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Like a man on a surfboard.
She hasn’t painted her interpretation of the ocean at Crescent Cove beach at twilight. She’s painted mine.
This view is the one I force myself to see over and over and over again. Once a day, ideally. More if necessary.
Only on this canvas, the sight takes on new meaning. There’s mystery here. Possibility. Hope.
My painter was soft as the light faded. Delicate and vulnerable. Almost luminescent, as if a statue could be made from mother-of-pearl.
Robert comes back into my awareness. He’s been hovering in silence, pretending to see what I see in these pieces. He sees nothing. The painting hanging on the display wall is proof of that.
“I’d like to see the artist.”
He takes a step back, his hand coming up to his beret. “I’m not sure if that’s—we don’t do many private showings, but I’ve always thought it might leave an appropriate distance if—”
“Nora likes the sound of your gallery. She’ll be back in the US later this week, and will be making a stop. Her pieces arrive twenty-four hours in advance, and her people will collect them as soon as the showing is over.”
He swallows. If he gives me what I want, it will be a coup for the gallery. Nora, as it happens, always draws a crowd. There won’t be pieces to take with her at the end of the showing and the Motif Gallery will see an outrageous commission. A badly needed commission, if the rundown facade of this place is anything to go on.
“If you’ll give me a minute. She lives near here. I can’t guarantee—” He thinks better of it. “One minute.”
His strides are quick on the way to the back. “Hi,” he says as the beaded curtain rattles back into place behind him. “Remember the piece you sold?” A nervous laugh. “Okay, I know. Listen. I arranged a private showing with the buyer. He’s here now, and he’s requesting to see you.”
Robert’s voice drops. Not enough, in a place like this, with all the cheap wood and open space. “That’s—I know. I couldn’t schedule a private showing in the middle of the day when we might have someone trying to get in. Yes. No. It’s perfectly safe.”
A long pause. The ache in my chest from her piece intensifies. If I didn’t know better I would call it desperation. It’s criminal that I can’t hear what she’s saying. Ridiculous that I can’t see her already. I know where she is. She’s right above my head. Sitting on her bed, or waiting by the door. She’s not pacing the floor.
“It’ll be really good for the gallery, Daph.” The familiar nickname sends jealousy clawing out of its frame. “And for your career. The value of your work…” There are many things he could say about the value of her work in relation to my interest in it. It’s one reason I stay away from most contemporary artists. An offhand compliment from me can send an artist’s esteem skyrocketing. This becomes a problem if my interest is taken as an endorsement. “He sees the value in it,” Robert says. The acoustics of the space send his voice out to the gallery as if he were standing next to me. “I think he loves the new piece, too. He couldn’t stop looking at it.”
Another pause, this one shorter. “See you in five.”
He comes back out with a cascading click of beads. “The artist lives nearby. She’ll be here shortly. Her name is Daphne.”
“Daphne.” A shallow nod.
The piece isn’t what I thought it would be. That’s why I can’t stop staring at it. I thought she’d paint what she saw from her place on the beach. But then—this is what she saw from her place on the beach. A man out in the water. I flatten my emotions into frames. Turn them facedown. Close the door.
I take stock of the rest of my body. No outward signs that I’m feeling anything. No tension in my shoulders. No expression but mild interest. It’s essential this doesn’t get away from me.
It’s essential nothing gets away from me.
“Take your coat?” Robert asks.
“Sure.”
I hand it off to him largely to give him something to do. He hangs it on a hook behind the counter and busies himself with his ledger. Flips pages back and forth. A fan circles overhead, moving warm air over the back of my neck. He kept it dim in here tonight so the pieces stand out under their picture lights. These fucking paintings. Sea salt and a stiff breeze. I can feel the icy pull of the current on my fingertips. Night air crackles in my lungs. I reach equilibrium when I resurface in cold like that. Frozen inside and out.
A door in the back opens. Robert abandons the ledger and pokes his head behind the beaded curtain. A murmured question from Daphne. “Out here,” he says. “No, you’re good.”
All the work I’ve done to keep my emotions in check, and the physical responses won’t stop. Goose bumps run up my arms. My lungs feel oversized. My heartbeat is naturally low, but it ticks up regardless.
Daphne steps into the room. She’s partially hidden behind Robert. They have a quick, quiet conversation. I hearbuyerand I hearcommissionand I hearany other pieces, if—
“All right.” Her voice lifts, clear like an open window after several days in the dark. “I’ll text you when it’s time to lock up.”
He’s getting his coat. Putting it on. “I’m getting a coffee. Place on the corner.”
“See you in a little bit.”
