12 Baz
12
Baz
Dorian’s idea of a surprise is taking me to high tea at Porcelain Rose the next day. He dictates my wardrobe—a floral-print, A-line dress befitting a modern southern belle. I kind of want to vomit all over it, but I also don’t hate how it fits my body.
We’re not alone at the tea; four women join us. They’re all wealthy, toned and tanned, with impeccable manicures and flawless makeup. As we chat, I discover that each one of these women prides herself on her collection of art. Dorian sings my praises to a ridiculous level, and the women begin to eye me hungrily, trying to monopolize my attention.
On my phone, I show them some of my work—the pretty beachy stuff at first, until Dorian says, “Not those paintings, darling—some of the darker ones.”
I’m weirdly hesitant. I have a bit of a following on Instagram, but I’m faceless over there—no profile photos, no personal information. Showing these women my most raw, intimate artwork in person feels like stripping off my dress and panties in the middle of the lovely tearoom, lying down with my legs spread, and letting them stick a speculum between my thighs.
But Dorian’s trying to help me. He’s introducing me to potential clients. And as painful as it may be, artists sometimes have to come out of hiding and prove to the rest of the world that they exist, that they’re actual people with personalities and not just creepy attic gremlins with haunted eyes and vibes .
“Tell me about this one.” One of the women, a Mrs. Bennett, points to a painting of a rose-wreathed skeleton sprouting from the broken tiles of a dry fountain.
“Well, that one came to me after I went to a park with some friends.” I stumble over the beginning of the story, but these women actually seem intrigued. As I keep talking, my nerves settle, and by the time I’m done, they’re murmuring words like fresh , provocative , subversive , and mystifying .
Dorian rises from the table, giving me a Cheshire-cat smile, and seats himself at the piano in the corner. He begins to play, a quiet trickle of exquisite music flooding the sunlit room. There’s something plaintive and eerie in the tune, the perfect complement to the mood of my artwork. It’s all I can do to keep engaging with the women, because I just want to be quiet and listen to him play.
“Tea” drags on for hours, and when Dorian and I finally get away, we drive to the Battery and walk along the ocean for a while. It’s hot, so the sea breeze feels like the breath of heaven itself.
“They seemed pretty into my stuff,” I tell Dorian at last. “Or…maybe I was imagining it. Maybe they were just being nice.”
He laughs. “Those women? They don’t do ‘just being nice.’ Cutthroats, all of them. They’re art collectors, sure, but they’re also vicious hunters. They like to be the first to ‘discover’ promising young artists. I’ve seen them go to war over who found a certain creator first. We just chummed the water, Baz, and the sharks are swarming. Just wait. Check your email and your shop listings tonight, and you’ll see what I mean.”
“And you knew all those women? How?”
“I’ve visited Charleston before to see Lloyd, and he introduced me around. That’s how I met three of them. One is a friend of a contact back in Nashville.”
“I’d love to go to Nashville,” I murmur, bracing my forearms on the sun-warm barrier and staring at the glistening blue sprawl of the ocean. “I’d love to go anywhere, honestly. I guess that’s why I came here. Spent my whole life in a little town just outside Columbia, South Carolina. Honestly I thought I’d never get away. I thought I’d be working the grocery checkout for years, trying to do art on the side. When my aunt left me the house, it felt like the most beautiful kind of destiny.”
“A beautiful destiny,” Dorian murmurs.
His hand lies near mine on the black metal of the barrier, and I have the most rom-com impulse to hook my little finger into his.
So I do before I can think better of it.
Dorian glances over at me, surprise flooding his blue eyes. He dimples with a smile so genuinely glad that I feel like crying, though I’m not sure why.
We stand there, silent and warm, the breeze flowing over our faces and through our hair, our little fingers curled together, and I kind of hear Taylor Swift in my head singing “august”—not that I’d admit it to anyone. That’s a quick way to get my goth card revoked.
“Did you leave a boyfriend or girlfriend behind in Columbia?” Dorian asks. “A significant other?”
“No. I was between relationships, I guess.”
“And none of those relationships were very satisfying? Or were you lying about that to pique my interest?”
The sad thing is it’s mostly true. Much as I embrace the dark, morbid, gritty side of life, when it comes to sex, I guess I’ve always been a dreamer. My expectations have been way too high—or so said my previous partners. Is it ridiculous to hope for at least one truly mind-blowing sexual experience before I’m middle-aged instead of encounters of the awkward, unsatisfying, or even traumatizing variety?
“You can relax, Baz. Your shoulders went tight the moment I said that.” Dorian chuckles softly. “I’m not pushing. Just curious.”
I didn’t realize I’d tensed every muscle in my body. I focus on easing them, one at a time. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. Want some ice cream?” I’m startled into a laugh, and he grins. “How’s that for a non sequitur?”
“It’s pretty good. And yeah, ice cream sounds amazing.”
Idiot. That’s what I am—a complete idiot, because I didn’t think ahead and envision what it would be like watching Dorian Gray lick a fucking ice cream cone. It’s torture. Utter torture watching his tongue glide over the pink, creamy dessert, scooping dollops into his mouth. If I painted him doing that, it would be the most obscene thing in my shop. I could probably sell a million prints titled Dorian Gray Licks Strawberry Ice Cream Cone .
When he finally drops me off at home, I do some intensive self-care with my vibrator, followed by clean, dry underwear.
Screwtape is curled on the couch, staring at me with reproachful yellow eyes as I finally exit the bedroom.
“Don’t judge me,” I snarl at the cat. “You make weird noises at night, too.”
As I’m passing the altar, I’m overwhelmed by the need to pause, to reflect, to center myself. It’s been too long. I need this.
I sink to my knees and inhale deeply through my nose, taking a moment to meditate on something besides Dorian Gray. To open myself to the consciousness of any being who might be trying to reach out to me. Breathing at a measured pace, keeping my mind carefully blank, I withdraw a long match and light the candle, inhaling its fresh, salty fragrance. Then I lay aside the match, and with my fingertip, I touch first the smooth sea glass, then the creamy pearl, then the curved surface of the conch.
For a second, I think I hear the faint roar of a stormy sea.
But the ocean is too far away for me to hear it, and there’s been no storm today.
An awareness inside me grows stronger, like a shadow on the other side of smoky glass, coming nearer. Indistinct, yet undeniably present.
“I don’t know if you’re really there,” I whisper. “But I could use a spiritual guide right about now. If you want my devotion, show yourself. Send me a sign.”
Nothing happens…except the taste of salt water in my mouth, as if a beach wave struck me in the face while my mouth was open. I wait a little longer, but nothing else happens.
When I rise from the prayer session, I’m more unsettled than soothed. I curl up on the couch and pick up my tablet, trying not to have expectations despite what Dorian told me about checking my shop.
First, I open my email.
Slowly, I press my fingers over my mouth.
Oh my god.
My inbox is filled with transactions. And there are two other emails—one to gauge my interest about participating in an upcoming art show, and another inviting me to a dinner where I can meet even more of the folks involved in Charleston’s art scene.
I squeal against my fingers, and Screwtape bounds upright on the couch, glaring as if to say, You’re not going to start with those noises out here now, are you?
I’ve got to get more packing supplies. I’m going to be wildly busy boxing up all the art for my new patrons. With this money, I’ll be able to give the studio a much-needed facelift, pay my taxes, some of the insurance—
Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness was lying. Because not having to worry about money is one of the happiest damn feelings in the world.
This is it. My big break. Whether I paint Dorian or not, the introductions have already happened, and so have the sales. Things can only go up from here, right?
With trembling fingers, I find Dorian’s name in my contacts and press the symbol to put him on speaker.
“Hey there.” His low, masculine voice adds another layer to my excitement.
“You were right. My shop has almost sold out!”
“I thought so.” I can hear the smile in his tone. “They loved you.”
“But I’m so weird,” I say, breathless. “And my stuff is weird. I have all these dark, morbid ideas.”
“They’re fresh and interesting. And I don’t know if you do this intentionally, but there are layers to these paintings, Baz. I’m not talking about paint—layers of meaning. They make me want to stand in front of them and stare, and when I look away, they stay with me. I’m a little different after seeing them. That’s the true power of art, isn’t it? To alter the soul?”
I wince as he veers close to the sensitive topic between us. “I suppose it is.” I gnaw the edge of my thumbnail. “I’m going to be very busy tomorrow and the next day, buying supplies and then prepping and packing the new orders. I won’t be able to hang out.”
“I’ll hire some people to do that for you. Make a list of everything you need, and leave instructions for how you want the things packed.”
“I like to do it myself, to make sure the quality is right and the art is safe.”
“I’ll make sure the helpers are experienced and well paid,” says Dorian. “I won’t relinquish any precious days out of my two weeks with you.”
Precious days…he’s only saying that because of the portrait.
“I can’t thank you enough for this, Dorian.”
“Sure you can,” he says smoothly.
“Right.” I hesitate, biting my lips.
“We won’t talk about that yet,” he says. “Go on and make your list. I’ll come by with some people around eleven tomorrow.”
“Okay. See you then.” After ending the call, I leap off the couch and run into my spare room, taking stock of the wrapping, string, boxes, and sealing wax I’ve got on hand. It’s not nearly enough.
I’m going to need more of everything.