“Eight finished, three in progress. I’m hoping to have twelve total.”
I think about offering to help again, but I can see from her expression that she’s serious about wanting to do this independently. There’s something admirable about that determination, even if it means she’ll face more obstacles than necessary.
“Well, when you do get a show—and you will—I want to be the first one there.”
“Even if it’s at some tiny gallery in a neighborhood you’ve never heard of?”
“Especially then.”
She smiles, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her all morning. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“I hope you will.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably with something that requires immediate attention. But for once, I don’t check it. Instead, I spend another ten minutes looking at Freya’s paintings, asking her about her process, listening to her explain the emotions she was trying to capture in each piece.
When I finally leave her apartment, I feel lighter somehow. Not just because I’ve seen evidence of her incredible talent, but because for a few minutes we felt like ourselves again—Ben andFreya, friends who genuinely care about each other’s dreams and successes.
The compensation from our fake marriage will give her the freedom to pursue her art without worrying about rent money. And even if she won’t let me make introductions or open doors, I can at least give her that.
It’s the least I can do for someone whose friendship has been the most genuine thing in my life.
CHAPTER 15
FREYA
I’m standing in the produce section of Whole Foods, debating between organic and regular carrots, when my phone rings. The caller ID shows a number I don’t recognize, so I almost let it go to voicemail. I’ve been getting random calls ever since news of the engagement broke, everything from wedding vendors to reporters to people claiming to be long-lost relatives.
But something makes me answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Freya Hull?” The voice is cultured, professional, with just a hint of a British accent.
“Yes, this is Freya.”
“Ms. Hull, my name is Ron Gabriel. I’m the director of The Jetson Gallery here in Chicago. I’m calling because I saw the announcement of your engagement to Benjamin Lawlor, and I was intrigued enough to look up your work online.”
I nearly drop my phone into the cart full of groceries. The Jetson Gallery. I know that name. Everyone in the Chicago art worldknows that name. It’s one of the most prestigious contemporary galleries in the city, the kind of place that can make an artist’s career with a single show.
“I—yes, that’s me,” I manage, abandoning my cart and walking toward a quieter corner of the store.
“I must say, what I found was quite impressive. Your abstract work has an emotional depth that’s quite rare. I was wondering if you might be interested in coming in to discuss your work? Perhaps bring a portfolio?”
“You want to see my work?” I repeat, still not quite believing this is happening.
“Indeed. I’m always on the lookout for emerging talent, and frankly, your pieces have a sophistication that caught my attention immediately.”
My heart is racing. This is the kind of call every artist dreams of getting, the phone call that could change everything. But the timing feels too convenient, too perfect.
“Mr. Gabriel, can I ask how you found my work? I mean, specifically, how you looked me up?”
“Well, as I mentioned, I saw the engagement announcement in theTribune. I make it a habit to research anyone connected to prominent Chicago figures. You’d be surprised how often I discover interesting artists that way. Your website came up immediately, and I spent quite some time looking through your gallery.”
“Did Benjamin—I mean, did anyone contact you about me? Make a recommendation?”
“Absolutely not. This is entirely my own initiative, I assure you.” His voice carries a note of mild offense, as if the suggestion that he’d need someone else’s recommendation is insulting. “Ms. Hull, I’ve been in this business for twenty-five years. I know talent when I see it, regardless of how I discover it.”
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
