As I climbed to street level, I gulped huge breaths filled with the hot, heavy scents of exhaust, sweat, and food trucks. I checked my teeth in my compact mirror, popped a breath mint, and ran a hand over my hair. Looking up at the gallery’s elegant sign, I pushed back my anxiety. They had contacted me. They liked my work. There was no reason to be nervous.
Confidence restored, I pushed open the door and stepped into a world of air conditioning and art. My father had introduced me to New York’s museums and galleries as a child, sparking a love affair that grew into reverent respect for any creative expression. I was drawn to every element: bold shapes and subtle colors, the sharp scent of paint and earthy clay, even the chemical bite of solvents and resins used in restoration work.
As a teenager, I would spend hours in those sacred spaces, studying paintings, frescos, and engravings, imagining the artists’ hands moving across canvas or stone, decades or centuries before, bringing those masterpieces to life.
Narcissus favored contemporary work, though important pieces from earlier centuries commanded prime real estate. A luminous Monet graced the front hallway, while what appeared to be a Goya hung nearby. Dominating the center of the room stood an abstract sculpture—a rounded face rendered in minimalist lines that could only be Brâncu?i. This gallery clearly had serious financial backing.
I recognized Malcom Heffner from his photo on LinkedIn. He beamed as he walked over, his hand outstretched. Despite the premature gray in his curly brown hair, I pegged him to be in his mid-thirties. His hands were soft and manicured, and he wore a tailored dark blue suit, with a purple shirt and bold mauve necktie. That was one other thing I loved about the art world. Many of us were unconventional, and yet in our circles, we weren’t judged for who we were, how we dressed, or who we dated. Our art spoke for us, loudly and clearly.
“Ms. Nielsen, it’s so great to meet you,” Malcom said, holding my hand in both of his.
I smiled. “Please call me Jesse. It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Heffner.”
“Malcom. I’m glad you managed to make it here on such short notice.” He gestured for me to move forward. “As I told you, we want to dedicate this year to showcasing contemporary artists who deserve to be recognized, and we think you would fit perfectly into this project. Let me show you around. The exhibit will be held in the west wing, and other than a few minor details, we have everything ready for next week, when we’ll feature our first artist.”
We walked around the spacious, beautifully lighted rooms, with high ceilings and polished marble floors.
I did my best to remain blasé instead of gawking and squealing. “Next week? That’s when the event starts?”
The exhibit was already prepared—a variation of paintings in an impressionist style. Most of them were still-life—flowers with a heavy accent on poppies and roses, all in shades of red. They made a bold statement.
Malcom stood in front of a painting featuring a vase of red tulips, his hands clasped together.
“Yes, that’s the official opening. I know this is short notice for you, but I really hope you can participate in our project.”
I bit my lower lip. Now was the time to pull the ace up my sleeve.
“Actually, Malcom, I have an entire exhibit ready to go. I was preparing for a solo event and have a decent collection of paintings finished.”
His face stretched into a smile so wide I was afraid it might crack. “That’s unbelievable! It’s a sign, it must be. How many paintings are we talking about? Is there a theme?” He raised a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry, I forgot my manners. Let’s go to my office and talk. I’m sure we both have lots of questions. I hope you can use a cold drink.”
I chuckled. “I was close to begging for one.”
Malcom’s office was sleek and impressive. I sank into the visitor’s seat, soda in hand, and showed him photos of my collection. He was ecstatic, tossing out compliments that fed my ego in the best way.
We went over the event schedule and spotted a potential opening in two weeks. It was technically booked, but the artist hadn’t confirmed. Malcom called him on the spot. The guy was more than happy to push his slot back and have more time to get ready.
“Well, it looks like you’re on two weeks from today.” Malcom set down the phone.
I gulped. This was becoming real and happening a little too quickly.
Was I ready for this? Was I good enough for this?
I had to be, because I couldn’t back down now. Hell, there was no way that I would.
My chest remained tight while I read and signed the consignment agreement, discussed pricing, payment, and the rest of the legalities. The terms were more than generous for a gallery this size.
It was after eight when we finalized the paperwork. I promised to send Malcom photos and information for all the paintings I had ready, and keep him posted about future works for the exhibit. I had to promote the event on social media, and invite everyone I knew.
When we shook hands again, my palm was clammy but my voice steady. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Malcom. I will do my absolute best to make this event a success.”
“I have no doubt you will. Thank you so much for accepting our invitation. Things are working out fantastically.”
“I think so too. I’ll be in touch.”
As I stepped out of the cool, climate-controlled environment, the tarmac was still hot under the flat soles of my shoes.
I decided to take an Uber rather than face the subway again. As I paid the guy and climbed out in front of my building, fatigue crept into my muscles. I needed a good meal. I could kill for some of Sebastian’s waffles—and he did say he could cook anything. Maybe the dopamine from this fantastic day was taking over, but I felt warmer toward him. He’d been nothing but nice to me, and I’d been…Well, I’d been kind of a bitch.
