“No, this is a huge deal.” Aria couldn’t control the starstruck tone in her voice. “I’m really flattered you thought of me.”
“Are you kidding?” Harrison’s face brightened. “Selling a piece to John Carruthers at eighteen years old? That’s unheard of.” He tapped his notepad. “I’m an art history major at Penn, and I do a little painting myself. A big buyer like Carruthers taking an interest in you is huge.”
Aria ducked her head. “I hope he didn’t buy it just because I was, like, on the news and whatever.”
Harrison waved the notion away. “Carruthers buys based on talent, not celebrity.” He paused, studying her intensely. “Sometimes he buys a painting if the artist is pretty, though. Did he come here himself?”
Aria blushed, her mind sticking on the word pretty. “No, it was his buyer—and he was on the phone. I wasn’t even here.”
“Interesting.” Harrison’s blue eyes gleamed. He held Aria’s gaze for a moment, and her stomach flipped over. To be honest, he was cute. Really cute.
Then he looked back down at his pad. “Okay. I want to know everything about you. Not the Alison stuff, but you. What you’re into, who your influences are, where you’ve traveled, what your plans are, if you’ve got a boyfriend . . .” His cheeks flushed.
Aria giggled. She was pretty sure he was flirting. For a split second, Noel’s face flashed through her mind, but then she thought of his awkward expression outside the gallery. I need my space.
“No boyfriend,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”
“Aha,” Harrison said, scribbling on his notepad. “Very good.”
Then Aria told him about her creative process, her parents’ artistic background, and her travels to Iceland—though she left out the last trip, where she’d gotten mixed up with Olaf/Nick. It was easy to talk to Harrison. She loved the way he stared at her as she spoke, like she was the most important person he’d ever talked to. He laughed at all her jokes, and he asked all the right questions, too. She also liked how sexy and artsy he looked as he snapped pictures of her work with his long-lensed SLR camera, checking the screen after every shot to make sure he got what he’d wanted.
“And what are your future plans?” Harrison asked, setting the camera back down.
Aria breathed in. “Well . . .” Suddenly, what she said next seemed so permanent and definitive. Should she move to New York and try to make it as an artist? What if she did and it was a horrible failure?
Her phone rang. Aria’s stomach lurched, wondering if it might be Fuji—they hadn’t heard anything yet about the hoodie’s DNA results. But it was a 212 number. NEW YORK CITY, said the caller ID.
“Do you mind if I grab this?” she asked Harrison. He nodded, and she answered tentatively.
“Aria Montgomery?” said a gruff woman’s voice. “This is Inez Frankel. I own the Frankel-Franzer Gallery in Chelsea. I just heard on Art Now about your painting selling. You’re hot, girl—but you probably already know that. Do you have any other pieces to show?”
“Uh . . .” Aria’s mind spun. “Well, I have other pieces completed.”
“And I’m sure they’re awesome. Listen, send me some JPEGs of them, could you? If we like them—and I’m sure we will—I want to offer you a three-day show starting next Tuesday—we can move some stuff around and squeeze you in. We’ll make it worth your while, honey. Lots of promo. Tons of press. A big party during the opening. Everything will sell—at my gallery, it always does.”
“Excuse me?” Aria squeaked, astonished. A gallery show? In New York City?
Her other line beeped. Aria glanced at the caller ID again; this time, a call was coming in from a 718 area code: Brooklyn. “My name is Victor Grieg, from the Space/Think Gallery in Williamsburg—I saw your story on Art Now,” a fast-talking man with a heavy foreign accent said. He asked the same questions about Aria having other works for sale. Then he said, “We want to give you a show, like, now. Who’s your agent?”
“I—I don’t have an agent,” Aria stammered. “Can I call you back?”
She hung up on both galleries. Harrison looked at her curiously, and Aria grinned. “Two galleries in New York want to give me shows!” she announced gleefully. The statement hardly seemed real.
Harrison gave her a knowing look. “This is your start!” He leaned forward like he wanted to hug her, then seemed to change his mind and hung back. “So when do they want to show you?”
“N-next week. Starting on Tuesday.” The reality struck her. Aria glanced at her other paintings stacked in the corner. Did she have enough? She couldn’t sell the ones of Noel—that would just be too weird. Then her gaze settled on the all-black canvas, Ali’s sixth-grade smirk covered over. She couldn’t use that one, either. She definitely needed to paint more over the next few days.