Was he serious? “What?”
“Well, it’s obvious that money doesn’t drive her, but what does? Do you know anything about her?”
I tossed back more drink. “She has paintings at an auction house and is working for a community outreach center for at-risk kids. Then there’s the shit diner, and, oh… she hates me!”
“She hates you now, she won’t always. At-risk kids, an art gallery full of paintings. Hello, you’ve so got this. Donate money, like heaps of it to the place with the kids and buy all of her paintings at an outrageous price. Problem solved, you’ll be her hero.”
Hmm… maybe Lucas was onto something.
“I can definitely donate to the community outreach center, but the art gallery won’t let me have her paintings.”
“Well, did you tell them how much you were willing to offer for the paintings? They get a percentage of that shit. If the number is high enough, they’ll convince her to sell.”
My friend was a fucking genius.
“I didn’t name a price, just said I wanted them. Do you think a million would do it?”
He laughed. “A million would probably, most likely, definitely do it. Remember though, it has to be anonymous. She can’t know it’s you.”
Okay, maybe not so genius.
“Well, then how does that help me?”
“Trust me, if you make the donation to the center in your waitress’s name from an admirer and buy all of her paintings, don’t you think she’ll know who it is?”
He had a point.
“And I’ll add a note to her with the donation, like a confession or an apology.”
“A little less anonymous. It’s a bit riskier, but very Prince Charming. It’s perfect.” He raised his beer to me, and we clinked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caitlyn
I was exhausted after crying on my way home last night, but still needed to stop by the hospital to be with Gran. She didn’t look good at all. The hospital wouldn’t release her, and she didn’t really look like she wanted to leave. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about Mr. Preston, and there was no need, she never had to know. She thought my tears were for her, and many of them were. I felt overwhelmed by everything, so when I got home, I plopped down on the couch and stared at the wall.
I woke there in the morning, still exhausted and in a pain-saturated haze. It was my off day from both jobs, so I piddled around the house, alternately missing Gran and going outside to tend her crazy flowers. I was getting ready to go back to the hospital when my cell phone rang. I wanted to ignore it, but couldn’t because of any possible news about Gran.
“Hello.”
“Caity, it’s Miguel from City Gallery.”
“Oh, hey. I’m sorry I haven’t come by to get my paintings yet. Gran is in the hospital, and I completely forgot. I’ll come get them this afternoon.” Wow, I really let that slip my mind.
I had a gallery showing a few weeks ago and everyone I knew attended. It was an amazing night. I felt like I had accomplished something. It was an exhibition with other up-and-coming artists and was quite the affair with wine, cheese, and swanky, cool people. There was a lot of interest in my work, and some attendees were interested in a few pieces, but as it was an exhibition, the gallery wasn’t selling them that night. Besides, Gran made it quite clear to everyone that they were all hers. She owned all of my work. She did, sort of. She was obsessed with my work. I didn’t want to sell the paintings, but it felt good that people wanted to buy them. It gave me hope that I could sell them one day if I wanted.
“That’s what I’m calling about. We’ve had quite an interesting offer I’d like you to consider.”
“What do you mean by interesting offer?” I needed details.
“A patron has made a bid to buy all of your paintings.”
My heart sank. A patron? A patron with enough money to buy all my paintings. I groaned. The bastard.
“Sorry, they’re not for sale, Miguel. Please apologize to the patron.” I couldn’t bear to have Mr. Preston own the part of my soul I’d poured into those paintings.
“He’s willing to pay a great deal of money for them,” he coaxed.
“I’m sure he is.” Sarcasm seemed to be my new favorite hobby.
“Caity, he’s going to give you a million dollars for them and he’s adding a significant amount for the gallery. Can you just say you’ll think about it before you refuse flat out?”
Anger rose and my fingers began to tremble. “I can’t be bought.”
“He’s a patron, you’re a painter. Buying and selling art makes it possible for the whole system to exist. That’s what painters do, sell their works. Who cares who they sell them to, and for a million dollars. Do you really think you’re at the million-dollar mark as an artist? That’s the dream zone, get real. Think of what you could do with that money and think about what that money will do for the gallery.”
“He’s stalking me, Miguel,” I confessed.
He plowed right over me. “He’s one of the richest movie producers in the world. You should be flattered that he’s taking an interest in you. I mean, you’re gorgeous, but gorgeous is his stock and trade.” He paused, his voice growing softer. “I’m not asking you to have sex with him.”
That hit a nerve.
“But, he keeps asking in his smarmy, seductive, stupid movie producer way,” I complained.
“You never have to say yes to anything you don’t want to do, including selling your work. I’m just trying to help you see the opportunity you might be passing up here. How about I give you a day to sit on it. I’ll avoid his calls for twenty-four hours, and you think this over. There is just one more thing to consider. Promise you won’t go mental on me.”
“What is it?” I asked, concerned.
“He wants to commission you to do a painting for him as well,” he nearly whispered.
“Hell no!” I was being unreasonable, I knew, but… shit!
“Just give it some time. Ask friends and your grandma and see what everyone says. Again, you aren’t agreeing to anything other than selling your paintings for a lot of money and taking a job. Also, if you don’t like the painting he wants you to paint, just say no.”
He had a good point.
“I’ll think it over,” I conceded.