I laughed, the tension draining a bit. “Well, as long as it’s not a mausoleum, we’re winning.”
We started the walk-through. Lysander and I flanked Inez like we were security detail, though it was clear who was leading the parade. I pointed out the tall windows and explained my plan to use the front wall for her largest canvases. “The natural light in the morning is basically made for your color palette. It’s like—here, look—” I dragged them to the tape marks by the window and pulled up the mockup on my tablet, then superimposed it against the blank wall.
Inez squinted at the screen, then at the wall. She nodded, just once. “Yes. The lavender inDrowned Plainswill glow in this light.”
Lysander patted my arm, then stepped aside to let us have our moment. I led Inez down the corridor to the secondary gallery, describing how I’d rotate in her smaller pieces as part of a seasonal display. “And I want to hangmy own landscapes in the permanent section here—” I pointed to a stretch of wall that still had two exposed junction boxes and a scribbled note from the electrician: “NO POWER UNTIL INSPECTED.”
Inez examined the space, then said, “Your work is very different from mine. But I think the contrast will be good.” She fixed me with those hawk eyes. “You are not afraid of bright colors.”
I grinned. “I am afraid of mediocrity. Color is easier to fix than boring.”
She smiled for real then, and it was like sunlight catching a mountain ridge.
We finished the circuit, past the unfinished bathroom (tile laid, no mirror yet) and to the back into what would become my future assistant’s office. Lysander was already there, leaning on the cheap folding table I’d pressed into service as a desk. He held up a finger: “Before I forget, your caterer is a genius. These little cranberry-fig goat cheese crostinis?” He bit one in half. “Michelin-star level.”
I looked at the spread I’d set out—Aspen’s best, the stuff that made even contractors pause mid-cursing. There were canapés with shrimp tarts, bacon-wrapped dates, and a cheese platter that looked like it belonged at a wedding. Inez reached for a pastry, then motioned at the walls. “When do you open?”
“Soft launch is in three weeks, if the building inspector isn’t a total bastard. I want your work up by then. Your exhibitionwillbe the grand opening.”
I waited for a sign of worry, but Inez just said, “You will need the lighting finished by next Thursday. The colors need warm white. Not blue.” She glanced at the fixtures overhead. “Those are very…” She fished for a word.
“Warehouse?” I offered.
She nodded. “Yes. Warehouse.”
“There will be lighting tracks installed that can be adjusted per the artist’s instructions.” I told her.
Lysander shrugged out of his coat and perched on the edge of the table. “I’m so happy with this, Brie, honestly. You’re a natural.” He crossed his legs, balancing his phone on his knee. “I’ve already told four buyers that you’re the real deal. No pressure, but Inez’s whole career might ride on whether Dairyville’s premier gallery has a successful opening.”
I tried to laugh, but the words landed with real weight. “No pressure at all,” I echoed. “Just the fate of the Southwest’s best new artist and the future of my entire adult life.”
Lysander grinned. “You’re going to crush it. I can tell. I’m not supposed to play favorites, but you are my favorite.”
I looked at Inez, who was now moving paintings out of their crates, holding them up to the walls one at a time, making tiny hand gestures like she was already arranging the whole show in her mind.
I found myself smiling, not just polite but with real, honest-to-god joy. “Thank you,” I said, and it felt too small, but I meant it.
We spent the next hour plotting layouts, talking through everything from price points to which day of the week would attract the most visitors. Lysander had all these spreadsheets and color-coded documents, but he was surprisingly chill about letting me take the lead on curation. Inez was more interested in the details—“Will there be security at night?” and “Do you want artist statements in English or Spanish?”—but even she was clearly energized by the prospect of showing here.
Every once in a while, I caught Lysander just looking at me, an inscrutable little smile on his face. At one point, he pulled me aside while Inez was busy measuring the west wall.
“You know,” he said, voice low and serious, “I could see you doing this in L.A. Or New York. Maybe Berlin, if you wanted to be really insufferable.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not happening. I like it here.”
He grinned, then his voice went soft. “You belong here, don’t you? That’s rare.”
I wanted to argue, but I didn’t. “Maybe I do,” I said. “Or maybe I just want to prove to everyone who ever doubted me that I can make something out of nothing.”
As if wanting to lighten the atmosphere, he spouted, “Marketing. I know you have your Instagram, and I can do a push through our agency, but have you considered collaborating with local businesses? You know, cross-promote. Aspen could make a Wildbrush pastry, the dance studio could do a pop-up performance during the opening, stuff like that.”
I nodded, scribbling notes. “I love it. I want the opening to feel like an event, not just a gallery show. Maybe live music? Or a mural in the alley?”
Lysander clapped. “Yes! This is the energy. It’ll be a party.”
We went around and around—website banners, print ads for the Amarillo paper and Dallas/Fort Worth area advertising, Facebook event, even a possible write-up in the university arts magazine. I let myself imagine what it would look like: the space packed with people, voices echoing against the brick, every wall humming with art and ambition.
At one point, Lysander looked at his phone, then locked eyes with me. “So, the real reason I’m here…” He trailed off, tapping his nails on the glass. “I want to stay through the opening. See it through, you know?”
