Page 79 of Liquids

“And a friend of mine called me and said he had a queer couple from the finance industry in New York who are very interested in THE PICTURE.” His eyes gleam as he leans in like he’s sharing state secrets. “They’ve put a ten-thousand-dollar deposit on it, and I had to give them first refusal if someone makes a better offer.”

What the fuck? “Ten thousand dollars?” I say, my legs wobbly all of a sudden. Somebody is prepared to pay that much money for a painting of mine? That’s all my debt, or less than that now because I’ve paid a bit of it off. But I could clear the whole thing and have some left over from just one sale? Christ, I need to sit down.

Rig leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Told you they were impressive, babe,” he says.

Luciano purses his lips. “They are flying in tonight.” He points a finger at Rig. “And you will behave because I have invited all the local media, and at least half of them have accepted.”

“Someone wants to pay ten thousand dollars for a picture of Rig’s junk?” I say.

“She’ll draw fifty pictures if people are going to pay ten grand for them,” Rig says. “No, scratch that, they can see the real thing for ten grand.”

I can’t believe it. For a painting of mine? My dad wouldn’t be rolling in his grave; he’d be dancing on top of it. “Let’s just see how tonight goes, okay. Let’s not get carried away,” I say.

But Luciano just laughs. “It is fun to be excited, no? That’s how I persuade everyone to part with their money.” His gaze skips over Rig like he’s measuring him for display in the gallery. “I’m sure you would have plenty of takers for seeing your ‘junk,’ as you call it.” He pats my arm. “Enjoy it when you make a sale, Carlotta. They will not all sell like that one. It is a special painting.”

A loud rap lands on the window, and there’s Marni and, oh my God, half the mafia of Chicago. I’ve never seen so many guys with thick necks, tattoos, and bald heads gathered in one place before, except perhaps that fight up here. They’re like a herd of walruses.

Luciano’s smile gets even wider as he heads over to let everyone in, and as they barrel through the door, Konstantin leans into him. “I brought along some people who have money and could buy, favor to Rig.” His eyes sweep down Luciano’s immaculate shirt and chinos. “It is up to you to sell to them.” His eyes rise to Rig, who’s standing right behind me, and Rig frowns at him, but Konstantin grins at him and jerks his chin. “I have been tasked with getting you back in the ring. You will eventually give in as a favor to me.”

Rig shakes his head, sighing.

More and more people arrive. Angelo appears with his wife and spends most of the evening staring longingly at Marni. At one point, I spot them in the corridor by the bathroom, arguing, Angelo leaning into her like he wants to inhale her.

I sip my way through a glass of champagne, which settles me down, and I get a satisfying little buzz from seeing all the people and having the show happen at all. Luciano introduces me to the couple from New York who reek of money. They tell me how much they like my huge painting, and how they’ve got the perfect place in their apartment for it. How it’s a sexy picture, but they can see the love, too. They ask me long and involved questions about my art, my training, and Rig. Then they invite me to New York, say they want us both to stay with them, and give me a card for a gallery owner who’s a friend of theirs who will put on a show in New York for me. I laugh because it’s ridiculous, and I want to tell them I’m just a nobody, but of course I can’t do that. I take another glass of champagne, for all the right reasons this time, because I’m happy, and because I can look across the room at Rig talking to people and admire his broad shoulders and enormous hands in real life.

By late evening, there are stickers on at least three-quarters of the paintings and very advanced interest in the rest of them, or so Luciano tells me. He’s given up selling and working the room, cranked the music up, and people are dancing. Konstantin makes a few calls, and more crates of champagne appear like magic, and I’m just standing in a little alcove at the back of the gallery watching it all like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life for the night when Rig appears at my side, leaning in to kiss my neck.

“How ’bout we escape?” he rumbles.

“Sure. Should I call a cab?” We’re booked into a motel on the outskirts of Chicago for the night.

“We can go in the truck. Not been drinking.” He slides a hand over my ass. “Looking forward to a nice big bed.” He trails his lips down my throat.

I don’t like to drink so much now. I used to drink to forget, but now I want to remember. This time with Rig feels like something precious. These days, I wake up with the light seeping around the curtains, and I want to paint and draw.

“Thank you for getting me out of the mess I was in,” I say.

“What?” He frowns at me. “Babe, I didn’t get you out of anything.” He sweeps his arm out. “This is all you.”

“You bought me pencils and paints and set me up on the rig and gave me something to draw and …”

“Babe. That was about one percent of the effort that went into this. This is all you.” He wraps a hand around my neck. “Months of work. I watched you do it. I’ve told you before to stop giving yourself a hard time, yeah? Something bad happened to you, and it took you a while to see your way out of it. It’s no more or less than that. It’s not a hole. You’re not bottom of the heap. You hear me? Should never have said that shit.” His eyes are warm. “You’re fine, babe. Promise you.” He leans in, eyes locked to mine, and brushes his lips across my mouth. “I’ll go get the car.”

I watch his big frame weave through the crowd as my stomach churns. Is he right? I’ve believed all this stuff about myself for so long. When did I get so down on myself? As I stare out at the crowd, the picture of Rig’s ass is still in pride of place, and for a moment, I admire how big the picture is and how I managed to get all the detail in it. It was Mark who got me so down on myself. The thought just pops into my head, unbidden. I press my hand into my chest. I used to draw a lot when we were together, and he hated it, hated the time I spent on all the little details, getting them right. He said it was stupid, that I was wasting my time. He wanted me to do other things, things with him … play video games and do drugs. My hands clench into fists. I thought all the drinking and the problems were because I lost Charlie, but really that useless asshole pushed me into a hole and I’ve been trying to fight my way out ever since. Fuck me.

I look toward the windows and I can see Rig’s beaten-up old truck outside, so I go and find Marni to say goodbye. She’s running interference between Angelo and Konstantin, and she grins and winks at me. “I like a bit of competition. Gotta keep them on their toes. Best idea I ever had, hooking up with Konstantin. It’s got Angelo bending over backward. He keeps sending me presents!” she squeaks. “Anything I want, he says.”

I laugh at her obvious glee but really I want to knock some sense into her. “You know that’s not a good thing, right?”

She pouts. “Why the fuck not?”

“Two mafia hoods fighting over you isn’t going to end well, Marn.”

She leans in with an evil grin. “Yeah, but I could make a mint in the meantime.” She waves a hand. “And anyway, they’re not the real mafia; you said so yourself.”

I’ve got a feeling Konstantin might be, but I just shake my head at her. Maybe Rig was spot on that all the women in our town are stone-cold crazy.

I kiss her on the cheek, tell her to behave herself, and head out the door. When I’m settled into my seat in the truck, Rig says, “So, you thinking of giving up being a caregiver now, all this money from your art coming in?” He grins.