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “A long time, as in years?”

      “Yes, a long, long while.”

      “Well, that’s it, then. You don’t need to move. You need to date a little, see if you’re ready. Just like I need to do.”

      He laughed, gave a small shrug. “Well, then, Izzy, I suppose, for once, we’re in the same place,” my father said.

      And I really liked the sound of that.

      14

      When Jeremy texted about the location of our date, he suggested Girl and the Goat, an intriguingly named restaurant that was one of the hottest in town.

      Isn’t that place hard to get into? I texted back.

      I know a few people there. I’ll take care of it.

      Now, in the cab heading to the restaurant, I started experiencing a jittery kind of nervousness, realizing that I was, essentially—since I’d met the guy for all of ten minutes—headed to a blind date. I rearranged the lavender silk scarf under my hairline and tightened the belt on my long, hound’s-tooth-patterned coat.

      The restaurant was on Randolph, just west of Halsted, and black-framed windows showed happily dining customers. Inside, most of the walls were brick, the floors dark hardwood, the ceilings beamed. A fantastical painting hung on a side wall featuring—interestingly enough—a girl and a goat. It dawned on me that I might not have noticed the painting before I started working in Madeline’s gallery. Or I might have noticed, but that would have been the extent of it. Being in the gallery made me want to look closer at anything having to do with art.

      I didn’t see Jeremy, so I took a few steps toward the painting—a huge, square canvas painted in bold reds, greens and golds. The primary focus was a little girl with big eyes and a pink dress running after a galloping goat with equally large eyes.

      I felt a hand on my shoulder. “What do you think of the painting?”

      I turned, smiled. Jeremy was still gorgeous, dressed now in gray jeans and a black corduroy jacket.

      I managed to tear my eyes off him to look back at the painting. “I think it’s a little crazy, and I think it’s great.”

      When I looked back at him again, he was grinning, showing white teeth. “That’s exactly what I think. Bizarre, but excellent.”

      “So then the question is, which came first, the painting or the name of the restaurant?” I’d noticed that Madeline often spoke about the genesis of a painting, the history behind it.