I stare at the email and I wonder how his deposition is going. I imagine him sitting in some big conference room, his suit as perfect as his body, those keen eyes of his intimidating the hell out of one person after another. I imagine those eyes, which tell a story I have yet to understand.
My phone buzzes again. “Another call,” the receptionist says. “This time it’s a man named Chris Merit.”
“What? Chris…Merit? The artist?
“I don’t know. Should I ask?”
“No. No, put him through.” The line beeps and I answer. “This is Faith.”
“Faith. Chris Merit.”
“Chris. Hi. I…thank you so much for including me in the show this past weekend.”
“Thank you for being a part of it, Faith. I understand we have offers on your work.”
“We do?”
“Yes, but your agent underpriced you. I’m going to adjust your prices unless you have an issue with it.”
I hesitate but I say what I have to say. “I need that sale.”
“You’ll get your sale, and then some, and for what you’re worth. Trust me, Faith.”
When Chris Merit tells you to trust him and it relates to art. You trust him. “Why are you doing this?”
“My wife has decided to showcase a mix of new artists and established artists in her gallery in San Francisco. She and I both took a liking to your work. In fact, we’d like to showcase you in the gallery for our grand opening.”
“You…I…” Oh God. I’m never speechless. “Thank you.”
“I’d like you to present at least four pieces. You pick, but I’ll need them in the gallery in four weeks.”
“Of course. Not a problem at all.”
“Excellent. We’re holding a little VIP party at the gallery this weekend, Saturday night, which just happens to be Sara’s birthday. We’d love it if you’d come. And bring a guest, of course.”
“I’d love that. Thank you.”
“You have talent, Faith Winter. Believe in you. We do.” He ends the call.
I set the phone down and I’m not a crier. Not at all, but my eyes pinch. My chest is tight. This is my dream. This is everything. I grab my cellphone to call Nick. That’s my first instinct. To call Nick. but I don’t dial his number. He’s in a deposition. I can’t believe he’s the one person I wanted to call. But I still do. Instead, I dial Josh and he answers on the first ring. “He called you,” he says.
“You know already,” I say, and my voice cracks.
“I know. So, are you in on this or not?”
“I’m in,” I say. “How can I not be in?”
“Pick up the paintbrush and get to work.”
“Josh—”
“I was out of line. I fucked up, Faith. I’m protective. That’s personal and there’s no place for that in business. I’m your agent because you’re good at what you do. The end.”
“Thank you, Josh. I’m fortunate to have you in my corner.”
“That said, on a professional note that has a personal influence. Macom is my best friend, but creative types are inherently insecure. He put down your work because of his insecurity. It affected you and I think it’s why you’ve used everything else as an excuse to stay away from painting. Make sure Nick Rogers does what you said. He inspires you to paint. If he does, I’ll back off. If he doesn’t, I’m not going to lose another two years of our work. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I say, appreciating the fact that he doesn’t expect me to respond about Macom. He’s right. Macom affected me in all kinds of ways. He still does.
“News on those sales soon and the show. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.
I set my phone down and lower my lashes. I’m so confused right now. And angry. If my mother hadn’t created this mess, I could just let Kasey run this place. Now, that man trusts me and lives for this place, and I might lose it. He might lose it. And Chris Merit called me. Chris Merit! And I am painting again and that is because of Nick.
I look at the email again.
Faith:
What the fuck are you doing to me?
Nick
P.S. Don’t stop.
I have so much I want to say to him and I decide that in the sea of lies that is my life right now, honesty rules and so I type:
Nick:
I hate what you made me feel last night and yet when Chris Merit called me today to invite me to an event this weekend, I thought of only one person: You.
Faith
P.S. Stop being an asshole like you were last night.
I lean back in my chair, and glance around my office, pictures of the winery on my walls. Not a one that is personal. Nothing in this office is mine and yet, I guess if I inherit this place, everything is mine. My cellphone rings and I glance down to find Nick’s number. Adrenaline surges through me with crazy fierceness and I look at the clock that reads noon.
“Nick,” I answer. “Don’t you have a deposition?”
“We’re on our lunch break. How did I make you feel, Faith?”
“Like you’re my enemy again.”
“I’m not your enemy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would I be your enemy?”
I inhale and let it out. “You’re making me feel like the minute you discover any mistake I’ve made in my life, it’s over. We’re done. You’re making me feel I can’t ever let you see a flaw, of which I have many.”
“That is not my intention, sweetheart. You’re perfect to me. Too fucking perfect for my own good.”
“See. I know you mean that as a compliment, but the underlying inference is that you want to find a flaw. Stop being an asshole, Nick Rogers.”
“Right. Stop being an asshole. This is new territory for me, Faith.”
“You said that. I get that. It is for me too, and I don’t even know what this is, but I apparently need to know.”
“That makes two of us, sweetheart. Tell me about Chris calling.”
“You have work.”
“Tell me.”
“He wants to showcase my work. I’ll fill you in later, but I apparently need a date for Saturday night in San Francisco. Will you be my date, Nick?”
“You damn sure aren’t taking anyone else. Yes, Faith. I’ll be your date. I’ll arrange to have a charter plane pick you up and bring you to me.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Can you come up Thursday night?”
“Friday night.”
“I’ll call you tonight with details. Faith?”
“Yes?”
“You’re an artist. My artist.” He hangs up.
I smile. I think it’s my first real smile since my mother died. And for the first time in years, I am filled with possibilities: for my art and for this man who’s taken my life by storm. And the possibilities are amazing.