Still holding my phone to my ear, I shake myself out of my reverie, and stick my cell inside my jeans pocket. I have to shower and get dressed. Tearing away the smock, I toss it on the wooden stool beside the table. Exiting the studio, I rush down the stairs and back to my bedroom, and finally reach my closet. Flipping on the light, I walk into the giant box-shaped space and stop at the far wall where my party dresses hang. I remove two choices, both still with tags, both splurges meant for shows I was to attend just before my father’s death. One is a deep royal blue, made of lace with a V-neck and gorgeous sheer long sleeves. I love those sleeves but my favorite part of the dress is that it’s ankle length with a classic front slit. I like classic. I like the way it makes me feel like the woman I forgot I was until I met Nick Rogers. I’m not sure why he woke me up. I’m pretty sure I will wish he didn’t later, but tonight, I need to feel like me, like Faith Winter, not an employee of the winery.
I refocus on the second dress, which is… well, it’s a black dress. That’s the problem. No matter what it asserts otherwise, its color is my deterrent, that says death to me, a reminder of all loss. Of the people I love. Of hope. Of dreams. Of so many things. I don’t know if I can survive this night, while being reminded of all those reasons I can’t allow my past to be my present. But tonight is about that past, and about my art, though I really don’t know what that means to me anymore. It’s a hobby and nothing more. It can’t be. It’s…wait. My spine straightens. Josh said tonight could set me up for a good payday, and I already know a second mortgage on a new mortgage won’t do for me. But do I dare believe, my art, my past, could help me get out of this hole that I’m in with the winery? Or at least buy me some time to find the money my mother has to have somewhere? I hope.
I set the blue dress on the bench in the middle of the room and turn around, then sprint from the closet, through the bathroom and bedroom. Running back to the stairs to my studio, I start pulling sheets off easels, staring at each of the dozen pieces I’ve completed, one by one. Looking for the ones that Josh might think are worthy of his representation. And the truth is, I never think any of my work is worthy of representation, so why am I even trying to figure this out? But I’ve sold work for up to seven thousand dollars. Okay, only a couple of pieces and they took time to sell, but if I could sell just some of these, I could buy that time I need. And if I wasn’t so damn confused about how my two worlds fit together, I might have already thought about this. I’ll just show them all to Josh. I rush to the office in the corner, ignoring the glass desk in the center and walk to a closet, where I remove a camera.
Returning to the studio, I snap photos of my work. I’m about to head back downstairs, but somehow I end up standing in front of the freshly painted easel. A portrait. I never paint portraits, and not because I don’t enjoy them, or have no skills in that area, but rather because of the way the brush exposes secrets a person might not want exposed, and I value privacy. I value my secrets staying my secrets and I assume others feel the same. But I want to know Nick Rogers’ secrets, and I know he has secrets. Which is why I haven’t gone to the internet for answers, where I will discover only sterile data. Instead, I found myself painting him, and the hard, handsome lines of his face are defined, but it’s his navy blue eyes that I’ve fretted over. Eyes, that along with what I’ve sensed and spoken of with him, tell a story I don’t quite understand, but I will. I have the weekend off from the winery as my gift to myself, and I plan to finish the painting. I plan to know that man more and figure him out before I see him again. Doing so feels important, for reasons I can’t quite say right now. Maybe he’s my enemy or maybe he just enjoys the dynamics of playing that game. Perhaps I’m just trying to feed myself a fa?ade of control by trying to figure out the unknown that I simply won’t and don’t have with that man. I wonder if he knows he doesn’t have it either.
Whatever the case, it won’t matter tonight. As Josh said. The event has been sold out for months. No one, not even Tiger and his arrogance, can snag a ticket. And since I’m not going back to the winery until Sunday night, I suspect he’ll be gone back to wherever he practices by then. In fact, maybe I’m wrong about seeing him again. If he gets back to work, and gets busy, he might even forget whatever challenge I represent. My painting might actually be the last I see of the man. This should be a relief. It’s not.
By the time I email the photos to Josh, I have an hour to shower and dress. By the time I fret over underwear and thigh highs as if Tiger might show up and rip them off of me, then move on to change from the blue dress to the black dress twice, I’m running late. Finally, though, I return to the blue dress, and rush through fussing with my makeup and curling my hair that I usually leave straight. Even choosing shoes becomes an ordeal, but I settle on strappy black heels, and a small black purse, with a little sparkle, which is also Chanel, and purchased by someone I’d rather not think about.
I’m in the car, starting the engine, ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Josh and it’s a thirty-minute drive. He calls me at fifteen, “Where are you?”
“The traffic was bad.”
“There is no traffic. Faith—”
“I sent you photos of the work I have done.” All except one particular portrait.
“Did you now?” he asks. “I’ll take a look now and you’re forgiven.”
“You don’t have time now. I know that.”
“I’ll make time. Meet me at the gallery instead of the hotel. Go to the back door. Expect security.” He hangs up.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He’s looking at them now. I suck another breath in. What if he hates them? What if dabbling at my craft has made me forget what my craft is all about? “What was I thinking?” I pull up to a stoplight and I know exactly how to make myself feel good about this decision again. I grab my phone and tab to my voice mail, and hit the button to play all messages. One after another, harsh messages play from the bank, or a vendor that is past due. Each a brutal reminder of why I chose to send those photos to my agent. I have to get everyone caught up, and one by one, I’ve been working to do just that.
It’s right at seven when I turn into the Chateau Cellar Winery that is home to the gallery. It’s literally a stone castle, covered in ivy with a dungeon-style front door. Just the sight of it has my nerves jolting into action, fluttering in my chest and belly, and not just because I’m late. I’ve never been featured in a show this high profile. And while I tell myself this night is one last hurrah, as I turn into the parking lot, I see every space is filled, and all I can think is that this is my dream. This is still my dream. I pull on around to the back of the building and find the lot equally full, those nerves expanding but I dare to allow myself some excitement as well. How amazing would it be if my dream saved my father’s?