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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EMERSON
“We love your work,” Barbara, the gallery owner, says. “We want you to show here.”
“Really?” I say with a wide but surprised smile.
“Really.” She laughs. “Why do you sound so shocked? Your paintings are amazing, Emerson.”
“It’s just …” I shift on my feet, my eyes glancing out the window as people scurry along the sidewalk. “I’ve had so many rejections along the way. I wasn’t expecting you to offer me space in your gallery, just like that.”
She smiles. “Welcome to the world of art, Emerson. And get used to the rejection. You’ll develop a thick skin to it eventually. That’s the excitement of it all, really.”
I look skeptical, and she laughs at my expression.
“I just mean that two people can look at the same painting and get something different out of it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that.” She waves her slender hand in the air. “The rejection will just make the victories sweeter. And anyway, screw the haters.” She smooths a hand over her perfectly straight, dark brown hair. “You’ll have to learn to paint for yourself, not for others. But I have a feeling this is just the beginning for you. You have big things in store. And I’m never wrong.”
Barbara’s tall and confident with the swagger of a seasoned New Yorker in her all-black attire. But she’s also surprisingly sweet. She came across as abrupt and short-tempered on the phone, so I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived here.
I discovered that Sam had posted my paintings on his social media sites a few days ago, which was how Barbara and a few other galleries saw my work. He took pictures of my work at the silent auction and took a few more of pieces in my art room at home. The posts have racked up more than three hundred thousand likes so far, and it’s still growing. Sam never told me. I learned about it from Mads and Suki. Suki called one day to tell me I was going viral. When I confronted the hockey stud about it, he smiled smugly.
“Thought you needed a push,” he confessed, pulling me into his arms—a place I’m quickly becoming comfortable with. “Are you mad?”
How can I be mad when everyone around me believes in my talent more than I believe in myself? He did me a favor. He opened those doors that I had complained were always closed to people like me. And he let my art do the rest.
The portrait I’d painted of Sam on the ice caused a special stir in Chicago, where Hawks hockey rules. I’m meeting with another gallery owner in the city next week. It’s not far from Suki’s place. That painting also caught the eye of someone in the Hawks management team. They want to commission me to do similar portraits of all the guys, and they plan to line the arena with them. I’m going to one of their practices next week to take photos of them in action, so I’ll have a reference point when I start working on them. I don’t know the lines of their faces or their personalities the way I’ve come to know Sam’s. But it’ll be a fun challenge.
“Thanks for your time, Barbara. And your offer.” We shake hands. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hide my chuckle as she abruptly walks away.
The sidewalks are full when I exit the gallery, reminding me of Chicago in busy parts of the city like Michigan Avenue. There’s unexplainable energy in places like this. I pull my coat around me and get swept up in the crowd as I make my way down the three blocks to my hotel. My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen, smiling when I see Sam’s name.
“How’d it go?” he asks after I answer.
“Great!” I reply. I explain Barbara’s offer and tell him details about the gallery. “And I need to get a website built to show my work.”
“That’s awesome, Doe!” The Chicago wind creates static across his end of the line. “I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”
I smile when he says the same thing as Barbara. “I hope so. It’s all thanks to you.”
“Yes, I’m responsible for your entire career,” Sam says sardonically, laughing a moment later. His deep voice drops another octave. “And I expect something in return for my kindness. Sexual favors will suffice.”
“Is that right?” I murmur, already imagining how I can repay him.
He’s silent for a moment.
“Everyone knows it was all you and your talent, Em. I just put it out there.”
“But it was your followers that caused all this.”
“I just posted it so everyone else could see what the rest of us already know.”
“And what’s that?” I tease.
“That you shouldn’t be making lattes or babysitting hotheaded hockey players. You should be painting and sharing your talent with the rest of the world.”
“I happen to like babysitting hockey players …” I pause at a red light and wait for official permission to cross the street. “There are lots of perks to it.” My blood heats when I think about Sam bending me over another table the night before last. I’m finding that I like that dominant, demanding side of him. In the bedroom at least.
