Page 16 of The Right Kind of Wrong

It also wasn’t lost on Monroe that Sylvia had never successfully had a protégé featured at The Walker Gallery, so this was something that Sylvia herself had been working toward for the better part of three decades.

Monroe knew that she was on the precipice. And even though it caused nervous excitement to balloon up inside of her, she was also already so sick of the pageantry and superficiality of the scene. She’d learned, sadly, that the art world functioned much like the real world. It was all about having connections and gaining the approval of the select few, who then would give her the credibility she needed to be accepted more broadly.

For the money and the fame and the doors that had been opened, Monroe tried not to let herself dwell on the reality that she was still trapped in a situation where she had very little control. Only, this time, she was much better outfitted with creature comforts.

But back to her problem at hand. Sylvia simply couldn’t understand that anything else would need to take priority over this opportunity.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Monroe argued, starting to pace the open area between the lounge and the hot tub. “Art isn’t made in a vacuum.”

She could tell from Sylvia’s tone that she disagreed. “But why wouldn’t you give yourself the best chance for success? Do you even have a suitable workspace?”

Monroe looked around. Eventually, she could have a shed installed at the rear of the yard, but that would take time. She turned back toward the house, looking over to the corner, past where the deck ended. “There’s a garage that I could use. There’s also a bedroom that I could repurpose.”

Honestly, she’d been a little busy lately. But starting tomorrow, Maisie was going to be heading back to daycare—a few days a week, to start—and Monroe found that she was actually itching to get a paintbrush in her hands again.

She’d much rather think about that than tomorrow. Even as the thought dimly flitted through her mind, there was no point in mentioning to Sylvia that she was nervous for Maisie to be away from her and that there was a part of her that thought Maisie felt the same way, given how she’d been glued to Monroe’s side until bedtime. They were bonded by something more than blood now—a trauma and a loss, as they both navigated a life without Kendra Lockhart.

But Sylvia didn’t care about any of that beyond how it would impact Monroe’s ability to work.

And it’s not like what Monroe did was rocket science. She needed a quiet-ish place to focus, a safe room where the pieces could be stored, and the supplies to get the job done.

Art could be an escape, when she created for herself, but it was also a means to an end for her to achieve the financial security that had always eluded her mom. Art—creating—had been the only thing she’d ever been good at, so she’d thrown herself into it with the voraciousness of a football player hoping to one day go pro.

Sylvia hated when Monroe brought up the gauche reality that art and money were inextricably linked and that truly inspired works with a point of view that wasn’t driven by commercial success or marketability were few and far between these days.

Monroe bit back a scoff. Only the rich had the true luxury of pretending that money didn’t matter.

The larger works, which would act as the anchors for the show’s theme, had already been completed months ago. Now, she was working on the smaller, complimentary pieces that tied the vision together. She had hundreds of photos of the finished pieces that she’d already done, so it wasn’t even like she needed those shipped to her.

“Monroe,” Sylvia chided, like she was talking to a child. “I really wish that you’d think this through.”

Monroe hated that tone. Hated that Sylvia thought she knew better, when what she really wanted to do was control the outcome of something that was just a part of life.

Sometimes, life didn’t work out the way that we wanted.

Plus, Sylvia’s judgmental tone had nothing on the women of Cypress Falls, whom Monroe had accidentally been privy to today from her blanket. At least she didn’t think that Maisie had caught on to what was happening, given the couched language that was always used.

God, she wondered, with a fucked-up amount of glee, what would happen if Sylvia was in a room with them. There wouldn’t be enough balm in the world for the proverbial claw scratches they’d give one another.

Tactfully, of course, since all of their barbs were dealt with backhanded words, not nails.

She walked to the edge of the deck, steeling her resolve. “Are you going to send my pieces or not? Because if you aren’t, then we need to let the gallery know that I need to back out of the show.”

She could hear the audible inhale. Sylvia would never abide that she drop out of the show. And right on time— “Your career would be ruined.”

Monroe nodded slowly, wondering if that would be the worst thing in the world. Financially, it wouldn’t be great. But there’d be no more parties or gallery openings or fancy dinners, no more spending the evening with people who wanted to experience the weight of deep emotion without ever having struggled themselves.

It was a game that she’d learned to play, but she couldn’t say that she’d ever gotten very good at it. And without Sylvia’s financial backing and the ability to open doors on the lower levels, her talent be damned, she’d probably be lucky to be working as an assistant in a gallery, saving up to purchase canvases to make art in her downtime.

“I am still planning on doing the show, but I need my pieces and supplies sent to Cypress Falls.” This was nonnegotiable, and she needed to hear Sylvia agree to it.

She’d gone with the nuclear option right off the bat; she’d never much been good at the politics that came with negotiating. She knew where she stood, and there was really no reason to pretend otherwise.

For six years, and even before that, when she’d been Sylvia’s student, she’d been privy to how Sylvia operated. The way she worked a room. The push and pull to get what she wanted.

Monroe wasn’t going to let herself fall into a trap of agreeing to something that she knew Sylvia had no intention of fulfilling. If, somehow, it made sense to go back to New York at some point, then they could cross that bridge when it came.

But—for right now—Cypress Falls was about to become her new office, and the sooner that they agreed on that, the sooner she could focus on finishing her work.