I didn’t look over my shoulder as I left the restaurant, abandoning him to the rest of his meal alone.
But that was yesterday.
I checked on the painting again. It wasn’t just good… It was perfect. I couldn’t let Connor get under my skin. Things were going well for the first time in a long time…
After changing into some casual clothes, I heard my ringtone pinging from the living room. Kicking back into a chair, I snatched up my phone and glanced at the caller ID.
It was one of the local galleries, which I considered odd, but they usually only reached out to me if there was a substantially good reason.
“Hello, Miss Ricketts?”
“Adam!” I grinned to myself affably. “How are you, my love?” Of all the others, it was incredibly rare that the Pulliam Museum reached out to me, let alone the head curator. “I hope all is well down there.”
“Things are splendid,” he responded in his usual, casual tone… although I sensed something just beneath the surface. “In fact, things are a little better than splendid… I just received a rather interesting phone call.”
“Sounds curious. Do tell.”
His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “We are apparently about to host a rather distinguished guest, Ms. Ricketts… I just got off the phone with one Gloria Van Lark.”
My heart stopped in my chest.
“Miss Ricketts? Are you there, Miss Ricketts?”
I swallowed the burst of emotion that threatened to surge out of my throat. “I am absolutely, definitely here, Adam.”
“Good. You are in New Orleans, I trust?”
“I’m at my apartment now, just thirty or forty minutes away.”
“Excellent. She was rather particular about an artist’s work that she wanted to peruse… and indicated that she had already scoured a few other galleries in the last couple of days. I sincerely think that you should get down here immediately.”
Gloria Van Lark was here?
And she was looking at my work?
WHY AM I JUST HEARING ABOUT THIS NOW.
“Absolutely. Oh god, Adam, thank you so much for contacting me. I had no idea that she was here!”
“Neither did I, truthfully,” he receded back into his typical casual tone. “I have excellent working relationships with the other galleries in town, but it would appear that none of them saw fit to indicate this… delicate matter to me. Oh well. She is expected within the hour. It might serve you to represent yourself…”
“I’m heading out the door as we speak,” I lied, glancing over towards my closet and already running clothing options through my head.
“See to it that you are, my dear. Bonne chance, mon amie!”
“Merci, monsieur!”
With that, I haphazardly dove towards the closet, quickly settling on a conservative yet trendy outfit that highlighted a prim, subtle sense of style.
As I locked the door and darted down the stairs towards the streets of New Orleans, I dug out my phone and sent a group text to Reiko and Connor.
Yes, even Connor.
He was one of the very few people in the world who understood the gravity of what was happening here… and how utterly important this moment was to me.
“Gloria Van Lark is here, and she’s prowling the local galleries featuring my art as we speak.”
A few minutes later, Reiko responded:
“GET IT, GIRL.”
And then Connor:
“I knew this day would come :) Good luck!”
Unsurprisingly, he was just happy that I was talking to him again, even if only in passing.
The massive smile stayed glued to my face all the way down to the Pulliam Museum, where I flashed my Gallery Pass to the front attendant and strolled into the building.
I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, or what kind of signal to expect that would indicate her presence, so I went ahead and walked towards the exhibit that carried some of my signature work.
Ascending up the white tile stairs, I took in the surroundings of the Pulliam Museum. It was a rather modern piece of architectural elegance, built to emphasize light and luminescence.
During the day, the various skylights, glass ceilings, and reflective surfaces shimmered a dazzling but not blinding force of light across the main atrium and aortic passages, emphasizing ample use of vertical space with winding staircases.
At night, however, the sunken lighting took over, enhancing the entire museum with an astounding array of modern brightness that bathed the careful architecture and beautiful tiling work with majesty, grace, and exquisite accent.
It was one of my favourite places in the city, and it was a tremendous honor to have an exhibit dedicated to my paintings. The fact that I’d gained a fantastic working relationship with the head curator, Adam Garmont, was simply a coveted perk.
With some time to spare before her arrival, I ascended the last few stairs before the drop-off to my corner of the gallery. I turned at the passage away from the ascent, striding alongside the circular railing that gave a stunning view of the lower atrium levels, and passed several galleries featuring recovered artifacts and priceless art that made my head spin.
But that was nothing compared to when I stepped into my gallery.
Gloria Van Lark matched every story I heard of her. With her attention focused on a wintery landscape piece I’d painted on a five-foot canvas, she stood tall, hawkish, with long black hair and half-moon spectacles. She was dressed in form-fitting black attire under a flowing coat, a colorful shawl, and a pair of white, cubic earrings that glistened as the light touched the fine jewelry tips.
Oh sweet Jesus, Gloria Van Lark is here.
I could feel my phone buzz in my pocket, and I moved to silence the tone from my group texts. Although she stood thirty feet away, Gloria’s head twisted to regard me coolly, and her face settled into a small, wicked smile.
“You should know better than to disturb others with your technology, Riley.”
Just hearing her lips speak my name clashed against the incredible embarrassment I felt at the social faux pas. I quickly dug my phone out and silenced it, slipping it back into my purse.
“Miss Van Lark, it is… an absolute pleasure to finally meet you,” I spoke as I approached her, summoning all the courage my heart could muster.
“Charmed,” she spoke almost sarcastically, extending her delicately manicured hand. I noticed a flash of green across her nails as I lightly shook it, matching her pressure.
“What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked politely.
She ignored the question, turning back to face the wintery landscape. “I see that you rely on a clear coat water-based style. Popularized to American culture by the famous Bob Ross.”
“I grew up watching his work,” I nodded, fondly remembering his thick, curly afro, his soft and gentile voice, and the kindness in those old, warm eyes.
“Yes, as did many,” she replied. “He did great things for making the production of passable art accessible to otherwise talentless imbeciles… in some cases, those said imbeciles came to learn a touch of greatness… it was rare, but it happened.”
I nodded along, trying to determine if she was commenting on American culture, or insulting me. I assumed it was probably both.
“I’ve heard of you in passing, Riley.”
“What have you heard of me?” I asked, trying to keep the sheer curiosity out of my tone.
“A number of things: that you’ve a natural at your craft, that you work quickly and efficiently, that you are a humble but confident artist with friendly working relationships with a dozen museums in this city alone… what do you have to say about these things?”
I was caught a little off-guard as she turned her undivided attention to me, the creases around her eyes settling into a deep, analytic gaze.
“I… would say that you haven’t heard wrong,” I responded. “I work hard at this,” I waved to the paintings surrounding us. “I’ve dedicated my life to the craft. I’
ve been lucky enough to support myself exclusively through my art… sent on international retreats… that I’ve–”
“Yes, yes, your resume is very impressive,” she drolly commented. “If you honestly think I care even the slightest about your past, then you fail to grasp what will earn a single spot in the Spinnoc.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Riley, do you deserve a place in the Spinnoc?”
I didn’t know how to answer this, and I suspected that it was a trick question. Does she want me to be bold, or does she want me to be humble? What does this woman want from me?
I answered the first thing that came to mind.
“…No.”
Her eyes flared open.