I had a thousand questions. “Does she sell it? Or display it anywhere?”
“She sells to galleries, yeah. They’re in a few places in town.”
WHAT. Shar was going to get a talking to. She could’ve at least mentioned this before everything went down last winter. “That’s incredible. I’d love to see it.”
“Serious?”
“Yes, I’m being serious.” I shouldn’t have sounded so shocked. It was a fair question, considering I’d given him ninety percent sarcasm in all of our in-person conversations up to that point. But that was before he started speaking my language.
He blew out a breath against the phone receiver. “Okay.”
We both paused, and my heart got nervous and jumpy at the sudden silence. “So if your mom knows NormanMarcus—” I left in the last name just to mess with him, “how are you not giving him the respect he deserves? You must know who he is, and yet you want to call him buddy Norm?—”
“I don’t really know who he is.”
I made a noise that was half gasp, half scoff. “Logan, he’stheguy. Norman Marcus has been consulting for the Glenbow since before we could walk. The man once petitioned for the National Gallery to feature a canola field painted by a man who was legally blind. People quote his critiques like scripture. My first year at Douglas, I skipped a midterm review to watch him speak at the Rozsa. He’s—” Even without seeing Logan’s face, I could tell I was losing him. I needed to make this more relevant. “He’s the Pavel Bure of the art world. Everyone’s copying his moves and pretending they came up with them first.”
Silence. Then an “Oh, Shit,” from Logan.
“Yeah.”
“So this is a big deal.”
“Correct.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Maybe that was the key to life, never understanding the weight of your actions. “Ignorance is bliss” and all that. Here Logan was, casually setting up breakfast with the man who curatedBodies Held.Provocative rebar torsos hanging from steel cables. I wrote an entire paper on it. That show rewired my brain.
“He just seems like a normal guy. He’s been around since I was in high school,” he went on. “My parents host these dinners. Charity and art events. I just thought he was rich.”
I laughed. “Well, he is that. Has he ever shown your mom’s work?”
“Yep. A couple of times. She has this new series she’s doing. I think he’s going to feature it in the new space.”
Hope fizzed in my chest. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. To have an in? To be able to meet Mr. Marcus through an artist he already appreciated?
Impostor syndrome immediately set in. What would I even say to him? Would I have anything to offer besides sweat equity?
I shifted on the floor. My left leg was going numb. “He’s not going to take me seriously.”
“Join the club.”
“What does that mean?”
Logan sighed. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” I held my breath, wondering if he’d open up. Then chastised myself when I realized how much I wanted him to.
This was Logan. Selfish, egotistical, Logan. But as much as I tried to activate the anger I’d felt in the grocery store, I could barely get it to spark. He was doing something nice for me. For no reason. At least . . . not that I could see.
“So, what do you even bring to something like this? Do you show up with a briefcase or something?” Logan asked.
I snorted. “Do I seem like a briefcase person to you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “What does a briefcase person look like?”
“Like Maddie.”
He barked a laugh. “Yeah. Fair.”
“I’ll bring slides,” I said, warming up now. “Photos, my sculpture pieces, maybe a one-page artist statement.”
