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I can hear the capital C in his voice. My heart speeds up. Anyone who has a title like that is good for the gallery. And if he bought my painting—“Who’s the Collector?”
Robert comes around behind the counter and sits heavily on the tall stool there. “Super rich. Loves art. Has a collection that could rival MoMAs. Extremely discerning.” A sidelong glance at me. “I’ve never seen him here, but he wanted your piece. He looked at it like—” Robert laughs. “I don’t know, Daph. Like he might have fallen in love with it.”
My cheeks go hot. That’s the dream—having someone fall in love with my paintings. Someone other than me, anyway. I catch myself about to tug the collar of my shirt and lean casually against the counter instead. “Fallen in love?” My heart is in my throat. “That sounds intense.”
“He paid full price.” Robert raises his eyebrows at me, perching both hands on his beret.
“No way.”
“I’m serious.”
People don’t pay full price at Motif. They don’t. Robert’s better at haggling than I am. Talking about money seems like an opening for people to get into intrusive questions.
“So what you’re telling me is that a man walked into the gallery, saw my painting, fell in love with it…and handed you five hundred dollars?”
“The Collector. Not just anyone. And then the weird thing—” A short, high laugh escapes me. This is all weird. This is all weird. I never imagined that someone would feel the way I do about one of my paintings. I feel intense when I paint them. Dark and intense and nothing at all like I’m supposed to be, which is sweet and innocent and safe. “You okay?” Robert asks.
“Tell me what the weird thing was.”
“He left you a note.”
“Me?”
“For the artist, he said.” Robert pushes a piece of paper across the counter. It’s from the notepad he keeps next to the credit card machine. There’s no casual way to read it in front of him, so I shoot for serious. I clear my throat, stand up straight, and unfold the note.
Crescent Cove beach at twilight
The handwriting’s neat. Strong. Controlled. It reads like a request for a meeting. An order for a meeting, really. But—no. The Collector must be saying he wants me to paint the ocean at this spot. I’ve never heard of this place before. Even if I had, I might not be able to call its location to mind before.
What he’s written is more intimate than a request for a meeting. It’s a commission, and people don’t commission paintings of places that are meaningless to them.
“What did he write?” Robert lifts his chin to look over the edge of the paper. I pull it to my chest on instinct. Good for me. I’ve made this message look even more illicit and interesting.
“Nothing.” I tuck it into my pocket and return Robert’s wide-eyed stare. “Same thing you said. He loved the piece.”
“He really wanted to make sure you knew, then.” Robert folds his arms over his chest and looks at my painting. “I think he would have paid double the price.” Another shake of his head. “When you’re here tomorrow, maybe you could spend some time thinking about the prices. It could be good if we bumped them up. If you feel like it.”
“No, sounds good. I’ll look at the listings, make sure everything’s up to date—”
“Make some sales…”
“And hopefully make some sales.”
Robert grins at that, and then he pats his knees and stands up in the universal signal for I’m going home. “See you tomorrow afternoon, Daphne. Congrats on the sale.”
He holds up his hand for a high five, and I give him one. It seems right. I sold a painting today. At full price.
I’m on a semi-complicated cloud nine on the way back up to my apartment. This warm, floaty feeling—that’s success. I made someone feel something, and the only way they could think to respond was by making my art their own. With the money I make from the sale I’ll be able to buy more canvas and paint and put something else on the wall at the gallery. A bigger piece, maybe. A higher price. I’ve sold a few small pieces since I graduated, but not many. All of them were much smaller. All of them were more careful work. I didn’t put as much of myself into those.
I flip the lock on the door and try to hold on to the victory. Because it is a victory, even if it’s not the fully independent victory I’m aiming for.
Robert takes a twenty-five percent commission on my pieces. He takes fifty from everyone else but flatly refuses to take more from me. So I’ll get more money from the sale than another person at the gallery on top of the Collector paying full price.
And then there’s the rent.
I sink down into my couch and rest my head. The couch was a castoff when Eva decided to re-do her apartment last, so it’s cream leather and completely out of my budget. I try my best to live off what I make at the gallery. The arrangement I have with Robert is to take a tiny hourly rate for my shifts in exchange for the apartment.
And both those things—the reduced commission and the apartment—are because I’m not Daphne, girl with a fine art degree trying to make her way in the world. It’s because I’m Daphne Morelli.
