I sigh and confirm, “Yeah, that’s the one.”
Last week, I’d finally sat down and filled Mariah in on everything that had happened with Devo and the painting. I gave her the high-level details, at least.
Right now, I’d very much like to get back to the sketchpad in front of me, but I know Mariah is going to continue.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaims as she goes to hold down the corners with cans of garbanzo beans and crushed tomatoes. I shrug. Although... even now, I can admit to myself that the painting is in fact, stunning. If you’re into that kind of art, I mean. I don’t know if I am anymore.
Devo’s sandy-haired assistant had delivered the canvas late last Friday. I’d been wary of deliveries ever since my Muse Paintingreveal. I wasn’t in the mood to have anyone else weigh in on my lifestyle and choices via ominous letter.
From the top step of my stoop, I looked the assistant up and down with pursed lips. Devo, of course, was nowhere in sight. What could he and histeamstill want from me? My soul?
The young man and I assessed each other for a moment longer than what would be considered normal. He cocked his head as he took in my crossed arms and defensive stance.
“You must have made quite the impression,” he started off.
I scoffed. “Says who?”
He went to scratch his temple and seemed to consider his next words carefully. “Do you, remember... who my boss is?”
“Yes!” I snapped. My poker face is often poor. I wear it all on my sleeve and everyone around me is in the danger zone until I stabilize. Guilt tugged at my heart—I knew he was just doing his job. “Yes,” I managed to repeat more calmly. I smoothed my hands down my light-wash jeans. “I do,” I jumped back in before he could respond, “And I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“My name’s John.” He put his hand to his chest.
“Charlotte,” I said, holding out my hand—my attempt at re-establishing some civility.
He took my hand but looked me in the eye as he chuckled. “Yes, I know.”
My ears pricked with heat.
“I’m here because my boss wanted you to have this.” He pushed forward a very tall cylindrical container with a white plastic cap. I grasped the cardboard tube from him in silence. “You can do whatever you want with it”—he waved at it—“it’s worth a lot of money to the right buyers.”
I had my suspicions about what was rolled up in the container.
“Why am I receiving this?” I said mechanically. Resistance stirred in my gut. I didn’t want asouvenir.I’d wanted a conversation. Or even a phone call.
At this point, I wanted nothing to do with any of it.
“I don’t know.” John shrugged. “He normally sells his pieces and funnels the majority of the fee into the studio he held the residency at.”
My eyes narrowed.
“He did ah, make a donation to your studio,” he rushed to add, “but he wouldn’t take any offers on the painting you two”—he scratched the back of his neck—“ah, worked on together.”
How much did he know about how Devo conducts himself in these collaborations, I wondered. He seemed to know a lot.
I nodded, bordering on speechless.
“Thank you,” I stuttered, not really meaning it and turning to head back inside.
“Wait!” John scrabbled to recapture my attention. “And he wanted you to have this.”
I glanced back down at John as he held out a letter.It’s too late,I thought. I took it anyway, nodded at John and headed back inside. I didn’t look back to see what John’s new impression of me was.
I hadn’t cared.
It’s been three days since that delivery and Mariah has just returned from a weekend away.
She’d been visiting her folks down in Virginia. Saturday was her parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary and they’d arranged for a nice dinner in their hometown. Mariah had sent me plenty of check-in texts while she’d been gone though, most of which I’d answered monosyllabically; at least I’d had the decorum to includesomeexclamation points.
