Chapter Fourteen
Samantha
It had been one of the worst weeks of my life. Heartbroken, running on nothing but caffeine and fumes as I scrambled to prep for the biggest night of my career, while still balancing my teaching schedule.
I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed that Ian didn’t come to his normal Tuesday knitting class. Fumiko and Anita—by then fully aware and invested in our relationship—asked where he was, and I could only swallow back my tears with a weak shrug and tell them that he couldn’t make it that day. And at crochet class, Edith fixed me with that all-seeing stare, and I could only wonder at what he might have told her. How he was doing. I was so worried that she would come up and talk to me about him—about our fight—that I rushed out of class as soon as it was over instead of my usual practice of hanging around to take student questions.
That disastrous dinner was on Sunday night, and even though I was noncommittal about phone calls, he did reach out to me on Monday, and again on Tuesday. I was deep in my work, unable and unwilling to take the time to fall apart.
I need some space,I told him in a text message. Maybe we can talk after the show.
It took him a long time to answer—I watched as the three dots wiggled, stopped, wiggled, stopped—until a short, simple reply came through.
OK.
And then nothing.
Somehow, I limped through to the end of the week and completed everything on my list. With Annie’s help, I carefully packed and delivered wall hangings and embroidery, scrubbed the dye from my hands and made myself presentable for the show. I smiled, I shook hands, I made polite conversation—even though I still felt hollow inside. Even though I knew that no matter how the evening went, I would return home to my lonely house, to my lonely bed, and wonder if I would ever speak to Ian again, or if he’d leave for New York without saying a word.
“This is going really well,” Rebecca Silverberg said. We stood in the corner of Puget Sound Arts, watching the customers as they milled through the gallery. Several pieces—maybe even most of them--sported a red SOLD sticker next to them, but I didn’t let myself consider what it might mean for me—not yet, not until I had an actual check in my hands.
I took a sip of my champagne, gripping the glass with numb fingers. “You think?”
“Oh, yeah.” Rebecca cast a practiced eye around the spacious, wood-paneled room, and I could practically hear the gears whirring in her head as she took in the red stickers, and the people who lingered in front of the unsold items. “We’ll probably have you back again sometime, if you’re interested.”
My eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
Rebecca’s red-lipsticked mouth curved up in a smile. I liked her a lot, I decided—she had a good reputation and was smart and funny, the kind of person I wanted in my corner.
“Very serious,” she said, and took a sip from her own champagne. “Artists like you don’t come around very often, and I’m sure we can work out something mutually beneficial.”
I laughed. “Very mercenary.”
On my other side, I heard the click of high heels before Annie’s arm wound around my waist. She hugged me close and I threw an arm around her, grateful for my best friend’s unwavering help during such a rough week.
“It’s amazing,” she murmured. She pressed a smacking kiss to my hair. “Everyone’s talking about how great you are.”
I reddened. “You think so?”
Annie waved a dismissive hand as she pulled away to snag another glass of champagne from a nearby tray. “I’ve been shamelessly eavesdropping all evening, so…yes.” She took a sip of her champagne and shrugged.
By the end of the evening, when the crowds had thinned to just a few stragglers and only a handful of pieces remained unsold, I huddled with Rebecca in her office as she tapped out some numbers on her laptop and frowned as she did some math. My heart pounded—this was my moment of truth, and there was no one with me in that office to hold my hand and tell me that either way, it would all work out.
Finally, Rebecca flipped the laptop around and showed me her spreadsheet. A single highlighted square showed me the sum I would receive, my cut of the evening’s sales.
My mouth went dry, and it was a long few seconds before I manage to get my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Rebecca nodded. “Very sure.” Her eyebrows knitted. “Why, does it seem low to you?”
Low? It’s fucking astronomical, I wanted to say, but instead, I just shook my head. “Nope, looks good to me. Just…I did pretty well tonight. You were right.”
Rebecca gazed at me thoughtfully, and I felt—exposed. Like she saw right through the false bravado that I’d been trying to project all evening. “You deserve every cent,” she finally said. “I promise you—you are that good.”
It’s real, it’s real, you’re an artist and you’re doing it,I thought, but the rest of me remained frozen with shock as Rebecca turned the laptop back around and continued typing. After taxes, there was more than enough to keep me going for months while I cultivated more clients and sold more commissioned pieces. I could teach as much or as little as I wanted, I realized.
A soft knock sounded on the office door, and I turned in my chair to see Annie poke her head in.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said with a wide smile. “Sam, there’s somebody who wants to see you.”