Lysander Hale
I scrolled to the attachments. The first image was of a massive,impossible sky—watercolor on canvas, with the colors blown out to near-electric, clouds like bruises and sun flares. The second was a bleached desert with a single dead tree, the kind of painting that made you feel dry in the throat just looking at it. The CV said the artist’s name was Inez Chavez, age 24, a Santa Fe native.
My head buzzed. This was it. This was the kind of stuff I’d hoped to show, the kind of painter that made Dairyville more than a punchline.
I set up a Zoom for noon, then scurried to the bathroom to check my face. I’d showered this morning, but my hair was a tangle and the blue streaks had lost their luster. I did the best I could with a little water, then redid my eyeliner with the trembling precision of a surgeon in an earthquake. The mirror made me look tired but determined. I stuck out my tongue at it, just to prove I wasn’t scared.
Back at my makeshift desk, I rehearsed my lines. “Thank you so much for reaching out. I’m obsessed with Inez’s work. We’d love to host her. I’m open to your ideas for the show.” I tried to say “curatorial direction” without wanting to die. I opened and closed the Zoom window three times, just to be sure my camera worked.
At 11:59, the screen went black, then flickered to life. Lysander appeared, perfectly lit in some fancy Boston office, the kind of guy who looked more like a catalog model than a human being. He was early thirties, with slicked-back platinum hair, a perfect jawline, and a smile that made you want to simultaneously impress him and punch him in the face. He wore a tailored blue dress shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled just so. When he said “hi,” his accent came through in sharp consonants and vowels that stretched out like taffy.
“Brie Lawson!” he said, grinning. “I feel like I’m talking to royalty.”
I laughed. “I promise, I’m barely local gentry.”
He winked. “Well, the grapevine says otherwise. I’m familiar with your work. I know you haven’t hit it big. You seem to have been absent from the art scene for a bit. But, I think the new gallery’s going to blow up well beyond little Dairyville, Texas.”
I tried to act casual and play down my time away from the art world. “Thanks Lysander. And yeah. I unfortunately had to step back for a couple of years. Damn life just got right in the way of me doing what I was bornto do.” I laughed. “But this gallery is my passion. Right now it’s more of a blank canvas, but we’re getting there.”
He leaned in, elbows on his desk. “I’m going to cut to the chase. I think you’re exactly the person to launch Inez Chavez. She’s a prodigy, but she’s got zero market presence. She needs someone with vision and guts. Doing what you’re doing tells me you’ve got both.”
It took everything I had not to blush. “Based on the work you sent me, I believe you’re right. It’s…stunning. I want to see it in person.”
“Easy fix,” Lysander said. “She’s an easy flight from Santa Fe. I can bring her by next week.”
I almost spit out my coffee. “You’re coming to Texas?”
He laughed, flashing teeth. “My boyfriend says I need to get out of New England or I’ll never lose this accent! You know, where’s the keys to my cah, I need to drive to the store and all that.” His laughter was infectious. “Plus, I want to see the space.”
Something in me relaxed, knowing he was spoken for. The pressure to impress without flirting was instantly gone.
“Bring him,” I said. “There’s a great steakhouse down the block, if you’re not a vegetarian.”
Lysander’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll hold you to that.” He leaned back, then cocked his head. “Can I ask a personal question, Brie?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Why there? Why Dairyville, when you could be running a gallery in Austin or even New York?”
I hadn’t expected the question. I hesitated, then shrugged. “I think there’s beauty in starting over. In making something out of nothing. I want to prove that you don’t have to be born to it. That you can be a little messy, a little weird, and still make it. And I guess I believe in family. My mom and sister are here, and that’s where I want to be.”
He nodded, looking genuinely impressed. “You’re going to be great at this. And if you ever want to get out of Dairyville, let me know. Hale & Marrow always has room for rebels.”
The rest of the call was logistics—shipping schedules, marketing ideas, possible dates for the opening. Lysander was a fountain of advice, and by the time we hung up, my notebook was a battlefield of scribbles and exclamation points.
When the call ended, I closed the laptop and let my heart settle. This was happening. I had a show; I had a gallery, and in a week, a man who I hoped would become a good friend was flying out to validate my existence.
I felt a swell of pride. I’d done this. I was doing it.
I checked my phone. There was a text from Gunner:
Home tonight after 7. Let me know if you want dinner. Or dessert.
I grinned, typing back:
How about both? I’ve got a lot to celebrate.
I set the phone down and stared out the window at the backyard with the pretty lemon tree and thought about the gallery. I pictured it filled with light and color, laughter and art.
