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“The longer ones are to write the titles; don’t leave them all untitled, we need to know for cataloguing purposes and to match them with the photos. Also, buyers love named paintings. Makes for a more personal connection to the artist. The yellow stickers are for the prices, and the red are for when you sell out.”
“If I sell out.”
“Whenyou sell out. Anne will assist you. She’ll record the sales, take the payments, get buyer details, et cetera.”
David shook his head, rocking back on his heels, his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit as the paintings were hung in the booth. Then he turned and shook my hand.
“I’d say good luck, but you’re not going to need it.”
The Art Faire was a crowded hall of vendors hawking everything from jewelry to sculptures to modern art that almost defied description. Booth twenty-one was too big for my six paintings and a couple of sketches, but I did my best to fill the space. I put the painting of Ambri in the rain front and center.
I didn’t want to let myself get my hopes up, but when the doors opened, people poured in. Immediately, my booth was filled with visitors, staring and whispering. Every one of the paintings and most of the sketches were sold out within the first two hours but that didn’t stop people from coming in to look.
“I’m going to go log your sales,” Anne said, gathering up the paperwork. She was a no-nonsense woman with a pen tucked behind her ear. “The paintings will stay on display for the rest of the day. We’ll handle distribution at closing. Come to the office for your revenue whenever you’re ready, but I’d stay if I were you. Take it in.”
“Thanks, Anne,” I said faintly.
I felt like I was in a dream, and I’d wake up any minute to find it was all in my head. But for the next few hours, my line remained steady with attendees wanting to see Ambri. I fielded questions about my work, my process, my inspiration for the demon.
“Whoishe?” the attendees asked again and again.
“I wish I knew,” I said with a small smile and an ache in my chest.
A little after one, David Coffman approached me with another man—a trim, handsome man in his mid-thirties, wearing a sharp suit and a watch that probably cost more than my entire building.
“Sold out, Anne tells me.” Mr. Coffman gave me a wry smile. “Who would’ve thought? Cole, this is Austin Wong.”
He gestured to the young man who stood transfixed in front of a painting, murmuring to himself. “Extraordinary…” Finally, he strode to me. “Mr. Matheson. Pleased to meet you. May we talk?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” Mr. Coffman shot me a wink and rejoined the crowd in the hall.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Austin said. “Do you have representation?”
“No, I—”
“Wonderful. I’m an executive associate with Jane Oxley & Associates. Are you familiar with us?”
I nodded stupidly. “Yes, of course. Everyone has heard of Ms. Oxley. As a matter of fact, my friend Vaughn is—”
“Jane would like to have lunch with you this Monday. Are you free?”
I blinked. “I…what? How did she—?”
“Dave Coffman is an old friend. He was kind enough to show me your catalogue photos. I promptly texted them to Jane.”
“Jane Oxley. Who wants to meet me for lunch.”
“Monday, yes.” Austin handed me his card. “We’ll be in touch as to when and where. Do you have any food allergies or restrictions?”
I stared at him vacantly. “Huh? Oh, no.” I chuckled. “Sorry, I’m just having an out-of-body experience.”
“Fabulous. But Mr. Matheson, as a professional courtesy, I’d ask that you not entertain other offers of representation until Jane has had a chance to meet with you. She is cutting her trip to Paris short for this lunch on Monday.”
“I won’t speak to a soul. Promise.”
“May we shake on it?”
