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7
MIRANDA
I started my day with a spring in my step as I arrived at our freshly painted warehouse, which we’d named the Artefactory. Everything had started to fall into place, and I’d also made two new friends who happened to be driven and talented. I just had to figure out how to handle Ethan’s lingering stares.
I entered my office, which I loved, even with its view of the barren parking lot, where trash blew about like tumbleweeds and discarded junk and broken bottles spoke of urban angst.
Sitting at my desk, I turned on my laptop to study the eclectic collection for our first show. The daring work radiated that fresh, honest mark of youth and also included Ethan’s abstracts of twisted forms in clashing colors. But Clint’s furniture—chests with crooked drawers and painted melty faces resembling wood grain—stole my heart.
Clint entered and set a cup of coffee on my desk.
“These look amazing,” I said.
“It’s a great collection, isn’t it? I can’t wait. It’s going to be so much fun.”
His contagious excitement put a smile on my face. “I love your pieces. They’ll sell for sure.”
“Thanks.” He ran his hand along my table, which he’d sanded and painted.
“When I can afford it, I’ll have to commission a set.”
“I’ll make you one. Don’t worry about the money. I’m never comfortable taking it.”
I studied his soft, feminine face. Clint was so beautiful that he defied gender. “But one has to survive, sweetie,” I replied just as Ethan entered. “I was just saying to Clint how awesome the collection for the show is. And your pieces are very unique too.”
He sat on the edge of my desk. “It’s a great collection. I’m not sure about my work, though.”
“Hey, it’s fantastic,” Clint said.
I nodded. “They’re very commercial. And have a stamp of Bacon.”
“You can see that?” Ethan asked, his face lighting up.
“I can. His somber colors. And the lines. They’re unique.”
“They can’t be that unique if they remind you of Francis Bacon.”
“Well…“ I chose my words carefully. Like most artists, Ethan struck me as sensitive. “No one’s ever totally unique. It’s all been done before, hasn’t it? An artist curates. They take or steal, as Picasso once admitted.” I chuckled.
Ethan’s smile grew as he stared deeply into my eyes. “You should put together a newsletter about the Artefactory’s mission.”
“Oh… like a manifesto, you mean?”
“Yeah,” Clint replied enthusiastically. “Just like the Futurists and the Dadaists.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do it.”
His zest proved contagious. “Let’s. We just need a mailing list.”
“Print them out and we can leave them around colleges and cafes. It will promote the Artefactory,” Ethan suggested.
“All right. Leave it to me. I’ll make some notes and run it past you,” I said, rising from my desk.
After a very constructive morning, I zipped over to Lachlan’s apartment for an appointment with the insurance adjuster, who waited for me at the entrance of the state-of-the-art building.
He followed me up to Lachlan’s penthouse in the private elevator, and after he declined my offer of a coffee, I led him into the darkened room where the paintings were and turned on the light.
I hadn’t visited that room since depositing the works of art, which lay exactly as we’d left them, covered in canvas sheets.
I bent down and peeled off the protective sheeting. When I looked closer, my heart sank to my feet.
