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“That’s the power of art. It can get through any chinks, any seams, and if there aren’t any, it’ll make them,” she said, smiling up at him. He stopped them on the landing to kiss her but the kiss didn’t get very far.
“Finally. About damn time you two turned up.” Ian’s father stood at the top of the stairs. A woman with dark brown skin and dark eyes wearing a burgundy-and-gold sari stood next to him.
“Is this her?” the woman asked, her words tinged with a subtle Indian accent.
“Ms. Veronica Redding, please meet Ms. Hema Lalwani. She owns a gallery in Seattle.”
Flash was too nervous to speak. Everyone even remotely familiar with the art scene in the Pacific Northwest knew of Hema Gallery in Seattle. Flash had gone to every exhibit there in the past four years.
“You’re very gifted, Ms. Redding,” Ms. Lalwani said. “I’ve never seen metal sculpting as intricate as yours on such a large scale. I’d like to feature your work in my gallery next winter.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Flash said. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer. You’re obviously friends with my boyfriend’s father and I can’t—”
“You misunderstand,” Ms. Lalwani said. “I have never met Mr. Asher before in my life. I came here because after your piece sold, the owner of the Morrison sent me photographs of your work. I contacted Mr. Asher about the piece as I wished to see it in person. He invited me here to this party. I am not offering you a
gallery showing as a favor to anyone other than me and my gallery. You should say yes.”
“I don’t know,” Flash said. “The only reason you heard about my piece was because my boyfriend’s father bought it.”
“Young lady,” Ms. Lalwani said with a tight smile that didn’t look like a smile. “My job is to discover new artists. Usually the artists are the ones sending me photographs of their work or begging me to see it or even meet with them for five minutes. I don’t care who bought the piece. I don’t care who sent me the photographs of your work. I saw them, I was intrigued. That is why I am here. I had never heard of Dean Asher before Friday. I don’t care who he is. I certainly don’t care who your boyfriend is. I don’t even care who you are, Ms. Redding. I only care about art, your art, and I want it in my gallery.”
“Damn,” Ian said under his breath.
“I think I’m in love with you,” Flash said.
Ms. Lalwani looked upward and gave a little elegant shrug.
“You aren’t the first to tell me that.”
“She accepts,” Ian said. “Right, Flash?”
“Right,” Flash said. “I accept.”
“Flash?” Ms. Lalwani said. “Is that your name?”
“Nickname. There was this movie—”
“Yes, Flashdance,” Ms. Lalwani said. “I know it. Who doesn’t?”
“He’s never seen it,” Flash said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at Ian.
“Never?” Ms. Lalwani said. “You’ll have to correct that oversight. Now come with me. We need to talk about the show. I’ll need new pieces. At least three. Your technical proficiency is on display in your floral pieces but those are representational. Only your sculpture of the woman in ivy is true art. That is what you should be doing.”
Flash’s heart leaped and her brain danced and she felt like she’d been struck by lightning. Everything Ms. Lalwani said made sense. She could see it, what she’d been doing wrong, what she’d finally gotten right. It was electric, speaking to someone who understood her art and could help her.
“You’re right,” Flash said. “You’re absolutely right. I knew it while I was making it. I knew I’d finally figured out my motif.”
“You two can use my private office,” Dean Asher said. “Across the hall on the right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Asher,” Ms. Lalwani said.
“It’s Senator Asher actually.”
“I don’t care.”
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?” he asked.
Ms. Lalwani raised her eyebrow at him.
