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“Morning, Skyler.” He’s carrying two mugs of what seems to be coffee and offers one to me.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, taking it. I’m still planning to avoid coffee today, but I don’t want to seem rude.
“You ready to take a look?”
“Yes, all set.”
I inhale deeply and follow him into the rear of the gallery, keeping my eyes trained on the floor and praying it will all look okay.
“Ta-da,” I hear him say.
I raise my eyes, and as I take in the collages, my lips part in... awe. Yes, awe. The ten collages, all mounted rather than framed, have been hung in perfect relation to one another. The surprising juxtapositions of images in each one, along with the vivid colors, are attention-grabbing, beckoning the viewer to come closer. And though the collages aren’t really a series, they play off each other perfectly. I want to cry, I’m so happy.
“The look on your face tells me we got it right,” he says.
“Josh, thank you,” I say. “I’m blown away.”
“Excellent. And I’ve got some great news for you.”
Please, I think,don’t tell me that there are now two hundred people coming to the reception tonight.
“Is it about the interview?” Maybe he’ll tell me that James Tremlin didn’t think I was full of shit.
“TheArtTodayone? No, but I’m sure that went great. The news is that I’ve already sold one of your pieces.”
“What?” This revelation both stuns and thrills me.
“Yup. A collector I work with, who’s also a friend, dropped by yesterday when we were hanging the show. He not only loved what he saw, he bought one of your pieces on the spot—the one titledDaydream. When I told him it was three grand, he didn’t bat an eye.”
“Gosh, th-that’s amazing,” I say, glancing over at that particular collage. It’s one of my favorites.
“It’s a testament to your talent, Skyler. And trust me, there’s more to come.”
I sense he’s got plenty to do before tonight, so I thank Josh again and head out, promising to return at least fifteen minutes before theshow begins. On the walk north back to the East Village, my feet barely touch the ground, and as soon as I reach my neighborhood, I decide to do something I haven’t done in ages: take myself out to lunch.
I stop at a small bistro only a couple of blocks from my apartment, one I used to go to with Lucas—in those early days, before he grew frustrated with my gloomy moods and my failure to keep the past from torturing me. Though it’s not even noon, the place is open for business, and a waitress shows me to a wooden table tucked in a corner in the back. As I take my seat, I hear Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” one of my favorite songs, playing softly in the background. I take that as a positive omen for the day and, after perusing the menu, order the chicken schnitzel and a celebratory glass of pinot grigio.
Without any warning, I’m overcome with the same rush of elation I experienced after leaving the gallery last week. Maybe standing in a room whose walls are covered with my work tonight will be so rewarding that my panic will be diffused, and I’ll be game to answer any question that I’m asked. And perhaps more of my pieces will sell, kicking off my art career, and it won’t even matter if I ever see a dime of the trust.
And maybe tonight is the moment when, after a long, sad slump, I emerge into the world as a new person, someone who’ll once again spend sunny afternoons wandering through parks while eating double-dip chocolate cones, someone my mother will feel reconnected to, and someone with a child of her own.
After topping off my lunch with a cup of herbal tea, I head home to take care of a few household chores I’ve ignored all week. I also carry the flowers my family sent out to the living room and set the vase down next to the collage in progress. My eye is drawn once again to the wordowedand I’m tempted to pull out a chair and ponder for a while, but I force myself away. I want to stay as positive as I can today.
At four, I take my second shower of the day and change into my outfit. My tights are still the tiniest bit damp, but I look okay, I decide, and I thank God it’s only sixty degrees out—at the very least, I won’t be sweating profusely during the party. Not wanting to scuff my newly polished boots, I treat myself to a cab to the gallery.
I arrive outside at exactly five thirty, earlier than necessary, but being here seems less nerve-racking than puttering around my apartment. As I reach for the door handle, I can see through the glass that the front room is empty of people, but a long, narrow table has been set up with plastic glasses, along with bottles of Perrier and white wine. The second I open the door, Nell strides in from the back, carrying a large ice bucket.
“Hi,” I say. “Is it okay that I’m a little early?”
“Sure—as long as you don’t mind hanging out by yourself. I’ve got to finish setting up and Josh is on the phone in his office.”
“Of course, no problem.” I give a little wave and start toward the rear room. “I-I guess I’ll just wander back and look at the installation again.”
“Go right ahead,” she says, smiling, as if newly impressed with me. “A bunch of people who were in today told us how much they liked it.”
Thrilled by the news, I thank her and disappear into the back room. Though I can hear the drone of Josh’s voice from his office, I’ve got the space to myself, and the rush I feel is even more intense than before. And because I’m alone this time, I don’t feel a need to disguise my glee.
Even the last piece I did, which I was in such a rush to finish, looks good to me. As I study it from across the room, though, my heart suddenly skitters. There seems to be a stain on the lower right-hand corner, a smudge mark of some kind.
