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When Chris Merit tells you to trust him and it relates to art, you trust him. “Why are you doing this?”
“My wife has decided to showcase a mix of new artists and established artists in her gallery in San Francisco. She and I both took a liking to your work. In fact, we’d like to showcase you in the gallery for our grand opening.”
“You…I…” Oh God. I’m never speechless. “Thank you.”
“I’d like you to present at least four pieces. You pick, but I’ll need them in the gallery in four weeks.”
“Of course. Not a problem at all.”
“Excellent. We’re holding a little VIP party at the gallery this weekend, Saturday night, which just happens to be Sara’s birthday. We’d love it if you’d come. And bring a guest, of course.”
“I’d love that. Thank you.”
“You have talent, Faith Winter. Believe in you. We do.” He ends the call.
I set the phone down, and I’m not a crier, not at all, but my eyes pinch. My chest is tight. This is my dream. This is everything. I grab my cell phone to call Nick. That’s my first instinct. To call Nick. But I don’t dial his number. He’s in a deposition. I can’t believe he’s the one person I wanted to call. But I still do. Instead, I dial Josh, and he answers on the first ring. “He called you,” he says.
“You know already,” I say, and my voice cracks.
“I know. So, are you in on this or not?”
“I’m in,” I say. “How can I not be in?”
“Pick up the paintbrush and get to work.”
“Josh—”
“I was out of line. I fucked up, Faith. I’m protective. That’s personal, and there’s no place for that in business. I’m your agent because you’re good at what you do. The end.”
“Thank you, Josh. I’m fortunate to have you in my corner.”
“That said, on a professional note that has a personal influence: Macom is my best friend, but creative types are inherently insecure. He put down your work because of his insecurity. It affected you, and I think it’s why you’ve used everything else as an excuse to stay away from painting. Make sure Nick Rogers does what you said. He inspires you to paint. If he does, I’ll back off. If he doesn’t, I’m not going to lose another two years of our work. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I say, appreciating the fact that he doesn’t expect me to respond about Macom. He’s right. Macom affected me in all kinds of ways. He still does.
“News on those sales soon, and the show. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.
I set my phone down and lower my lashes. I’m so confused right now. And angry. If my mother hadn’t created this mess, I could just let Kasey run this place. Now, that man trusts me and lives for this place, and I might lose it. He might lose it. And Chris Merit called me. Chris Merit! And I am painting again, and that is because of Nick.
I look at the email again.
Faith:
What the fuck are you doing to me?
Nick
P.S. Don’t stop.
I have so much I want to say to him, and I decide that in the sea of lies that is my life right now, honesty rules, and so I type:
Nick:
I hate what you made me feel last night, and yet when Chris Merit called me today to invite me to an event this weekend, I thought of only one person: you.
Faith
P.S. Stop being an asshole like you were last night.
