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We reach the end of the room to find a single painting larger than all the other landscapes. It’s technically a landscape because I see land below, but clouds engulf the vast majority of the canvas, more like a skyscape.
I squeeze Rory’s wrist, asking him to let me admire it a little bit longer. I haven’t seen much art in my life, but I understand now why people seek it, travel for it, suffer for it. It moves something inside you. It makes you feel alive. It gives you a reason to live.
My eyes sting with tears as I take in the painting. I haven’t seen enough. I haven’t seen enough art. I’ve never seen clouds like these, sunrises like these—places like this. I’ve spent all my life in a big city surrounded by high-rises—a concrete jungle encasing me. While I love my city, there is so much more I haven’t seen; not enough natural wonders, foreign countries, or art. I’ve never seen so much as a waterfall in real life.
I take a deep breath and swallow back my tears before they spill. Craning my neck to read the small card next to the canvas, I read: “Untitled, Not for Sale.”
“That one is my favorite,” Mandy says as she reaches Rory and me.
“Mine too,” I agree, eyes still glued to the painting. I’m relieved the conversation distracts me from my fatalistic thoughts. “I was thinking about buying it, but it’s the only one not for sale. Why?” I ask her.
We walk back to the food table as we keep chatting.
“I don’t know,” Mandy shrugs. “There are some paintings that you’re just full of some sort of emotion while you work. You know? And then when you’re done, it’s like you can’t believe you made that—that you have something like that inside you.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“It would just be too hard to part with it, that’s all. Though, I do think eventually I’ll end up selling it.”
Debra walks over to our spot and clutches Mandy’s forearm. She speaks in small conspiratorial whispers, but Rory and I are close enough to hear too.
“You are not going to believe this, but we have someone wanting to buy the landscape that’s not for sale.”
“I do believe it,” Mandy says. “ It’s my best work, but it’s not for sale.”
“He really wants it and is ready to prove it. He said to name your price.”
“Who is it?” Mandy asks, scanning the gallery past Debra.
Debra points to a giant man almost as tall as Chema, though not quite as beefy. He is stunning, but in more of an Enrique Iglesias kind of way. My jaw drops, and I look over at Mandy, but her face is all scrunched up. “What’s wrong?” I ask her.
Her jaw twitches, and I can tell she’s grinding her teeth. “That’s Dr. Bel.”
“Wait, you know him?” Rory asks.
“Yeah. He’s a surgeon at Heartland Metro.”
“Why do you look like you are about to kick him in the shin?” Rory asks.
“He’s a complete jerk. I’ve seen him every day for years, and he never remembers having seen me before if I say hello. Not that he’d say hello first. He basically fits every arrogant, god-complex, surgeon stereotype.” Mandy’s nostrils flare at the end of her rather picturesque description of Dr. Bel. “No way in hell I’m selling him my favorite painting.”
“Hold on just one minute,” Debra hisses. “Think about it. He asked for you to name your price for that landscape. You can make as much as you want here.”
Mandy’s resolve wavers, but in the end, she shakes her head. “No. I’d burn the painting beforehecould have it—”
“Mandy, hold on.” I try to reason with her. “Why don’t you set a ridiculous price no one in their right mind would agree to? That way, he’ll probably say no and no harm done. And if he agrees, then you can make a small fortune at his expense.”
“But he’ll have the painting,” Mandy says.
“But you’ll have his money at a premium,” I smile wickedly at her.
Most of the landscapes are priced at around fifteen-hundred dollars, depending on their size. I’m sure the gallery takes half of the sales price. She has the opportunity to make a killing on one painting alone.
Mandy bites her cheek as she thinks, then looks at Debra. “Fine. Valentina makes a great point. Tell him twenty thousand dollars—firm. I’m not going to haggle with him, Deb. I meant it.”
“Are you kidding?” Deb hisses but plasters on a fake smile. “That’s ridiculous. He’ll never agree to that. You’re not that established yet. One day maybe, but not—”
“I’m not trying to sell the painting, Deb. You agreed to this. We only included it because it’s part of the narrative we were going for.”
