Always the Last to Know(112)

I sat back, panting, then drained my wine.

“You’re still with your boyfriend?”

“No! I’m leaving. I’m furious and upset, Noah. Maybe I’ll see you soon, and maybe you’ll be sticking pins in a voodoo doll of me. I have no idea and I don’t care right now. I’m going home to paint.”

“Sadie.” He stood up. “One thing. Your flower painting, the one you did for the brownstone ladies. That’s not you. That’s you pretending to be someone else. That’s a couch painting.”

“Fuck off, Noah.” I slammed the door on my way out. You know. Just in case he missed the point.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN





Sadie


It was here. The biggest moment of my professional life.

Hasan Sadik had greeted me, kissing me on both cheeks, told his silent and beautiful assistant to get me an espresso (I hated espresso). He had me place my paintings on the waiting easels and now was looking at them, walking slowly past each one, pausing, tilting his head, waiting for them to “talk to me and tell me their story.”

This required silence. The assistant was barefoot, lest her footfalls interrupt Hasan’s conversation with my work. I sat, pressing my knees together, pretending to sip the bitter coffee, and tried to exude confidence.

Juliet had loaned me an outfit and jewelry (she had her flaws as a sister, but staying mad wasn’t one of them). I was dressed better than I’d ever been—black tuxedo pants, red patent leather pumps with a chunky heel, a sleeveless ivory top with a slightly draped neckline, and a gray “jardigan” (new term for me, but Brianna had told me it was very on trend). Dangly gold earrings, one plain gold ring on my right forefinger.

It was how I thought a successful artist should look. Cool, simple, wealthy (thanks, Jules) and sophisticated.

Hasan, tastemaker of the New York art world, broker of some of the most lucrative deals for artists today, wore Levi’s, a white T-shirt and Converse sneakers and somehow outclassed me by a thousand points. I owned the same outfit many times over. Should’ve worn it so we could bond over our matching look.

In the week since he’d e-mailed, I’d worked twenty hours a day, making seven more flower paintings. Iris, rose, peony, carnation, tulip, poppy and maple leaves (to show my range). At six this morning, I’d finished drying the last one with my blow-dryer, put them in my portfolio, left Brianna a note about Pepper’s new propensity to eat worms, and drove down here two hours early, killing the remainder of time by sitting in my car, sweating with nerves and pressing tissues into my armpits.

I’d never been at this kind of meeting. Never been that chic woman who had something New York wanted to see. This was it. I was, as they say, having a moment.

If only my father could see me now. The thought made my throat tighten with emotion.

He wasn’t getting better. I pressed my lips together, hard. I’d think about that later. He’d want me present, to soak it all in. I wanted that, too, but somehow, I felt hollow. Maybe because he wasn’t quite here to share it. Juliet had wished me the best and hugged me, and Mom said she thought the paintings were “real pretty,” but the hollow, fake feeling remained.

After all, I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes.

I should’ve come in wearing one of my teacher dresses, which were invariably flowered or striped, because my students were little kids, after all, and loved bright colors.

I missed them. I missed St. Catherine’s and Sister Mary and Carter and the gang, but it seemed more and more that my New York life was a light post on the highway that I could only see in the rearview mirror. A life left behind.

I missed Noah.

Last night, he’d knocked on my door at ten o’clock, stood there awkwardly as Pepper pounced on his shoes.

“Listen,” he said the second I opened the door. “I’m really sorry for what I said. I know how much this means to you, and I’m pulling for you. Okay?”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded. “Knock ’em dead tomorrow.”

“Did Mickey send you?”

He laughed at that, but his eyes were sad. “No,” he said. “All my idea.”

“Thank you, Noah,” I said. “It means a lot.”

He nodded once, then left before either of us made things more complicated.

So here I was, lunch planned with Hasan afterward.

He made another turn, another stroll, little humming noises coming from his throat. I kept my mouth shut to maintain an air of mystery and also not babble like an idiot, which was, of course, my way.

I glanced out the window, and there I was, looking in. Not me, not really, but some kid—God, so young, probably not even twenty. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt and had dyed, messy black hair, a bull nose ring and pierced eyebrow. Yep. Me, fifteen years ago. I smiled a little. He gave me a nod, then kept going.

I remembered that feeling. That outside-looking-in feeling. The someday-that-will-be-me feeling. I had it right now, even though I was literally on the inside.

The paintings . . . well, they were frickin’ beautiful, no doubt. How could they not be? They were flowers. The colors were rich and deep, the technique well executed. All week long, I’d painted with every damn emotion in the world—fear about my father, anger and love for Noah, ambition, hope, peace, contentment, joy, terror, uncertainty.