“Yeah. Bicoastal life,” Daisy said.
Arlene pressed her lips together, swallowed whatever opinion tried to leap out, and patted Daisy’s hand. “Y’all holler if you need anything.”
When Arlene moved on, Daisy turned to Nicole. “Okay. What’ve you got for me?”
Nicole scrunched her nose. “A small problem.”
Two words Daisy did not want to hear a week before her event. “How small?”
“The DJ double-booked and bailed. I’m already replacing him. Other than that, everything is going according to plan.”
Daisy let out a slow breath. A DJ was the least of her concerns. Left to her own devices, she would have piped in Brahms or Mozart and called it a night, but Nicole had argued for something more current, a trendier ambience. Daisy hadn’t argued too hard. This was her first show in the new space. She wanted perfection.
They reviewed the rest of the list, then the final guest roster. The names were strong, filled with returning collectors curious about new work, and a few notable locals.
Since graduating from Parsons five years ago, Daisy had spent a long time trying to carve a path that wasn’t simply Devya’s niece. Sales trickled, then stalled, then trickled again.
That was until Laura Damoyer.
The famously prickly critic wandered into Devya’s Tribeca studio and fell in love with a painting Daisy thought she’d never show:The Band Boy.
It was a demon from a past she had painted to cast out. Laura bought it on the spot, then wrote a surprisingly warm review of “a San Francisco-based artist with a clear, aching eye.”
Requests poured in.
People wanted to see everything; some even asked for replicas ofThe Band Boy. Daisy was elated because frankly she needed the money. At that point, she was the definition of a struggling artist. She’d moved home after graduation, stacked commissions, saved for a small but light-soaked apartment in the city, then for a studio big enough to breathe. Which meant the upcoming show needed to go seamlessly. Her livelihood depended on it.
After she and Nicole wrapped up, Daisy grabbed her croissants and drove to the studio. Parking in the back lot, Daisy balanced her coffee, messenger bag, and paperwork as she went to open the back door.
It was locked.
“Jessica,” she annoyingly muttered, trudging around to the front.
Her receptionist was slouched one second and upright the next, scrambling to let her in. “Thanks, Jess.”
“No problem,” Jessica said, relieving her of the papers. “But why not use the back door? Would’ve saved you a lap.”
“Maybe if myassistantunlocked it first thing like I’ve asked her to a dozen times, I wouldn’t be doing victory tours around the block.”
Jessica wagged a finger. “Is that passive aggression I’m detecting? That doesn’t become you, boss. You are a direct-hit kind of gal.”
Daisy laughed. “Unlock the door, Jess. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I’ll actually make you work.”
Jessica gasped theatrically. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Their banter was the scaffolding of the place, familiar and easy. Jessica had started as a receptionist, but over the years, she had become something else: a co-conspirator of sorts. She loved the work, wanted the gallery to thrive, and cared about Daisy more than an hourly paycheck asked her to.
“How was Nicole?” Jessica asked, dropping back into her chair.
“Good, but the DJ flaked.”
“Fine by me. He wasn’t even that hot.”
“You know him?”
