by Meghan March
“What kind of information?”
“The kind that could be very lucrative.”
“I’m afraid I—”
“Just hear me out before you say anything.”
I go silent.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I love to feature local artists at Noble Art, and I have a gut feeling that it was a local who made that sculpture. There was too much passion in that piece for it not to be made by someone who has the blood of this city running through their veins.”
I say nothing, hoping my silence will help her get to the point faster. It works.
“I want to purchase, rather than consign, a few more pieces with the same feel, and I’m willing to pay a fair price for them because I know I’ll be able to make money. I have several clients who will snap them up as quickly as I can get them into the gallery.”
The confidence in her tone is a balm to some of the wounds Standish inflicted, but I’m not ready to give her any kind of answer except . . .
“If I can get in touch, I’ll pass the information on. I can’t make any promises, though.”
“There’s no time limit on the offer,” she says, and I relax a fraction, even though I can hear the victory in her tone. “But . . . I’ll be honest, with the publicity from the auction and the rising interest and speculation, now is the time to strike. So, if this person has any kind of business sense at all, it would be extremely intelligent for him or her to get in touch with me sooner rather than later.”
My business sense is something I pride myself on, so her comment feels like a dare.
“I’ll make sure to add that.”
“I know most artists aren’t the best business people, but the ones that are . . . you’d be surprised how solid of a living they can make in this town if they play their cards right. It’s not as difficult as you’d think, especially if the person is smart about it. Feel free to pass that along as well.”
The hair on the back of my neck goes up like a dog scenting trouble. Does she suspect? The hints she’s dropping seem specifically delivered to pique my curiosity, but all the ugliness from Standish still remains, casting a pall over the entire situation.
“I’ll pass it along, but I can’t make any promises I’ll be able to get you a response.” I work to keep all emotion out of my voice, which takes some effort.
“Thank you, Temperance. I appreciate it. Let me give you the best ways to contact me.”
I write down both of Valentina’s numbers and her email address, then hang up the phone, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with that information.
One statement continues to play on repeat through my brain. “You’d be surprised how solid of a living they can make . . .”
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Art will never provide the same stability as a regular paycheck coming from Seven Sinners. And even more than that, welding scrap metal together and calling it art will never provide the kind of respectability I want, especially within the art community. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get where I am to even consider throwing it away to chase some crazy dream.
But one piece sold for fifty thousand dollars, a voice in my head whispers.
“Yeah, because someone else’s name was attached to it. Someone people had actually heard of and care about.”
I feel every inch the fraud because of it. None of those paddles would have gone up in the air if the bidders had known that the person who’d picked through the scrap yard and spent hours designing and welding was me.
I’m a nobody. But at least I’m making a name for myself here.
And besides, I’m already taking enough risks right now.
Chapter 16
Temperance
By the time I find a parking spot in the Quarter, two blocks away from my apartment, the weight of the day has me dragging ass to my gate that reminds me altogether too much of the wrought iron marking the entrance to Haven. It seems like everything reminds me of it today, or maybe I just don’t want to forget last night.
It’s already nearly seven when I unlock the gate and carry my bag down the narrow brick pathway leading into the enclosed courtyard out back. Music from Harriet’s open window—opera, of course—greets me as I stop and survey what looks like a party in the making.
“Tempe, girl, that you?” Harriet calls from the outdoor table where a lavish buffet is set up under a huge live oak draped with thick blankets of Spanish moss and resurrection fern. Fairy lights and solar-powered Chinese lanterns dangle from the branches, and the tinkle of the fountains and the koi pond are the only sounds beyond the noise of the city and the music. The blue water of the small splash pool reflects the lights, adding ambience.
I jerk my head, looking around for the other guests, worried I’m interrupting, but no one else is here. At least, not yet.
“Are you having a party?”
Interacting with humans tonight, beyond my landlady, might be more than I can handle.
She lifts her champagne flute with a shake of her head. “Party? No. Not tonight. Come join me.”
The decadent setup of the table would seem extravagant for one person by anyone else’s standards, but one thing Harriet believes in is embracing life and enjoying every moment. Calling for a takeaway spread like this for herself shouldn’t surprise me at all.
She’s the one person who I might actually be able to spill my entire story to and get real, valid advice on the situation Valentina has presented me with. Harriet’s a shrewd businesswoman who owns a few shops in the Quarter, but doesn’t run any of them herself. Instead, she spends her time painting and traveling the world.
“You have another wineglass?”
Tilting her head back, she laughs. “Silly question.”
She produces one from behind the centerpiece on the table and reaches for a bottle of champagne resting on ice. A knot of tension in my upper back loosens a few degrees. She pours, almost letting it overflow, before handing it off to me as I approach.
As she raises her glass to clink the rim of mine, she says, “Champagne is the answer tonight. I don’t care what the question is. You can write that down if you’d like. Feel free to refer to it whenever you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like you do now. You need to get laid more often, girl.”
I choke on the perfectly crisp, bubbly liquid and lower the glass as I cough. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You need more than the tip. You need a guy who knows what the hell he’s doing. Preferably by multiple guys so you can compare styles. But not at the same time.” She grins at me with a wink. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Umm . . . I’ll get right on that . . .” I trail off and realize I probably should have chosen my words with more care.
“You’re damn right you will. Find a man and climb on top to ride.”
I’m tempted to drain this glass, but out of respect for the pricey label on the bottle, I take a sip instead.
“This is delicious, by the way.” At this point, I’m ready to change the subject to just about anything.
“Of course it is. I don’t swill from the twist-off bottles. I’m not sixty anymore.”
Harriet’s comment scares up a chuckle from my throat. She’s truly one of my most favorite people in the world.
“You’re sure there’s no special occasion we’re celebrating tonight with this fancy spread?” I ask the question more to make conversation than anything else.
“It’s . . .” She looks at me, her brow wrinkled. “What day of the week is it?”
“Friday.”
She gestures with her glass. “It’s finally Friday! Or Fri-yay, as I like to call it. Isn’t that all the reason we need? Not that one needs a reason to celebrate still kicking around on this spinning bit of rock hurtling through the universe.”
“Fair enough.” I lift the glass to my lips again and sip, letting the crisp wine smooth some of the battered edges of my soul.
It’s not
usually my MO to take solace in alcohol, but tonight . . . tonight I’m not sure I care. It’s not like I’m drinking whiskey, the devil that dragged my dad under. Seven Sinners was his label of choice when he had the money, which he rarely did.
Makes my job kind of ironic, doesn’t it?
Harriet picks up a bone china plate emblazoned with skulls and flowers and loads it with delicacies.
“Here, try this aged cheddar. It’s decadent. And these grapes taste like they came straight off the vine. Speaking of vines, I bought a vineyard this morning.”
My chin jerks in her direction. “What? Where?”
She hands me the plate. “Italy, of course. Where else would I buy a vineyard?”
I lower the selection of meats, cheeses, and fruits to the table and absently reach for a linen napkin while I turn her statement over in my head. “Have you been planning the acquisition long?”
Harriet’s throaty laugh washes over me, instantly making me realize how silly the question probably is.
“Of course not. A friend of mine mentioned today he was tight on money and was going to sell to his neighbor—a boor of a man who insulted my landscapes by calling them quaint while I was there—so I offered to buy it purely out of spite. He’s wanted the land for years, but Pietro has managed to hold on to it, even though he has a terrible head for business. He’s much better at cunnilingus.”
I choke on the piece of cheese I just popped into my mouth.
“Good Lord, girl. Do you need the Heimlich?” Harriet pronounces the word like she’s suddenly become a native German speaker. Which, for all I know, she could be. Nothing about this woman surprises me anymore, except, apparently, her dropping the word cunnilingus over champagne.
I cover my mouth as I cough and shake my head. “That’s . . . interesting.”
“It really is. He has this technique that’s truly unique. He does this thing with his tongue that . . . I don’t know how to explain it.”
She glances up at the sky as though trying to find the right words, and I change the subject as quickly as humanly possible, latching on to anything I can.
“How do you handle that?”
“Well, normally I’d grab him by the hair, but those patches around the side are getting a bit sparse—”
Thankful I’m not chewing anymore or in danger of choking, I quickly interrupt. “No, I mean the comments about your art.”
“From small-minded idiots? Usually, I pay them no mind.” She smiles sweetly. “But sometimes I like to ruin their lives. It depends on my mood. This one time, I contacted a hit man . . .” She looks away as though remembering the incident, and I’m a little frightened by what she might say next.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Harriet is batshit crazy, but I’m also a little in awe of her.
“You had someone killed?”
Her expression sharpens. “Darling, don’t you know you never admit to those things? Legal Basics 101.” She reaches for her plate and loads it again. “Why the sudden interest in the irrelevant opinions of others? Your friend finally going to get over herself and sell one of those sculptures?”
This time, I nearly choke on a piece of meat.
Harriet’s been after me to sell one of the two pieces in my apartment. My furniture may not be much to write home about, but she’s enraptured with the small sculpture of a blue heron, my mama’s favorite bird. I’m not sure why I keep it around, but I can’t bring myself to sell it either.
I take a solid ten seconds to decide whether to seek her advice, but it’s already a foregone conclusion. Harriet’s opinion, even though it may be zany, is one that I value.
“She actually did. It was an accident.”
Harriet’s smile threatens to crack her face. “I knew it! I saw the paper this morning while I was having my beignet. There’s no way that douchebag Standish could’ve made that piece. I recognized the style immediately. Shows how low that jackass would stoop to try to take credit for it.”
Her assessment of the situation stuns me. “Actually, he was furious to have it attributed to him. Said it was trash.”
The admission feels like glass shards slicing up my throat.
Harriet’s smile fades. “If there was a vineyard he wanted to buy, I’d buy it up this instant. The man is a disgrace to the community. He called me a crazy old lady just last week when I asked him how he found so many crayons to melt to make his latest blob. God forbid he ever makes something brown. It’ll look like he’s been eating too much dairy and decided to put his excrement to use.”
The laughter that bubbles up deep in my belly is the second-best balm to my shredded soul, following Harriet’s ruthless assessment and accompanying cackle.
When we both stop to catch our breath and clutch our stomachs, her expression shifts to sobriety for a beat.
“Normally I wouldn’t be so harsh about art. It’s all subjective, after all, but I truly can’t abide that man.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say after his comments about Keira, you might not have to abide him much longer, but I keep it in following Harriet’s Legal Basics 101 comment.
“Well, his subjective opinion was pretty brutal.”
She waves it off. “I would say that the fifty Gs it netted speaks for itself.”
The conversation I had with Valentina pushes to the forefront of my mind. “A gallery owner made an inquiry about more pieces. She wants to purchase them outright rather than take them on consignment.”
Harriet’s pale eyebrows rise. “Is that so? I’d say that counts a hell of a lot more than Standish’s opinion, not that her art requires monetary validation, but cold hard cash is always nice. Is she going to do it?”
I study the bubbles rising in my champagne flute. “I don’t know.”
Harriet’s long silence drags my attention back to her face. “Do you know what would be the height of stupidity?”
“What?”
“To not take every opportunity to do the thing that makes your soul the happiest, especially when someone’s willing to pay you for it.”
Her easily dispensed wisdom and the knowledge in her faded blue eyes hit me like a fist to the gut.
“You should pass that along to your friend. Free of charge.” She winks.
“But what if . . . what if she hasn’t created anything new in a very long time? What if she’s not sure she still can? What if she lacks time because she has a real job to pay the bills?”
Harriet sips her champagne. “Excuses are like assholes. Everyone’s got one.”
I laugh quietly, shaking my head. “I suppose they are.”
She gestures to the sunset fading in the sky. “There are twenty-four usable hours in every day, especially if you know how to get the good drugs.” Her lips quirk into a smile before she turns more serious. “But all joking aside, it all comes down to one question. How bad does she want it, and how hard is she willing to chase that dream? If she’s not willing to make sacrifices, especially a sacrifice of something as simple and easy as sleep, then she doesn’t want it bad enough.”
How bad do I want it?
Isn’t that what it always comes down to? My entire life has been a struggle, sometimes with me fighting tooth and nail to have the opportunity to go after what I want. A college degree. A job at Seven Sinners. Respectability.
No one has handed me a damn thing. And now, for the first time, someone is holding out one of my dreams on a silver platter, and I’m questioning whether to reach out with both hands and grab on?
That’s not like me at all. In fact, I’m not sure I even recognize myself through this haze of indecision.
“Let me know when you’re going to finally admit there’s no friend in this equation so we can start talking about what you’re going to do about this. If you won’t take ownership of your dream, you’re never going to achieve it.”
I stand and round the table to refill my champagne flute while I digest Harriet’s words. They don’t surprise me. She’s uncannily perceptive
. I take another sip and set the glass down on the table, dropping any hint of pretense.
“Standish called it trash. An abomination.” Uttering the words tears open the wounds he inflicted and splays my true reservations wide.
“Standish wouldn’t know talent if it slapped him in the face. He’s too busy inspecting his own anal cavity.” Harriet reaches out to take my hand in her small, wrinkled one. “But, darling, if you’re going to do this, you’re going to need to grow a much thicker skin. There will always be critics. Doubters. Haters. If there weren’t, then you wouldn’t be doing it right. In the immortal words of Tay-Tay, you have to shake it off.”
Releasing my hand, she waves me off. “Now, go change your clothes, track down a welder and some scrap metal, and create. Here’s your sign, girl. It’s time.”
Chapter 17
Temperance
It’s not quite as simple as going to find a welder and scrap metal, like Harriet said. Or maybe it is. I guide my Bronco the next morning down a road I know by heart. A road I’ve wished a million times I could forget.
The road that leads home.
For others, going home brings feelings of nostalgia, warmth, and maybe excitement, but for me it’s more complicated. Especially because I don’t have a home anymore. The falling-down old cabin has probably been reclaimed by the swamp by now after being left in disrepair for so long. Either way, I’m stopping before I get to the dirt track that would take me back to the place where I lived most of my life.
Buckshot holes puncture a rusted yellow sign showing a black arrow. My designation is just around the next sharp curve.
There’s another reason it’s not as simple as going to find a welder and scrap metal. Coming here to create also involves asking for favors, something I’ve never been good at, and facing some painful, bitter memories.
Should I have called first?
It’s not like I could truly forget the number, even though I’ve long since deleted it. Then again, it’s not like Elijah Devereux has probably started answering his phone on the regular. Some things never change.