“Sorry.” Logan smiled and pulled her into a bear hug. “Just catching up.”
She pushed back and adjusted her hair, then gave him a look that said“get the hell in there, you’re late”before turning her attention on me. “You must be Crystal?”
I nodded, feeling very underdressed in my jeans and sweater.But they were my nice jeans.I put out a hand and shook hers in greeting.
She looked me up and down. “I’m Alice. Come on. We don’t want to keep Norman waiting.”
Logan flashed a smirk, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.See? That’s how you say his name like a normal person.I swallowed my snarky reply, not wanting his mom to overhear it. But it would’ve been a good one.
We walked into a makeshift office with cloudy tarps as walls. Norman Marcus stood at a long table covered in drawings and coffee cups. Black turtleneck, silver glasses, salt-and-pepper hair that curled neatly at the collar. He looked like the kind of person who could stare a painting into hanging straighter.
Nobody spoke, and it took him a moment to look up. He seemed deep in thought, scrutinizing something on a piece of paper, one hand planted on the desk, the other lifted to his mouth where one finger tapped his lower lip thoughtfully.
I mean, who wouldn’t be into this guy, age be damned.
Norman inhaled, snapping out of whatever thought he’d been living in, and straightened. He clicked his tongue. “Ah. You’re here.” He had the faintest French accent, and that only added to the mystique.
“Hello.” I gave a small wave, managing not to call him Sir or Your Majesty, which took real effort. He rounded the desk, and I shook his hand—I, Crystal MacMillan shook Norman Marcus’s hand.
“Coffee?” Alice asked, striding toward a side table with a coffee maker plugged into an orange extension cord.
“Please,” I said, right as Logan said, “I can get it.”
Alice waved him off. “Do your introduction, it’s fine.”
Logan nodded. “Right. So, this is?—”
“Crystal,” Norman finished, his eyes travelling to the portfolio bag. “You’re in your final year at Douglas, yes?” I nodded.
Norman gestured to the area outside the tent. “We’re building a hybrid space. A working artist studio plus exhibitionhall. I want it to be a living, breathing thing. Where art can inspire retroactively, one continuous round.”
My mouth was hanging open. I quickly closed it.
Alice handed me a steaming cup of coffee, but didn’t pass Logan his. “May I have a moment?” She smiled sweetly, tipping her head toward the door. Well, tent slit.
Logan looked between the two of us, but I cut his discomfort out at the knees. “It’s fine. I’m good.”
His lips parted like he was going to say something, but his mom was already walking. He turned and followed, and I hadsomany questions.
Logan’s life was picture-perfect. His parents paid for him to attend premier hockey camps. He never had to work a job in high school, his university was completely covered, and his dad paid for the townhouse he lived in. Now, not only was his dad a real-estate mogul, but his mom seemed to be a total ball-buster.
I loved my family, but what would it have been like to grow up like that?
“May I see?” Norman asked, pointing to my bag, and I thought my heart might explode out of my chest.
All of the art pieces I’d brought flashed in my head, and none of them were good enough. Not to showhim.The idea of spinning and running back to the parking lot seemed far more attractive than walking toward the desk, but Logan wasn’t fully out of the tent yet. He was blocking my exit.
I stepped forward and slipped the strap off my shoulder, laying the bag flat while trying not to mess up the papers and file folders he had sitting there. “These are just a few samples. I’ve been exploring different mediums this year.”
I was going to die. Norman Marcus asked to look at my art pieces. What if he hated them? Worse, what if he was indifferent? Would I have to quit everything and switch my major to communications?
“As you should.” Norman watched me unzip and unfold the bag. Before I could say anything else, he reached in and began examining.
My palms were damp enough, I had to wipe them on my coat. Norman studied in silence. The murmur of Alice’s voice sounded from outside the tent.
“Wire and plaster,” Norman commented, finally. “I like that you make them fight.”
“They started fighting without me,” I said, and he let out an amused “hm.”
