Always the Last to Know(113)

But looking at them here, where they might well sell for tens of thousands of bucks apiece, I had to admit it. Noah was right.

They were couch paintings, and they weren’t me. They were the me of college, trying to be something I was not. I’d been telling myself I stumbled onto something with the vagina flower painting, but I hadn’t. I’d done an O’Keeffe and added a few squiggles, and it was a cheap trick. These seven at least, had been done with some passion and energy. But they still weren’t me.

That stupid sunset was. The one I’d practically flung off the easel to make these porn flowers.

“It’s . . . interesting,” Hasan finally said, looking at me. “When I saw the painting at the party, I was struck by its intensity and authenticity. These . . . I just don’t think they have the same impact, and I’m trying to figure out why.”

Well, shit. “Hm.”

“There’s something missing in these, whereas the lilies and sweet pea painting had such a stark disparity, such a contrast between the lush sensuality and the void of emotional despair. It was a battle between chastity and vulgarity.” He shook his head. “I’m just not feeling that same emotional upheaval here.”

Oh, the fuckery. “Interesting.” It seemed like a safe word. Chastity and vulgarity? The void of emotional despair? Words that had never once entered my brain as I made the brownstone painting. These seven? The entire tornado of human emotions.

“Tell me about the lily painting, Sadie,” Hasan said. “What was in your heart when you painted it? How can we capture that mood again? Because that painting was special, and I think, if you can tap into that darkness, that fury and sexuality once again, we would be onto something here. Perhaps you know I consider myself not just a collector, but a mentor as well. Someone who nurtures the expression of passion and emotion.”

Jesus. Had this kind of talk always sounded so ridiculous?

“What was in your heart, Sadie Frost?” he asked again, putting his hand against his chin.

I nodded. “My heart. Yes. Well, Hasan, to be honest, money was in my heart, because I was getting six grand for that painting. Also, copying was in my heart, because anyone could see it was a Georgia O’Keeffe knockoff. I just played with some texture in the oils to make it a little different. Aside from that, I didn’t have much in my heart at all.”

“Oh. That’s . . . that’s disappointing.”

“Hasan. I’m a hack. I painted those lilies to match the owners’ comforter. These . . .” I gestured to the paintings in front of us. “These are me trying to please you. Maybe I should’ve used some fabric swatches as inspiration.”

He frowned. “You clearly have talent. Did you bring anything else?”

I hesitated. Why not? My dad would want me to. I wanted me to. At least I could show this guy something that was authentically mine. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

In the last pocket in my portfolio was the sunset picture, the one I’d painted the day of the storm. To me, it was the best thing I’d painted. Ever.

Except for Noah’s clouds.

I pulled it out and watched him take it in. And I took it in as well. I could almost feel the calm of that day, hear the birds, the distant shush of the ocean, feel the damp salt air of springtime.

“Eh,” he said. “Any art student could do that. That’s not the kind of thing my clients are looking for.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you for the opportunity.” I started gathering up my sexy-beast flowers.

“I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “I’ve wasted your day.”

“It’s okay. Really. These aren’t me, these flowers. That sunset is, and I understand SoHo is not the place for sunset pictures.”

“Would you still like to have lunch? Perhaps I could give you some guidance about where the market is these days.”

“I think I’ll get back to Connecticut. But thank you.” I shook his hand, and left.

It was official. I was never going to be that artist.

But I’d had the chance. The big break. I’d been considered by a major gallery owner who had loved something I did. That was more than most artists got, regardless of their talent and training and outlook.

So I’d done it. I’d made it through the doors, and that—much to my surprise—was enough. There was a spring in my step as I lugged the paintings down the street. I wasn’t going to make it, but I hadn’t sold my soul, either.

I’d give the flower paintings as presents, maybe even keep one or two. Maybe send one to the lesbians, since they were so nice to play a part in getting me today’s chance.

But right now, I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home and play with my dog and sit on my battered front porch and watch another sunset.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT





John


He knows what is happening. Barb is going to take care of him forever now.

He is sliding away, not toward, and he still has not said the right words. The flower word that will save his wife. The other words he wants to say. He needs his girls to be here, and Barb, and when that happens, he has to be ready. He has to be here.

But the world is grainy and blank, and the feelings come without words. He keeps trying, but he is slipping down the mountain he was trying so hard to climb. The snow is too heavy, and he is so tired. Days pass, and he is unaware. Sometimes everyone is here, sometimes he seems alone, sometimes he is asleep and sometimes in the snow. He has to say the words. He has to tell his Barb about the long-ago.