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When my daughter gapes, I know she’ll get the whole story out of me one way or another. By the time I’m finished telling it, she’s half outraged, half amused.
“So now all the other artists who were on the fence probably won’t want to work with Georgia?” Christine crosses her arms. “That’s terrible, Dad.”
I spread my arms. What was I supposed to do?
“Have you apologized?”
“Multiple times,” I answer, and no, I’m not going to tell my daughter exactlyhowI said I was sorry.
“Well, there’s that, at least.” Christine bites her lip. “Maybe we can help. Matt and I have a bunch of old pieces with us from our final project and artwork from our portfolios. And you can finish your slow dance sculpture.”
My throat grows tight. “You’d be willing to help Georgia out like that?”
“What, get my work displayed in an actual gallery? Gee, I guess I could consider it.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course I would! Plus, you like her, which means I like her. Let’s go over there.”
I wrap my arms around my daughter and kiss her temple. “Love you, Bug.”
“Love you too, Dad.” A quick squeeze, then Christine’s face gains the mulish expression that she definitely got from her mother. Probably. “Now call Georgia and let her know we’re on our way.”
30
GEORGIA
I don’t meanto cry when I get off the phone with Oscar Anders, a Danish metalsmith who recently told me he was interested in displaying some of his work in my gallery, but my eyes start leaking as soon as I hang up the phone.
Swiping angrily at my cheeks, I stare at the wall in my pristine new office and cross him off my list of potential artists.
He’s the last one on my list, meaning all fourteen people I’ve called today have refused to work with me. Cameron Fuller went scorched earth on my forty-three-year-old ass.
That mongreldog. He was making lewd jokes about me, got punched, and now he wants to, what, exact revenge?
Maybe Simone and Sebastian were right; the only reason he agreed to work with me was because he wanted to get in my pants. And isn’t that just great? I’m not a successful, driven business owner. I’m just the owner of a vagina.
The phone in my hand buzzes, and Sebastian’s name flashes across the screen. I can’t deal with him right now. I’m angry at myself and angry at Cameron, and I’m afraid I’ll take it out on Seb. He doesn’t deserve that. The vindictive part of me is glad he punched Cameron in the mouth—and equally glad his dog peed on Cameron’s face. I should get Bella a treat to thank her.
“Ugh.” I push myself to my feet and stretch my back. No time to wallow in self-pity. I have six days to find a new artist, sign the contracts with them, and get their art framed, priced, and displayed.
My steps echo in the empty room, and I glance up at the mezzanine. There are six plinths up there of varying heights, which will have a piece of pottery displayed on each. One thing Icando is call Mac and finalize what pieces he wants to show.
Happy to have something productive to tick off my list, I pull up his name on my phone, then am disappointed when the phone rings out. I leave him a message, ignoring the fear that he’s going to back out on me too.
He’s not—Trina wouldn’t let him. I have to believe that, or else I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
“Hello?” a female voice calls out behind me, and I turn to see Christine in the open door of the gallery. She smiles broadly at me. “We tried calling,” she says.
Matt enters behind her, followed by Sebastian. He gives me a sympathetic smile and jerks his chin at the bare walls. “Any luck?”
Painting a brave smile on my face, I shake my head. “Not yet, butsomeonein this town has got to be desperate enough to work with me.” Maybe if I joke about it, it’ll be funny instead of mortifying.
“Yep,” Christine says, spreading her arms. “And you’re lookin’ at ‘em.”
I blink.
Christine beams and wiggles her eyebrows. “Well?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Matt and me! And my dad has this new piece that’s just gorgeous. We’ll fill your space!” She sweeps her hand at the walls, then pauses. “If you agree, of course. We don’t want to step on your toes.”
