Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
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’s 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 facade 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 have 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 only 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, then rush through fussing with my makeup and curling my hair, which I usually leave straight. Even choosing shoes becomes an ordeal, but I settle on strappy black heels, along with a small black purse with a little sparkle that is also Chanel, 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, tab to my voicemail, 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.