“Don’t distract me with your ham-fisted innuendo. You know I can give it out as well as I take it.”
“Ugh. I don’t need those mental images. We’ve kept the whole thing professional this long. Let’s not break the streak, okay?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’ve never been professional. Do I have to remind you about that New Year’s Eve after the exhibit in Charleston?”
Seb had tried hard to forget that particular party. “I was drunk. I can’t be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth when there’s champagne.”
“Or what goes in your mouth apparently.”
Normally, their banter would have had Seb digging for the filthiest joke he could think of, but his earlier bad mood still clung to the edges of his laughter. He didn’t feel up to seeing who could make the other one crack first.
“What are you calling for? It’s not really to check on my progress. I’m ahead of schedule, like I was when you called last month and the month before that.”
Seb had known Kenneth since their freshman year at college, when they were the only two out gay boys in their dorm. Kenneth was the sole reason Seb had survived their full year business mathematics course. When Kenneth graduated with his shiny commerce degree and Seb started selling pieces more widely, he hesitated to add business to their friendship. But letting Kenneth act as his agent to the various galleries along the East Coast had been one of the smartest choices he’d made in the last ten years.
“Of course you are, darling. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. I’m actually calling because I have news. Good and bad. Which would you like first?”
Seb rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Just tell me the bad news and get it over with.”
“I was hoping you were going to say that!”
“Kenny...” He toed off his shoes and lay back down on the couch with a sigh. He’d apologize to Martin later.
“Schiller pulled out of the exhibition.”
“What?” Exhaustion evaporated as Seb sat upright again.
“Naomi was vague about it. I don’t know much. Personal reasons. It sounded serious.”
Seb’s hand tightened around the phone as he tried to stay calm. This wasn’t bad news—this was a nightmare. He’d literally had this dream, where he showed up at a gallery to find out that the whole thing had been cancelled and no one had thought to tell him.
“Okay.” What else was he supposed to say? Arlene Schiller was an icon. It would have been her first time exhibiting new work in over a decade, and Seb had been invited to contribute pieces on behalf of the artists influenced by her. Just being asked was a gift, and he’d spent the last six months getting ready. Without it, though, he could have completed and sold several pieces to collectors to generate a little cash flow. On his work table, the book of European fashion sat quietly. It turned out to not be a bad choice. The paper held together under his knife better than he’d expected. He could have it ready to sell fairly quickly.
“I’ve got a few things I could ship down to the Diving Bell Gallery, if you think they’ll take them?” The Diving Bell had done well for him over the years. They had at least a few buyers who kept an eye out for his work.
“Well, I could call Ina at the Bell,” Kenneth said, sounding like he hadn’t thought of it until now, “but sweetheart, I don’t think Naomi would be very happy with that idea.”
“What?”
“Because they weren’t able to find someone else to take over the gallery on short notice, so they’re going to continue with the exhibition and broaden the scope. They want three more pieces from you! She says she’d always wanted to include more of your work, but with the restrictions on the space, there wasn’t room. You can do it though, right? Three pieces? You’ve only got a few months to go.”
Seb hurried over to the work table and flipped through the fashion book again. The woman in the traffic cone hat who’d caught his eye. A man farther back in a set of crocheted swim trunks. They’d make a cute couple.
“I can do that.” He could, if he slept six nights a week instead of seven.
“That’s my boy. I already told Naomi you would. We should celebrate. I’ll bring the champagne?” The last question was a verbal leer, but Seb was already running his fingers through the pages of the book, planning where to take it next.
“Sure,” he said. This unlikely book, forgotten on the bookstore’s top shelf, was about to send his career into light speed.
