Excerpt from Anita de Monte Laughs Last by Xochitl Gonzalez, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

So it was that night. From the corner of my eye, I watched him enter the loft and linger. Waiting. Around me, conversations, bright and raucous just seconds before, suddenly muted as people noticed his presence. All mentally calculating if and how and when they could talk to him. Even Giancarlo's voice trailed off. I stole a cigarette from him and pretended not to notice as Jack, finally feeling acknowledged, crossed the room toward the kitchen. I didn't need to look up to know that's where Tilly was.

Normally, this would have annoyed me: that he always sought her out before he ever even looked for me. That she was, in my opinion, the only one he genuinely respected, far more than for being one of the best art dealers in the world. For more than even making his career. Really, I think, just for being her. Steely. New England elegant. Any other day, this would have driven me up a wall. Drawn out my sharp cat claws. But on this night, I had the flapping wings of secrets, restless in my hands. I was excited—delighted, even—that he'd finally arrived. I was wearing my favorite dress, the one I'd bought in Iowa from a secondhand store. It was from the '60s, with big silver paillettes, each as large and round as the eye of a cow. Clustered so tight and voluminously, they tinkled, soft, like wind chimes when they rustled together. I had put on the only heels I wore anymore. Artists, when they are working, should have little need for heels. I wore the red lipstick from Guerlain I had gotten in Paris. Tonight was an occasion: the close of a special day and also the opening of … I did not know in that moment what. But it was going to be something new.

I was ready to start the adventure.

"Giancarlo," I said, as I grabbed his hand, "my husband is here. Let's go and tell him our good news!"

We wound our way through women in black dresses and seductions in progress and scrawny boys with paint-stained pants, arguing about nothing, until we finally reached the kitchen. I paused in the doorway for a second and watched them. Together. Tilly ruminating, cigarette in hand, lips parsed to say something thoughtful. Tactful. Jack, midway through opening a fresh bottle of champagne, the festive gesture in chiaroscuro to his dour expression. Both so wrapped in what they were talking about, in each other, neither of them noticed me.

"Perfect timing!" I finally said. Giancarlo, behind me, pushed his way into the tiny cookery. "We need a refill! To toast my wonderful news."

Jack looked me up and down, a closed smile curling up, tight against his teeth. He hated this dress. He thought it looked cheap. Like New Year's Eve in Times Square. Hated the racket it made. The way the paillettes shed like snake scales if I moved too quickly. Hated that I moved too quickly.

"Tilly was just telling me," Jack said, as he refilled our glasses, the grin still taut on his face. "A dozen prints sold to the Met. Not bad for my little orphan Anita."

"Anita!" Giancarlo exclaimed. "All night talking and you didn't even tell me! Well, that will definitely build buzz around your show."

I raised my glass and ignored the shock that seized Jack's countenance. Didn't even look at Tilly, lest she ruin my mood.

"Giancarlo is going to show me in Rome," I announced. "Solo."

"Congratulations, Anita!" Tilly said, genuinely impressed. The fact of which almost annoyed me more than if she'd treated it like garden variety information.

"What's the expression, Tilly?" Giancarlo offered. "A no-brainer! Have you seen her new sculptures?"

"Nobody has," Jack said, his voice strained and the smile, finally faded.

"I haven't," Tilly said, disregarding Jack. She averted my gaze. Her manners masked her cowardice.

"Tilly hasn't asked to see my work since 1979," I said to Giancarlo, "and even then, it was only as a favor to Jack. Isn't that right, darling?"

Jack pulled me tight to him, the sequins and my lungs crunching together as he did. He raised his glass.

Excerpted from Anita de Monte Laughs Last by Xochitl Gonzalez. Copyright © 2024 by Xochitl Gonzalez. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.