“Thanks so much for picking me up,” I said as I settled into the black bucket seat, situating the paintings on my lap. “And for taking the time to do this for me.”
“Getting out of the office half a day to have lunch with my best friend and my new friend? No need.”
“Good point,” I smiled. “Even if nothing else comes of this, this sale and the trip out there is freaking amazing.”
Corinne’s blonde curls blew in the breeze, but her tone turned serious. “I know you’re afraid to hope that something more will come of it, but I feel equally confident that it will.”
“Thanks,” I said, figuring she was just being nice. She must’ve picked up on it.
“I’m serious. You’re talented as fuck, woman. Own it.” Her lips spread in a warm smile. “And once Clifton sees your work, I’m sure he will agree.”
“The owner, right?” I remembered her mentioning him.
“Yes,” Corinne said, fiddling with switches to roll up the windows and cranking the AC. “Sorry, pregnancy hot flash.” She fanned herself before finally turning back to our conversation. “I hope you’ll get to meet Clifton today. He’s incredibly humble and friendly, for a billionaire.”
“That’s probably rare,” I said. Not that I knew any other billionaires to compare him to.
“He’s a gem, for sure. And according to Violet, the best boss ever.”
We chit-chatted on the drive—about her work (including how bummed she was to be relegated to the surface since scuba diving isn’t allowed during pregnancy), about Violet dating her brother behind her back for weeks before they told her, and about how excited and scared she was to become a mother. The forty minutes to the Paradise Key Welcome Center flew by.
When we turned into the gravel lot, the air conditioner in Corinne’s Prius was struggling against the late-morning heat. “This is where we catch the shuttle boat out to the island,” she said as she shifted into park, one hand resting over her belly. Even with her sunglasses on, I could see the flush across her cheeks, unsure if it was the heat or just the glow of seven and a half months pregnant. If she was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it, popping out of the car like she was ready to tackle the world.
I smiled, hugging the two large, paper-wrapped parcels of paintings as we walked toward the dock. They were covered for protection, but I still held them like the Keys breeze might try to snatch them away. Under the paper, the paint was still new enough that I could smell it if I leaned close.
Corinne eyed me as I fidgeted while we waited for the approaching boat to dock. “Everything’s going to be fine. Better than fine. Try not to psyche yourself out.”
Easy to say when you’re not the one trying not to get your hopes up. “This feels like a big deal,” I admitted. Maybethebig deal.
The shade of the tiki hut shielded us from the worst of the heat, but the humidity settled like a damp towel over the shoulders. As if on cue, a smiling woman exited the Welcome Center with two glasses on a tray. We sipped our infused water while the resort launch tied up. The Paradise Key boat was a gleaming navy-blue hull with wood accents that looked more expensive than most houses back home. A uniformed deckhand took one of my packages without comment, stowing it carefully along a padded bench. I tucked the other in with it and made sure they were secure.
The ride out was only ten or twelve minutes, but the change in scenery was instant. The bustle of the busy highway faded behind us, replaced by the glittering expanse of open water. The air tasted like salt and sunshine, and the breeze tugged at my hair until I gave up tucking it back. Beside me, Corinne sat with both hands on the bench, eyes half-closed, letting the wind have its way.
Then Paradise Key appeared, rising out of the water like it had been painted in. A crescent of pale sand wrapped around a turquoise lagoon, palm fronds swaying. Thatched bungalows jutted over the shallows. When we rounded the tip of the island, a long dock came into view. The boat slowed, the deckhand looping lines over the dock’s cleats before offering a hand to help us ashore.
A tall, raven-haired beauty—who I assumed must be Violet—was waiting at the end of the dock, radiant in a loose teal sundress that made her eyes seem almost the same color as the shallows. She hugged Corinne gently, mindful of her belly, then turned her smile on me.
“And you must be the artist,” she said, extending her hand. Her thick Southern drawl caught me off guard.
“Indeed,” I said, giving her hand a firm shake. “Jasmine Cline. Nice to meet you.”
When the deckhand stepped onto the dock with my paintings, Violet asked him to take them to her table in the restaurant. “Let me show you around a little before lunch,” she said, gesturing us down the dock. I glanced back at my paintings still in the deckhand’s arms, reluctant to leave them.
I fell into step beside Corinne, off the dock and onto a paver-stone path past the pool bar. The sound of ice clinking and the low thump of steel drum music floated out from under its palm-thatched roof. A handful of guests lounged by the infinity pool, the edge blending seamlessly into the sea beyond. My lips parted in awe as I took in the perfectly understated luxury. The balance of extravagance and taste got my artist juices flowing.
Violet pointed out the lagoon, the rows of shaded loungers, the cabanas tucked into the palms. “Clifton’s vision was rustic chic. He likes everything to feel organic,” she explained. I saw a lot of chic and not much rustic, but I figured rustic was synonymous with understated, nodding as she continued. “Every bungalow on this side of the island has its own private soaking pool. The ones on the other side are built out over the water, so they only have a jacuzzi.” Only a hot tub… was that rustic?
She pulled out a key card and led us down a path to a bungalow. “I’ll show you, so you can see our current decor.” My mouth hung open after I stepped in. A 20-foot wall of windows looked out to the private garden complete with soaking pool, hot tub, and an outdoor shower. The downstairs was all wet bar and sitting area, plus a half bath. Upstairs there was a loft-style bedroom with a balcony with an ocean view, and a full bath that was bigger than my college dorm. The bathroom was the only place I could possibly picture any of my paintings in the six-star room.
Violet pointed out a large framed seascape print that took up most of the large wall over the sofa. “See, things like that don’t really belong here. Clifton wants to incorporate more original pieces, and do away with the ‘knock offs’ as he calls them.” She flashed me a grin. “That’s good news for you.”
I nodded nervously, even though I didn’t think there was a chance in hell it would be me once they saw my work. All five of my paintings would probably be in the employee break room if they weren’t in the trash tomorrow. “Of course I’m partial to original art, so I’d have to agree with Clifton on that.”
“You’ll probably agree with Clifton on a lot of things,” Corinne said. “He’s an art buff.”
That only made me more nervous for him to see my work. A coward’s fantasy of taking the paintings back before they could be ridiculed invaded my brain. This was torture. It would be over soon enough though.
We left the bungalow, the cold kiss of the AC replaced by the humid tropical air outside. I trotted behind Violet and Corinne, trying not to let my sandals slap too loudly on the path. Thescents shifted as we walked—salt, hibiscus, grilled fish drifting from somewhere ahead.
