Page 61 of New Orleans Rush

The charmer hadn’t been talking about fruit, but he must have been a good-luck charmer. She’d sold a piece that afternoon.

Two older women were pointing at the four remaining apple paintings now, talking to each other. The only words she caught were funky and unique and bold, enough to have pleasure crowding her chest, and her nerves over sharing her art diminished. They were gushing over her creations, her strange imaginings. It felt like she’d showered in sparkles.

Della grabbed Bea’s elbow. “You need to negotiate this time. Your work takes a lot of hours. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Her first sale had lasted all of three seconds. The woman had offered forty dollars for her eighty-dollar painting, and Bea had to keep from jumping for joy. “I got too excited the other day. I would’ve sold it for a penny.”

Della snorted. “I get it. I couldn’t believe people were willing to spend cash on my jewelry at first, but it’s a business. Don’t undervalue your product. If you charge more, people will think it’s worth more.”

Bea pictured herself falling in love with a sculpture or painting and being denied purchase. “What if they can’t afford it?”

“Someone else will come along.”

“What if they really, really love it?”

“It’s a commodity, Bea. Not a cure for cancer.”

Right. Commodity.

Donning her best negotiator face, Bea approached the women. The shorter one wore a canary yellow chemise and loose, floral pants, the ensemble as colorful as Bea’s flower-print halter dress. The taller woman had the shiniest black hair she’d ever seen and an onyx necklace to match. The stones looped around her neck so many times they overtook her collarbones. It looked like she might have trouble breathing.

Exactly how Bea felt. But she could do this.

“The paintings are originals.” Bea deepened her voice to match her negotiator face.

The canary woman whispered something to her companion, then she planted a manicured hand on her hip. “Are you the artist?”

“I am.”

Eyes on Bea, the canary woman lifted her pointed chin. “Do you do larger pieces?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Just like that, her naturally higher-pitched voice returned. “I’m working on a self-portrait now. The concept is the same, exploring all the layers that make an apple an apple, or a person unique. I painted a dandelion in my portrait yesterday, because I used to collect them as a kid and made necklaces for all the local dogs. I wasn’t allowed a dog, which was probably for the best, considering we could barely feed ourselves, but I always wanted an Irish wolfhound. They’re big enough to ride.”

Della rolled her eyes at Bea’s verbal deluge, and Bea clamped her mouth shut. The babbling was part nerves and part enthusiasm, but if she wanted to close this sale for more than forty dollars, she needed to rein herself in.

“Larger pieces are very time consuming,” Bea said.

“I imagine. Can I see the purple one up close?”

She handed her the piece and managed not to gush about her favorite detail. If she started waxing on about the mouse’s tail she’d painted, it would lead to blabbing about the rodent she’d found in her kitchen at age twelve. She’d kept Princess Tiny for a year.

Bea gave the woman space and watched Della, who was in deep discussion with the onyx necklace woman. Della swept her long braids over her right shoulder, then spun her bracelet absentmindedly, a habit when bargaining with customers or deciding how to display new jewelry. Whatever they were discussing, Della was in entrepreneur mode. The woman passed her a business card.

“I’d like to commission a painting.”

The canary customer’s statement almost caused Bea whiplash as she looked away from Della. “You want something specific?”

“I have a special project in mind, a much larger piece, assuming you accept contract work.”

Someone liking her style enough to trust that Bea could take a new concept and run with it was way bigger than selling a premade piece. She wanted to crow and shout, Yes! Where do I sign? But that wasn’t what a serious business woman would do. “I don’t use taupe,” she said.

“That’s not a problem.”

“And I’d need an advance.”

“Quite understandable.”

“It would have to be in cash. I’d also need to see where you plan to hang the painting. If it’s a portrait, we’ll have to spend an afternoon together. I’d need unlimited access to your home and photos.” One couldn’t immortalize a person’s face without assessing their world, but Bea worried she’d gone too far. One taste of action and she was a madwoman, negotiating excessive demands. It must have been the diva dressing room. It was bound to affect her.