I looked around. Could I give up my building? My credit score was already in the toilet. But if I gave up my building and moved back home with my sister, I could probably eke out enough money from selling paintings. I might even still be able to continue making sandwiches for Ida in her general store. She had a small little kitchen there. Maybe I could also find some sort of receptionist's job at Svensson PharmaTech and start paying back my student debt for real.
I sighed. Was this really the end of the artistic road for me?
I took my bike out to clear my head. It was slightly cloudy, so the sun wasn't terrible. I cycled around town, past the fancy shops, to the art walk. Itwasspectacular. The sight helped me shake off the feelings of sadness. Harrogate was awesome. I struck a power pose next to a sculpture that was an abstract version of a female World War I mechanic.
"You are strong. You are a boss," I told myself. "We slayed it this weekend. The judges loved Harrogate, and they loved the art retreat. You will win that grant. Think positive."
Speaking of art, I remembered my thoughts about McKenna and the Gergiev painting. Had McKenna actually plagiarized it? Could it be a fake? I had my suspicions. I didn't have the resources to investigate it, though. I looked over my shoulder. The Svensson PharmaTech building rose behind me, a vision of glass and steel.
I didn't have Garrett's contact info, so I went in and asked the receptionist if I could speak with him, that it was about the hotel project.
Garrett came down to the lobby a few minutes later. "Hazel." He gave a slight nod in greeting.
I bounced on the balls of my feet. "If you're waiting for me to make an inappropriate comment, don't worry, I won't," I joked. Garrett didn't even crack a smile.
"Tough crowd. Okay. So I was wondering if you could look into something for me. I think McKenna forged this painting." I showed him the picture on my phone and explained about the paper I had written analyzing the style and brushstrokes.
"Frankly, I'm skeptical that an art dealer would jeopardize their career and reputation like this," Garrett said after listening to my spiel. "But I'll look into it. It shouldn't be that difficult to figure out. It will take a bit to confirm things, I'm sure. Don't tell Archer. He's terrible at keeping secrets. He'll probably tip her off, and she'll sue us for slander."
"Understood," I said.
After sending Garrett a copy of the paper I had written and the pictures I took, I cycled back to the Art Café with a renewed sense of passion.
Laugher filtered down the stairs when I walked in. I guessed the retreat had started without me. There were leftover mimosas from breakfast that morning, and I took a pitcher and some glasses upstairs. When I walked into the room, I almost dropped the load.
There, in all his nude glory, was Archer, posing on a chair in front of the class. The light from the windows illuminated his tattoos, accentuating the muscles on his chest.
"This is what I came to the art retreat for!" said Dottie, her freshly done white hair permed within an inch of its life.
"What the—Archer!"
"I'm not supposed to move, Hazel," he said, trying not to move his lips.
"Hey there, hot cheeks. We're trying to paint. You can't keep wiggling around," Bettina said.
"He can come wiggle around me anytime!" Ida said.
"I think Ida's really in the sauce," Archer said out of the side of his mouth when I walked up to the front of the studio.
"I'm stone-cold sober," Ida insisted.
"You've had two mimosas and a Bloody Mary and a large portion of whatever is in that thermos."
"Oh, thank goodness," I said, taking a peek at him below the waistline. "You're wearing underwear."
"This is an art class, Hazel. Show some decorum. Don't flirt with the models," Archer said, a smile playing around his mouth.
"You're not a model."
"I modeled for you," he stage-whispered. The seniors all cheered.
"Any tips on nude painting?" Ida called out to me.
"Well," I said slowly, thinking back to my art school days. "If you're having trouble concentrating on your nude model, try to think about painting each part of him."
"I know which partyouwant to paint," Archer said.
"I need a drink," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
