The look on Travis’s face let Matthew know this was unexpected.
There were nods and murmurs across the room.
Travis walked over and gave Matthew a look. “What is this?”
Matthew shook his head. “No idea. I’ve never seen him before.”
“McMahon may be famous for all of this, but his true gifts touch many more people. Did you know he also paints murals on buildings?” The man looked for concurrence, which no one in this crowd, except for Skip, knew about. “They’re very good. You’ve probably seen his work and didn’t even know it. It’s better than all of this stuff if you ask me, and everyone, no matter if they are rich or poor, gets to enjoy his work. And he puts young artists to work by his side, encouraging them.”
Whispers floated around the room.
“It’s true. He pays them, mentors them, and is building confidence in their talents.”
Travis’s face tightened.
“My son had lost his way. He’d been a real mess, and I’d been worried that he had no hope, but this man gave him reason to believe in himself again.” A hush came over the room. “That, my friends, is a priceless gift from a selfless man.”
The man threw back the rest of his champagne and set his glass down on a passing server’s tray. “Thank you, Matthew McMahon, for sharing your work with all people, and for saving my boy’s life in the process.” The man started a slow clap, and as many joined in, he turned and walked out of the building.
Skip walked over, clapping zealously but also looking worried. “Was he drunk?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Matthew noticed people exchanging uneasy glances, and a few walked out, including the big buyer from Miami.
“He just ruined you,” Travis spit out the words, then turned on his heel and raced back toward the paying customers.
Matthew stood there, dumbfounded, as he watched the stranger leave.
“I think he meant well,” Skip said, “but?—”
Matthew’s heart pounded. “Yeah. My two worlds just collided.”
Skip brought his hands together, then quickly expanded them along with an explosive sound.
“Not helpful, Skip.”
Chapter
Six
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight washed through Matthew’s studio, he stood staring at a half-finished canvas while contemplating the scene at the gallery last night.
Was there some kind of message in what happened?
Did Matthew have to make a decision between his gallery art and his love for painting murals? Maybe because of time, ability, and the practicality of juggling both—for that he could see as a reason to reevaluate—but not just because the people willing to pay big money for his paintings are for some reason snubbing his talent because of the murals.
He touched the canvas. This particular one had been in this state of incompletion for years now.
It might never be finished, and maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
The painting was of the spot in Maymont Park where he and Dad used to sit and talk on his lunch breaks. Real talks. Man-to-man, although Matthew wasn’t even out of elementary school yet the first time they sat under that tree and had lunch together. It had become a tradition for them.
Ham sandwiches and Cheetos had been their lunch that first day.
That had been before Dad’s fall, and before Mom left. She had been a loving mother, until one day she just decided it wasn’t what she wanted anymore, and told Dad she was leaving. She hadn’t even said goodbye to Matthew. Dad had never been bitter. For that reason alone, he’d never harbored any anger toward her. Sometimes, Dad would say, there aren’t explanations for why something happened or didn’t.
It was the year after Dad passed that Matthew had set up his easel in the park and started this painting. He might have been looking for answers to questions that had none—he couldn’t remember—but this painting, even in its state of incompletion, brought him comfort whenever he needed clarity.
There’d been an unusual abundance of monarch butterflies that year. The collective presence of them gave off a kaleidoscope effect as they fluttered in a dance above flat-top clusters of milkweed, mostly orange, but a few pink blooms too. He’d wondered if they tasted different to the butterflies. The orange clusters might be like pizza and the pink ones as sweet as cotton candy.
