I mindlessly work through my inbox. Confirm the lunch meeting with the local boutique hotel interested in some artwork. Check the box to refill my allergy meds. Ignore the nagging email from that insufferable PTO president, Jen, pressuring me to work the Harvest Carnival. A new email pops up with the subject line:Inquiry for Commissioned Portrait, right as Emma flies into the kitchen, iPad in hand.
A grunt escapes her lips. “Iknewit!”
Setting my work curiosity aside, I carefully close my laptop and prop my elbows on the counter to look at my disgruntled daughter. “Knew what?”
“Coach gave me a B for the quarter, Mom.” Her wild eyes match her tone and I grab the iPad away from her before she causes it harm, handing her a banana instead.
“But the quarter only ended Friday—how does he already have grades posted?” I keep my voice light and playful, suggesting with my inflection that maybe the P.E. teacher was joking around.
“Because it’s not like P.E. is hard to grade. You either are there to participate or you’re not.” She tears into the banana with gusto, discarding the peel forcefully onto the floor. “And thanks to dumb Hawaii, I was not there for the final recorded mile.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy to fix.” I wait for her eyes to meet mine and give her a smile. “I’ll text Reese’s mom to see if I can do drop-off instead of pickup today. I’ll go talk to your teacher and ask if you can make up that run today after school. How about that?”
“Really?” There’s relief in her expression that makes my heart turn over. The best part of being a mom is knowing I’m capable of offering solutions to my child’s worries, anxiety, and bad day. Emma’s ten and though she’s an old soul, she’salso got the typical tunnel vision of peers her age. She forgets I’m thirty-five and don’t hold teachers to the same standard of respect that she does. Coach was a last-minute hire when the old P.E. teacher got a job at Boise State University, and I haven’t met the new guy yet, but I’m guessing he is twenty-two and fresh out of college.
He’s probably worried about following Principal Bennett’s rule book to make a good impression. I can respect that, but I can also walk into the gym and kindly remind him Emma got prior authorization to make up her missed work. A two-minute chat and she’ll be happy again. Then I can get back on track with the long day ahead of me. “You think it’ll work, Mom?”
“Yeah.” I release a puff of air from my lips, further proving it’s no big deal. Nothing worth her stressing over. “In fact, I’ll run it with you if you want me to. How fast do you need to do it to get an A?”
“Eight minutes and seven seconds.”
“Perfect!” Completing a mile under ten minutes has never been part of my life’s accomplishments, but we’ll worry about that this afternoon, just like that pile of laundry.
The morning’schange in plans means I pull into the parking lot right as the first bell rings. Emma and Reese scurry up to the front doors, ushered in by the staff who deal with morning drop-off. I stay in the car and let the last-minute stragglers get into the building, pulling up my email on my phone to circle back to the unread one about the portrait. I’mrarely reached out to for that kind of work since becoming the queen of landscapes. It’s got to be a scam.
From:[email protected]
Subject: Inquiry for Commissioned Portrait
Ms. Adler:
My name is Jaqueline Peters and I am the manager of Golden Desert LLC. My client discovered you and while research shows you are an artist that focuses on landscapes, she was wondering if you’ve ever done a portrait. Furthermore, she’d like to know if you’d be willing to meet and discuss the possibility of doing hers. She’s a fan.
Please let me know either way.
Best,
J
Teeth firmly bitingmy lower lip, I do a quick web search for Golden Desert LLC. There are a handful of options. I refine my search, adding in Jaqueline’s name and there it is. A simple website, minimal text, no photographs. Nothing for me to go on other than it’s real-ish—props to the con artist who went and did the bare minimum to set up their scam. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten an off-brand request and usually I discard them, or my assistant, Callie, will get an oddball email on behalf of me, which results in a good laugh before moving on.
I started out in abstracts before Emma came along. For a while, I lived in New York and then Southern California, where my success was measured by vibrant gallery openingsand various accolades. After an artistic risk blackballed me from my social circles, I moved to Idaho and turned to landscapes. They’re boring, but they’ve paid the bills and given us a comfortable life. It’s been a decade since I’ve pivoted, and emails like this remind me who I once was. A young artist so close to getting her work in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. Being potentially commissioned for something not involving mountains or rivers reignites my lost dream, and I recognize I’m still haunted by what I lost. I make art, sure, but it’s hotel art, not museum-worthy.
The second bell rings, and I take that as my cue to head on in to the building to be the mama bear for my child. As I walk up the sidewalk, I tap a quick text to Callie and ask her to do a little digging on this Golden Desert company and tell her I’ll see her for that lunch meeting with the boutique hotel.
The doors to Garnet Charter School are two sets of automatic sliding doors. One of the many quirks in its design I can’t help but appreciate. The school bought the two-story building from an assisted living center when they moved their operations up the road closer to the foothills, giving their residents better views of Table Rock and the valley. The large footprint allows for a K-12 enrollment, which is perfect for our little family since Emma has proudly declared she will be a Golden Eagle until she graduates.
The foyer has comfortable seating for the kids to gather and socialize before school and provides somewhere for all the after-school clubs to meet. Decorated in the warm beiges and sage greens found in the foothills around our east end of town, it’s an inviting space.
I cross the room to the office and sign in, avoiding Jen’s eager wave where she stands at the copier, attempting to make eye contact with me. She might be PTO president but I swearshe’s in the building more than Principal Bennett.Must not let her know I’ve noticed her—I’m okay supporting the Harvest Party by spending an hour with Emma while she participates in the activities, but I do not want to be tied to a booth all night. For the past six years, I’ve helped at nearly every event and for once, I’d like to show up after it has started and leave well before it’s done.
“Nola! Can we talk?”
I roll my eyes but have to admire her relentlessness. “Got to run! We’ll catch up later,” I say, heading down the hall without looking back.
The gym is tucked near the back of the school. The remodeling crew knocked down a couple of walls between four private residence rooms and what was once the salon to turn it into a large enough space for the kids to play pickleball or half-court basketball. Coach’s back is to me when I enter, and he breaks the seventh graders into two teams for volleyball. I wait until they’ve taken their spots on the court or sidelines. There’s something familiar about his stance even from behind, the way his legs stand shoulder width apart, one arm clutching his clipboard while the other gestures as he calls out directions. Maybe I unknowingly saw him at back-to-school night after all. I’m actually pretty embarrassed I don’t know his name now that I’m coming to talk to him, but I’ve been distracted with finalizing a collection for my largest account the last few months and not as involved at school as I usually am.
