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“Has Barney called you about it?” she demanded.
“He has,” Oriana said with a nod.
The woman harrumphed. “I can’t imagine he’d offer more than two million.”
“He offered three.”
The woman didn’t look happy about that in the slightest. As she stepped away from the painting, Oriana spoke about the artist and his work at length, using words that made little sense to Brea but seemed to speak to the wealthy woman’s sense of the world.Had she ever created art before?Or had the words fallen from the sky— seemingly meaningless unless you owned many millions of dollars?
After this first client left, several more came. Brea watched Oriana in her element, sweet-talking the clients about the artwork, about how in demand it was. Each time she discussed other buyers, the new clients tilted their heads like eager golden retrievers. At the end of each meeting, Oriana gave them a time limit, requiring that they tell her their bid within the next two weeks. This set a fire beneath several of them. One man in a purple suit jacket demanded to buy it immediately for two and a half million, saying he could have it sent to Oriana that evening. But Oriana knew better than to rush into a sale. If she bided her time, she could leech far more out of these people, more than they thought themselves possible of shelling out.
When it was just Brea and Oriana in the gallery, Oriana squealed and took Brea's hands. Brea was reminded of being out on the elementary school playground with Oriana, hand-in-hand, as a jump rope spun over them and flapped against the pavement beneath them. Each time, they’d had to jump to stay in the game.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Oriana cried.
“It is,” Brea agreed, trying to drum up Oriana’s level of happiness.
“And pretty soon, everything I’m doing here will be second nature to you,” Oriana went on. “I hardly hear myself anymore. I just say exactly what these people want to hear, and somehow, it works. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Brea’s smile waned.
“Let’s get out of here! I want to make this official. We’ll go to the office, have you sign the paperwork and write down your bank details, and then we’ll go out to celebrate! How does that sound?” Oriana led Brea to the gallery door, where they stepped out and locked all four locks behind them.
Brea was caught up in Oriana’s vortex, traveling a million miles per hour. Within thirty minutes, she sat at Oriana’s desk, signing document after document as Oriana’s coworkers passed by to congratulate her on this “big step forward.”
“Oriana says you have a killer eye,” another art dealer said, impressed. “And Oriana doesn’t say that about just anyone.”
Brea’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I can’t wait to get started.”
Back on the streets of Manhattan, Oriana led them to a swanky cocktail bar, where the bartender greeted her by name and led her to a corner table that was slightly raised. This way, Oriana and Brea could see all of the bar dwellers. Oriana ordered them cosmopolitans, a cocktail Brea had never had enough money for, and when they arrived, they clinked their glasses and smiled. Brea decided she could get used to this.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Oriana said, setting down her cosmopolitan.
“And what is that?”
“You’re thinking all those people are insufferable,” Oriana said.
Brea blushed again. “Was it that obvious?”
“Not to them,” Oriana assured her. “They’re so stuck up that they hardly perceive anyone else around them. But I’ve known you since we were four. So, yeah. I see how sick of them you already are. But think of it this way. If you treat these people right, do them little favors, just for a little while, you can go back to Martha’s Vineyard and deal art from there. We’ll do it together, forming a little business to help the rich tourists of the island decorate their beautiful and very big homes. They’re going to need us!”
Brea sipped her cosmopolitan, surprised at how much she liked it; hating that, more often than not, money was a very good thing to have.
“I’m not naive enough to think I can live without money,” Brea assured Oriana.
“Those people have money,” Oriana reminded her. “And they’re not afraid to play around with it. We just have to point the money in the right direction to help both the artists and ourselves.”
“It’s a brilliant plan,” Brea admitted. After all, her heart had only cared about three things for most of her life: Kenny, Oriana, and art itself. It seemed that this job was a fast track to having all three in her life for good.
ChapterSix
That night, Brea got home from drinks with Oriana around ten-thirty. Because Kenny had told her he had work until one, she was surprised to find him crumpled on the floor, white as a ghost.
“Kenny!” Brea dropped to the ground, stricken, and touched his shoulder. “Baby, are you all right?”
Kenny shivered beneath her hand. “I called in sick. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Brea kissed Kenny’s cheek gently, surprised at how clammy his skin was. “Let’s get you up, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”
