Page 22 of Don't Tell

Three calls. Two contracts signed. A corporate buyer who has been with us for six years has a list of pieces she wants to see. I give her the date and time for the showing.

My 1:00 p.m. appointment is a young painter named Hana Vargas. Tomas found her through a community college instructor's Instagram, which is one of the small humiliations of the present industry — that a thirty-something instructor with a phone has become the gatekeeper between a girl in Stockton and the institutions that will represent her. I'm not above this. I'mnot above anything that finds a person who would otherwise go unnoticed.

She comes in wearing a dark coat and jeans. Her portfolio is on my desk. I have spent an hour with it this morning and another hour with it last night.

I spend thirty-five minutes with her.

I commit the company at the end of the meeting.

“Oh my god, really?”

I nod.

Her face lights up. She’s smiling, clapping. I have a feeling that if she was alone, she’d be jumping around the room. “I can’t believe this. Thank you, thank you so much.”

“You’ve earned it. Your work speaks for itself.”

She sucks in a quick breath. Her hand tightens on the strap of her bag. “Thank you so much. I’m so excited. What do we do next?”

I nod at Tomas. He rises to his feet and gestures toward the door. “Tomas will guide you through the next steps. We’ll draft a contract and talk about your first showing.”

“Oh my god. Thank you so much.” She offers me one last smile before following Tomas out of my office.

That’s a life that’s been changed. I have full faith in Hana Vargas. Just as I have all the faith in Suzanne’s work. I wonder what’s holding her back and why she’s afraid of being seen.

Being hidden has no benefits. Your success becomes a shadow. It follows closely behind but never catches up. I see her clearly. Sometimes she’s all I see. But I want her to see herself too. I have half a mind to take her sketchbook behind her back. Even I know this is something I can’t do for her.

You can’t force an artist into the light. They need to step into it themselves.

My phone starts ringing. I look down to see my mother’s name. I’ve been dreading her call. Beau’s call was bad enough. She’s going to keep digging, and I’m going to give her nothing.

I answer because I’m alone now. I want the conversation to be private rather than have Neil listening through the door.

“Cade, honey. You’ve been avoiding me. I expect this, but it still hurts. I’m your mother, you know.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been working.”

“Lies. Henry told me you never responded to his text. Really, Cade? We care about you. Is that so bad?”

I press a finger to my temple. I wonder how long I’m going to have to sit through this. “Mom, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

“Honey, he was your father. It’s okay to care. I cried when I heard. He gave me you, so for that, I’ll always have a space in my heart for him. And I know he wasn’t the best dad, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be grieved.”

“Mom, please. Can we not talk about this?”

“I know how hurt you were when he left. I was hurt too.” She’s quiet for a moment. “His funeral is being arranged. Can I expect you to show up?”

“I’m not going.”

“You won’t be doing it for him, Cade. You’ll be doing it for yourself. You can’t carry all this hurt by yourself. It’s your decision to make.”

She hangs up.

I stare at the phone. It seems everyone has been talking about me. I picture them sitting in my mother’s living room, trying to prove how I’m in denial.

But I’m not. I’m fine. I don’t care that he’s gone. It makes no difference. He was a stranger to me. Why should I go to his funeral? Why should I be there for him when he was never there for me? Why should I…

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. James, my assistant, pushes it open. “Lila is here to see you.”