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The woman nodded, turning to her partner for agreement. They exchanged whispers, their heads tilted toward each other, while Charlotte's thoughts flip-flopped between the mysterious photo-taker and her meeting at Ashwood Fine Arts .
"It's beautiful," the woman murmured. “Don’t you think so, dear?” She patted the arm of her companion, who smiled indulgently at her.
"Alright, we'll take it," the man declared. He reached for his wallet, ready to seal the deal. As Charlotte carefully wrapped the painting, she found that her new anxiety over the Ashwood meeting eclipsed her excitement over a second sale.
"Thank you so much," Charlotte said to the couple, handing them their newly purchased artwork. They smiled in return, both parties pleased with the transaction.
"Keep up the incredible work," the woman encouraged as they walked away, arm in arm.
"Time will tell," she whispered to herself, watching the crowd ebb and flow around her. As she turned her attention back to her booth, she felt the weight of that unknown future resting heavily on her shoulders. Ashwood had been a hard meeting to book, but she’d managed through persistence—scoring a single chance. If you didn’t make a good first impression, Ashwood didn’t give you another shot.
As the swap meet began to wind down, Charlotte packed up her booth, checking her watch again to find that she had plenty of time to make her meeting. She’d be early, in fact.
"Focus on what's next," she whispered to herself, securing the last of her paintings in the car. The meeting at the art gallery was an important opportunity, one she couldn't afford to let slip away.
She climbed into the driver's seat, her heart pounding with anticipation for the possibilities ahead. She checked her phone for the first time since the swap meet had begun, and saw that the only notification was a missed call from her daughter, Amelia. Charlotte texted back that she would call her later, and as she revved the engine and pulled away from the swap meet, Charlotte pushed back her uncertainty; the road before her was filled with unexpected twists and turns, but she knew that she had the talent and determination to navigate it all.
"Ashwood," she murmured, “here I come.”
CHAPTER TWO
Charlotte took a deep breath as she stood in front of the imposing glass doors of the prestigious Ashwood Art Gallery. The sunlight refracted through the door, casting a prism of colors on the pristine sidewalk and causing her heart to flutter with nervous excitement. She clutched her portfolio tightly against her chest, her palms dampening the leather cover. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for – a chance to showcase her art in one of the city's most renowned galleries.
"Alright, Charlotte," she whispered to herself, "This is your moment." With a determined nod, she pushed open the door and stepped into the gallery.
The interior of Ashwood Art Gallery was a balance of modern elegance and more classic design. High ceilings allowed for an airy ambiance, while the soft glow of recessed lighting bathed the main gallery in a warm, inviting light. The scent of polished hardwood and fresh flowers hung in the air, enveloping the space.
As Charlotte walked further into the room, her eyes were drawn to the vibrant colors of the displayed artwork. A large abstract painting of bold red and blue strokes commanded attention from its central position on one wall, while delicate watercolors of serene landscapes adorned another. Still farther, a grouping of marble pedestals showcased a series of sculptures. The diverse assortment of styles and mediums spoke to the gallery's commitment to celebrating the unique voices of its artists. Charlotte hoped that, after today, she would be among them.
It wasn't just the visual experience of Ashwood that captured Charlotte's senses, but also the subtle sounds echoing throughout the space. The gentle footsteps of the few visitors over the hardwood floors, the hushed whispers, the almost-too-low-to-be-heard classical music, and the faint rustle of a brochure being flipped through all contributed to the gallery's soothing atmosphere. It was a complete 180 from being at the swap meet.
"Welcome to Ashwood Fine Arts,” said a sophisticated voice behind her. Charlotte turned to see an impeccably dressed woman, her silver hair pulled back into a sleek bun, offering her a cool smile.
"Thank you," Charlotte said, her voice strained and a little squeaky. She extended her hand to the woman, revealing her portfolio tucked under her arm. "I'm Charlotte Moore. I have an appointment to present my artwork."
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Moore. We've been expecting you," the woman replied, her eyes briefly flicking toward the portfolio. "I’m Lillian Ashwood.”
“Oh! You’re the owner.”
Lillian’s smile grew tight. “Yes. Myself and my husband, Aaron. Come with me, please." She led Charlotte further into the gallery, weaving around the main floor.
As they walked, Charlotte couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the grandeur of her surroundings. Was she as good as the artists displayed here? It was a world she had longed to be part of for years, and now, as she clutched her portfolio tighter, she hoped that her own work could find its place among these esteemed creations.
Lillian guided her to a small, private room adorned with minimalist furnishings and pristine white walls. A few other people were waiting inside at a long conference table, their expressions neutral and professional. Charlotte swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as she handed over her portfolio to Lillian. She didn’t see Aaron Ashwood at the table—was he? Charlotte should recognize the Ashwoods from their constant appearance in local media, but she hadn’t immediately known who Lillian was.
"Please, have a seat." Lillian Ashwood gestured to a vacant chair, and Charlotte obliged. Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles turning white as she watched the gallery staff flip through the pages of her portfolio, their expressions betraying little interest in her work.
Each passing second felt like an eternity to Charlotte. The soft hum of the air conditioning battled against the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her eyes darted from one staff member to another, searching for any hint of approval or admiration.
"Your use of color is quite interesting," one of them remarked, his tone lacking enthusiasm. Another offered a nod, but Charlotte couldn't tell if it was out of politeness or genuine appreciation.
As the gallery staff continued to scrutinize her paintings, Charlotte's thoughts raced with questions and doubts. What if they didn't like her work? What if all her efforts had been for naught? She tried to quiet the negative voice in her head, but it persisted, growing louder with each passing moment.
"Mrs. Moore," Lillian finally said, closing the portfolio and placing it on the table before her. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat as she looked up, eyes wide with anticipation.
"While we appreciate the effort you've put into your work and understand its personal significance to you," the silver-haired woman began, her voice devoid of warmth and enthusiasm, "it simply does not fit the artistic direction our gallery is currently pursuing."
Charlotte felt as if she'd been slapped in the face. Her breath hitched, and she struggled to find words. "I... I don't understand," she stammered, her voice barely audible. “I thought Aaron Ashwood would be here, as well. Is he not?”
