“Sunk cost,” Adrian deadpanned.
“Okay, but what about what comes next? This isn’t enough for a show. You know it isn’t. I can put these up in that room off to the front left—”
“That’s fine,” Adrian said.
“Not so fast. Listen to me. What comes next? I don’t want to be telling you no every month. It’s not good for either of us. I don’t want to jerk you around.”
Adrian pointed to the still life. “You can sell that. You know you can. I can paint things like that.”
Mike set the portrait down and picked up the still life. “I don’t know how you made a bowl of fruit so damn angry, but yeah. I can sell this.”
“Fine, then,” Adrian said, relief beginning to sweep down his back. “I am planning a series of still lifes. You can imbue them with as much emotional backstory as you want to.”
“Are you sure though? You’re done with the historical stuff?”
“I am done with being an artist who paints things thatnobody wants to look at, yes,” Adrian said, fatigue making him punchy.
Mike screwed up his face, wrinkles bunching around his eyes. “Look, I know I’m just a sales guy, but I didn’t get into this business because I wanted to tell artists what to paint. If you want to paint World War I battles, do that! There’s enough fucking fruit bowls in the world already.”
Adrian grunted and turned away, knitting his hands behind his neck. The only subject he’d reallywantedto paint in the past year wasn’t speaking to him.
“Mike, I am just—I am done. I am not going to suffer for art anymore. It’s not worth it. You can file my reviews in the trash from now on. I spent seven years trying to make interesting art, and that’s enough. I’d rather be an artist who pays the rent than an artist who says something important about the human condition. I’ll paint the damn fruit. I’ll paint the sentimental garden scenes. I’ll—”
If Caroline ever spoke to him again, was still speaking to him by spring, he’d paint her dripping in peonies. She’d probably never seen them blooming before. He cleared his throat.
“I’ll paint whatever you want.”
Mike minutely shook his head, but after a few seconds of chewing on the corner of his mouth, he said, “All right.”
Adrian’s knees nearly sagged, but he kept himself together as Mike went to his desk and retrieved one of his form contracts.
“Deal hasn’t changed since you were here before,” Mike said, sliding the pages over to him. Adrian initialed, dated, and signed as Mike talked about the upcoming schedule of gallery events. He knew he ought to pay attention, but all he could think about was going home andsleeping for days. No, going home, calling Caroline, and telling her he might not be taking a McJob.
“I’ll call those folks you mentioned tonight. I get the feeling you’d like me to move these.”
“Thanks,” Adrian managed. “I trust you to price the portrait.”
Mike gave him a muted smile. He went back to the portrait and picked it up. He took it out to the hallway, and Adrian trailed after him. Mike carried the painting all the way to the front window, where the last late silver rays of the November sunset illuminated the piece. Adrian knew the brushwork was excellent and all the technique as good as he’d ever managed. Caroline was as soft and introspective in her regard for the flowers as a Titian Madonna. He could hardly blame Mike for just wanting to look at her too.
“It’s good,” Mike said softly. “But you know that, right?”
Adrian shook his head, unconvinced. “She’s just beautiful. It’s not any great skill on my part.”
“Sure. You’re obviously in love with the girl. That’s going to come through even if you’re not standing right here and glaring whenever I move the painting.”
Adrian automatically scowled.
“Yeah, like that,” Mike said. “But I’m saying it’s a great piece. I’d buy it if I thought I could afford what I’m going to charge the Mayers.”
Adrian took a deep breath. “I’m fortunate that there’s still a decent market for paintings of beautiful women holding flowers, all trends in contemporary art aside.”
Mike lifted a hand dismissively. “That’s where contemporary art and I part ways. Who said that tragedy is more interesting than joy? I personally think joy is pretty damn important.”
Adrian thought that had been at best a hypotheticalquestion, but the gallery owner turned to him and lifted his bushy, graying brows in demand.
“It’s not that simple,” Adrian said.
“Well, neither is your painting.”
