Almost immediately, Brinley calls me back. When I pick up, ear-splitting squeals burst from the phone.
“Yessss, Maura!” she screeches. “You did it, you did it, you did it! I’m so happy for you.”
Despite my reservations, Brinley’s excitement makes my mouth curl into a smile. “Thank you, even though I’m still not convinced this isn’t a scam.”
“It’s not,” she says dismissively. “Even I know the Whitmer is the real deal, and so are you. They want local new artists, and you’re the perfect fit.”
Sighing, I lean back against the studio wall. The fresh paint on my canvas glints in the gray spring light. “I don't know, Brinley. They're probably only asking because of the whole media circus around my marriage. I just…I just don't want to embarrass myself by imagining this is real, if they're not even interested in me and my work.”
“Well, I have good news. I know for a fact they're interested in you, Maura Matthews, not Keller.”
“Oh yeah?” I laugh. “How’s that?”
“Because Sydney Keller came into the Copper Cup three months ago, before you even met James. She told me where she worked and she asked if I had contact information for you. I didn't say anything because I didn't wanna get your hopes up, but…”
I let out a long breath. I want it to be true, so badly. “Are you sure you're remembering the dates right?”
Brinley laughs. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember because it was Christmas and we were slammed, and even though it was great news for you, it was personally inconvenient for me.”
“Sorry to annoy you with my career success,” I say, smiling.
“Get over here now,” she orders. “We need to celebrate, and I have a decaf latte and a pain au chocolat with your name on it.”
I bite my lip. It feels too soon to celebrate, when I haven’t even decided if I’m going to accept. But Brinley’s enthusiasm is infectious.
“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
When I openthe door to the Copper Cup, I’m immediately doused in confetti. Brinley squeezes me into a tight hug.
“Here she is, our little Canadian Frida Kahlo,” she squeals. “I'm so excited. I can't believe I get to say, I knew her when.”
“Where did you even get confetti?” I laugh.
“I mean Trevor cut it out from napkins while you were driving over,” she says, dragging me back to the café counter.
“Where is Trevor, anyway?” I ask.
“Hiding in the storeroom. He did such a good job making the confetti, I decided he deserved a break from customers for the next hour.” She grabs a paper cup with stars and faces already doodled all over it. “Decaf latte, or do you want to go nuts and have a decaf Frappuccino?”
“A decaf latte is perfect, thanks.” Taking a seat, I pull off my coat and drape it over the empty stool next to me. “I still can't believe there's even a possibility that this whole thing is real.I mean, who just offers a solo show to an artist nobody's ever heard of?”
“Someone who knows talent when they see it,” she says. “You're insanely talented, Maura. I knew it from the first painting you showed me. And you know me. I wouldn't say that just to make you feel good. I really believe it.”
I know that's true. She's never held back before, especially in our conversations about my marriage. Brinley cares more about honesty than about protecting people's feelings, and right now, I couldn't be more grateful for that.
“So you think I should say yes to the show?”
“Of course I do.” She finishes making the latte and hands it to me. I take a sip, letting the rich flavor spread across my tongue and gathering the courage to say my most vulnerable thoughts out loud.
“It just scares me to say that I'm an artist. I like my paintings, but it's one thing to show them to my friends. It's another thing to have a solo show, where other people can judge my work. What if it's actually terrible? What if I'm just delusional, and I'm not an artist at all?”
“Imposter syndrome is a bitch,” Brinley says sympathetically. “But trust me, Maura, you’re an artist. I've never seen anyone get so passionate talking about pigments and stones. You have vision, real vision, and the ability to actually put it on canvas so other people can see it, too. That's rare.”
“So stop getting in my own way.” I sigh.
“Pretty much, yeah. Don't worry. If I hear anybody talking shit about your paintings at this show, I'll beat them up for you. Then I'll show them some Picasso paintings and demand that they tell me why they thinkhe'sso good, anyway.”
I chuckle. “Maybe because he's a genius who created a new genre of art?”
