Hold Me Close(65)

“Most people can’t, you know.”

“No kidding. Naveen,” Effie said after a pause. “Did the buyer...know? Who I am?”

Naveen huffed. “I don’t know.”

That meant yes. Effie frowned and rubbed the spot between her eyes. “Great.”

“If it sells the work,” Naveen said, “does it matter?”

It did to her, but she said, “No. I guess not. Like you said, gotta eat.”

“I’ll have Elisabeth call you about dates,” Naveen said. “Ciao, bella. I’ll talk to you soon. Send me some of your clocks. I can hang them in the gallery for you.”

“Sure. I’ll see what I have.”

Disconnecting, Effie slipped her phone into her pocket and sighed. She was lucky, she knew that. Talent could take you only so far in the creative business. Luck was what pushed you into the right places, made you collectible or popular or whatever. And luck didn’t last forever. She should take advantage of it while she could, or she really would find herself sitting behind a desk filing shit and answering phones.

When she stood in front of her easel, though, all she could think about was mimicking Thomas Kinkade except with a giant hamster sitting on top of one of his cutesy Christmas cabins. She could do a van Gogh with a Tardis swirling around in the stars—it wasn’t original, though. She’d seen that on the internet, and she’d never watched Doctor Who anyway, so it felt disingenuous to cash in on the show’s popularity. Mona Lisa with a mustache?

Fuck it all, this was shit. Worse than shit. At least her other stuff, the twisted clocks hidden in the landscapes, had been original. At least she’d felt something when she painted them, even if it was more of a secret, ha-ha, “see how clever I am” sort of feeling and not that all-encompassing frenzy, that draining almost-religious ecstasy that happened when she painted from her dreams of the basement.

She couldn’t just command it to happen, though. No matter what Naveen wanted or how Effie herself wanted to make something real and meaningful that would also make her money. You can’t command a muse, she thought and dunked her brushes into the vase of cleaning solution. Besides, she still hadn’t had enough coffee.

“Dee,” she said when the other woman had answered her phone. “Want to grab a coffee with me?”

“Oh. Hell, yes. I don’t have to be in to work until later. Same place?”

Agreed on the location, Effie grabbed her coat, purse and keys and headed out. Fresh air, a fancy coffee, maybe even a decadent pastry. She could hang out with Dee for a bit and feel like a normal woman with a friend, then maybe sketch in the coffee shop and think about what might work for a gallery show. She could at least try.

The girl behind the counter wore a T-shirt sliced into fringes with a familiar design on the front of it. One of Effie’s. As always when confronted with this real-life evidence that there were people out there who actually bought her shit because they wanted it and not because they knew her, she smiled.

“Nice shirt.”

“I got it over at the Tin Angel.” The girl grinned. “Johnny Dellasandro’s place, he was having this big display. You been there?”

Effie shook her head. All of her licensed items were ordered and shipped from the company that made them, the T-shirts and posters and mugs. All she did was look at the royalties when they came in. “I should check it out.”

“It’s pretty cool, some really great stuff. What can I get you?”

“Large mocha latte, and a blueberry scone. No. Cinnamon bun.” Effie studied the glass case, aware of someone next to her but not turning until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned, expecting to see Dee, but smiled in surprise. “Mitchell. Hey.”

“Hey.” He grinned and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I thought that was you. Do you come in here a lot?”

“No, not really.” Effie stepped to the side to pay for her order. “I thought you’d be at work.”


“We have a SCRUM meeting in an hour. Everyone kind of rolls in just before it. I figured I’d grab something on the way.” Mitchell pointed to a chocolate croissant and pulled out his wallet. “Coffee, too, please. Hey, I got this.”

“No, you don’t have to,” Effie protested but stopped at his look. She laughed, ducking her head. “Okay. Sure. Fine. Thank you.”

“That’s better.” Mitchell followed Effie to a table near the window and waited until she sat before taking the chair opposite her. “You look pretty today.”

Effie’s brows rose. She wore jeans, a concert T-shirt hidden beneath her winter coat, a pair of battered black Converse. Had she even put on makeup? She couldn’t remember. “Umm. Thanks?”

“So, what are you up to today?” Mitchell stirred his coffee and sipped, then looked at her expectantly.

Effie settled her bag on the back of the chair but didn’t take out her sketch pad. She still hadn’t told Mitchell she was an artist. “Have some errands to run. Boring stuff.”

Mitchell broke his chocolate croissant into pieces, setting them neatly on the plate and wiping his fingers carefully on a paper napkin. Effie watched him, amused. Attracted, too. Something in the way he made sure he’d cleaned his fingers of any scrap of chocolate reminded her that he could be very, very attentive to other kinds of details.