Always the Last to Know(108)

I took in a few deep breaths of the salt-kissed air, the sun warm on my face. Noticed that Noah had moved the branch that had fallen behind the car. Of course he had.

God, I loved him. Alexander was barely a memory, though the other two women were my Facebook friends now, and we’d all shared our Alexander Breakup stories. I’d always known he was a pale shadow compared with Noah. I just hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, feeling that good enough was about all I could expect.

Noah was amazing. He was so kind and decent and trustworthy and good in bed that he was a unicorn among men. I said a prayer of thanks that we were getting this second chance. If yesterday had shown me anything other than the fact that I loved baby dolphins, it was that I loved Noah more.

The coffee was extra delicious this morning. I took my mug and laptop onto the porch, sat on the step and let Pepper frolic on the lawn. Checked my e-mails.

Then I jolted upright so fast, my coffee sloshed.

    To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: your painting at Harriet White/Darcy Cummings house

Dear Ms. Frost,

I was recently at a housewarming party hosted by Harriet and Darcy in Brooklyn. They showed me your incredible painting, knowing I have a special interest in emerging artists. I was able to obtain your e-mail from their interior decorator.

I would be very interested in talking with you about showing in my SoHo gallery this coming fall and perhaps, if you’d be so kind, having the chance to see your portfolio. Is there any possibility you are available to meet? I am desperately hoping you don’t have exclusive contracts elsewhere.

The very best to you,

Hasan

Hasan Sadik SoHo

29 Walker Street, New York, NY 10013



I reread the e-mail four times.

I’d been to that gallery. It was one of those galleries. The “I can make your career in one show” galleries. Aneni had had a show there, during which time a curator for the Guggenheim had bought one of her paintings. The Guggenheim!

In fact, Hasan Sadik SoHo was the gallery where I’d tried to explain to Noah why my skyscape paintings were touristy drivel and not true art.

And now the owner—Hasan Sadik himself—was desperately hoping I was free to show at his place. Just like that, a chance came out of the clear blue sky.

This could make my career. Every dream I’d ever had about art reared up and hugged me tight.

All I had to do was bang out some more Georgia O’Keeffe–type work, using the same kinds of touches I’d used on the vagina painting to make it clear that it wasn’t just a knockoff and . . . and . . .

Shit. I’d be established. I’d be that New York artist, discovered after teaching Catholic school for years and years and making paintings that matched upholstery. It was a great story!

I needed to get to work. Mom had Dad at Gaylord today, so my schedule was clear.

I took a few deep breaths and, hands shaking, wrote back to Hasan Sadik, saying I’d love to meet with him and was a great admirer of his gallery. Kept it short and sweet, and nearly fainted when he wrote back immediately, offering to send a car to pick me up, and perhaps we could also have lunch? And did I have an agent he should be including in these e-mails?

I’ll be in touch in the next day or two, I wrote, too overwhelmed at the moment, and afraid I’d say something stupid. Thank you so much for your interest.

Thank God I’d taken down my website years ago so he couldn’t see all my previous attempts to be artistic and unique (or read my idiotic bio where I mentioned Robert Frost). I pulled up some images of Georgia O’Keeffe’s work and printed out a couple for inspiration. Somewhere in one of my unpacked boxes was a juicy coffee table book on her flower paintings. Which box was it, dang it?

Listen. All work was derivative. It wasn’t like I was doing anything that hadn’t been done a million times before. I found the book, flipped through it and settled on a white rose, the oriental poppies and an iris.

A chance like this did not come around very often. I’d be an idiot to turn it aside. “Mommy’s going to be a famous artist,” I told Pepper, who nuzzled my hand encouragingly. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” I set aside my sunset painting from yesterday, got a couple of canvases out of the closet, and started working, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that was telling me to slow down.

I painted all day. Noah texted, asking me if I wanted to come to his house that evening, and I told him yes, I had some really exciting news and couldn’t wait to see him, but had to have dinner at my mom’s first to talk about Dad’s progress.

I’ve been thinking about you all day, he wrote, and my heart melted.

Same here, I texted. Debated saying, I love you, even though he knew already, and kept on painting, with a little more depth, deeper color.

Noah was good for my art. He always had been. I hoped I was good for him. I made him laugh. I knew him in a way that started in the very center of my heart. I had always believed in him, his goodness, his kindness, his talent at what he did. Also, I gave him the chance to save me from a collapsing house and the opportunity to save a dolphin.

I loved him. I loved him. I loved him so much. Small wonder that I was singing as I painted.



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“So, girls,” Mom said. “Sit down.”