Chapter Eight
Chapter
Eight
Their first class was a moderate success.
Daphne took the lead, as this class was paint focused, but she was sleep-deprived and overly caffeinated from the large coffee April had fetched her while she cleaned up from her nighttime painting spree, and she kept tripping over her words for the first ten minutes, hands shaking as she clicked through their slides.
She eventually found her footing, reverting to her teaching experience in college when she was a TA in the foundation program for first-years, but she felt distracted the entire session.
April.
Elena.
April and Elena.
Her painting, which now sat behind the desk, her younger self’s blurry features facing the wall. The night before felt like a fever dream, as though someone else had inhabited Daphne’s body, using her hand to splash paint on a canvas. But Daphne knew exactly who that girl in the painting was.
Knew it was her.
Unseen, lost, unformed.
And she knew she wanted to paint more, create more, tell more of her story, just like April said, even if it killed her.
Maybe that was the whole point.
April’s words reverberated through her skull, terror inducing and exciting all at once. By the time class was over, she just wanted a break from all the knowing.
“Will you get a drink with me?” she asked April as they packed up from the class. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” She laughed nervously.
April gave her a look. “It’s six o’clock here.”
Daphne pointed a finger gun at April. “Right.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Daphne said, but her voice was high-pitched. She cleared her throat. “Fine.”
April continued to frown at her, unbelieving.
“Please?” Daphne said as she dried off the last of the brushes. “Just one drink.”
April sighed as she tucked her iPad into her bag, along with her sketchbook. “I guess I don’t really have anything else to do.”
“A high compliment,” Daphne said, “but I’ll take it.”
April laughed. “Sorry, I just meant…” But she trailed off, shaking her head as she swung her bag over her shoulder, then met Daphne’s gaze. “One drink.”
“Thank you,” Daphne said, then turned to grab her things to head out, but one of their students remained in the back of the classroom leaning against the counter, tapping at her phone.
Nicola, Daphne believed her name was. She was beautiful, with smooth brown skin and curly hair.
Right now, she was dressed in a plain white tee tucked into a pair of navy shorts, but Daphne could absolutely picture her in a pencil skirt and high heels.
“Excellent first class, you two,” she said in an elegant British accent. She pushed off the counter and tucked her phone into her Prada handbag, walking toward them.
“Nicola, hi,” April said.
“You did a good job too,” Daphne said brightly, remembering the messy apple Nicola had painted.
Nicola laughed. “I didn’t, but I’m not a painter, so I’m okay with that. Just here to learn and observe, but I did want to meet you officially.” She offered a long-fingered hand to Daphne. “I really enjoyed your portfolio.”
“Her portfolio?” April asked as Daphne shook Nicola’s hand.
“My portfolio?” Daphne echoed, but then remembered Mia had emailed her the week before she came to Cloverwild, asking if she could give the portfolio Mia had on file to a guest.
A curator.
At the time, Daphne hadn’t given it a second thought. Curator could mean a hundred different things in terms of style and place and mediums. Most likely, it also meant arrogance and snobbery, to be honest, but Daphne knew she was a little biased after so many years with Elena.
“That’s right,” Nicola said. “Alluring stuff. I especially liked those three pieces featuring that dark-haired woman as the subject. Set in the gallery? I could really feel the longing of the viewer.”
Daphne felt her cheeks go red at the mention of the pieces she’d done of Elena as part of her senior project. April shifted next to Daphne, cleared her throat.
“I don’t know about that,” Daphne said quietly. “All of those pieces were from three years ago. Some even older than that.”
Nicola nodded. “Which means you’ve grown. That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
Daphne frowned. “Looking for?”
“I’m a curator at the Devon,” Nicola said.
Daphne’s mouth dropped open—the Devon—but Nicola pressed on, explaining about a fall exhibition called Evolution, how she was looking for one more artist, didn’t matter what medium as long it moved her, and how she’d love to see what Daphne might have to offer.
Daphne could only blink at her, dumbfounded. She never imagined, not in a million years, that this was behind Mia’s email.
The Devon.
“I’m desperate for something transformative, something that will leave me absolutely shattered,” Nicola said. She gestured toward April. “April is in the mix too.”
Daphne felt like she kept getting slapped—not so much the pain or cruelty of it, but the shock, one loud crack after another. Her portfolio, a curator, the Devon, April. She turned and met April’s eyes briefly, then looked away, her breath shallow.
“Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition, right?” Nicola said, glancing between them, brows lifted. “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” April said. She smiled, but her voice was tense, her eyes mirthless.
Daphne simply gawped and blinked.
“I’ll need to make my decision by August first,” Nicola said. “Can you have something ready to show me by then?”
“Absolutely,” April said.
“Wonderful,” Nicola said. “We’ll have ourselves a little exhibition of our own.”
Daphne could only bob her head—yes, yes, yes.
“We’ll see you next class,” April said.
Nicola’s smile was like the Cheshire cat’s. “Yes, you will,” she said, her long brown legs carrying her toward the door. Daphne hadn’t uttered a word after Nicola flung the Devon into the atmosphere, and still she could only stare as the woman left.
“Did I just hallucinate?” she finally asked, her voice raspy.
Next to her, April released a long sigh. “Nope.”
“Oh my god,” Daphne said as it all settled.
“Oh my god.” She turned and grinned at April, grabbed her upper arms. “The Devon. The Devon. I used to get their quarterly catalogue as a kid, and I would study it under my covers with a flashlight like it was my Bible. I still remember certain paintings. Certain artists. Audrey St. John got her start there. Amal Rutland. Valeria Ramos. Do you know what this could mean?”
April pulled free, her expression grim. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Daphne frowned, confused, but then…
Oh, but then.
Daphne stared at April, and April stared back, her expression somehow both cool and charged all at once.
“You want it,” Daphne said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course I want it.”
Daphne licked her lower lip and nodded. “Okay. Right. This is…We can…”
But she wasn’t exactly sure what it was or what they could do right now.
May the best artist win felt a little trite, but that was essentially the situation.
If Nicola chose her, Daphne’s whole life would change.
Artists who showed at the Devon didn’t fade into obscurity.
Artists who showed at the Devon went on to be working artists.
Meaning, they sold their work, they were guest lecturers and artists-in-residence in prestigious art programs, they were sought-after and lauded and emulated.
Even Elena salivated over the Devon and had tried to collaborate with them more than once, to no avail.
If Daphne could get into the Devon…she could do anything. Go anywhere. Be anyone.
“You know what I think?” Daphne asked, hitching her bag over her shoulder.
“I’m on pins and needles,” April said drolly.
“I think we should get that drink now.”
April blew out a breath and nodded. “Yeah. I think that’s a damn good idea.”
Daphne felt dizzy as the two of them walked in silence down the hall and through Cloverwild’s lobby. The bar was situated just off the dining room, all shiny lacquered wood, glowing bottles in every color on the backlit wall, and tan leather stools with bentwood seats and oak legs.
Daphne slid onto a stool with a sigh. She hadn’t been to a bar—or a restaurant, a grocery store, the post office, or any place outside of Vivian’s apartment—in over a month.
“This is nice,” she said as April sat next to her.
“It’s decent,” April said, checking her phone, then tucking it away again.
“Has your best friend texted?” Daphne asked brightly.
April side-eyed her. “What?”
“Earlier today. You said you and your best friend weren’t talking very much.”
“Do you remember everything I say?”
Daphne smiled beatifically. “I’m observant and have a memory like an elephant.”
April shook her head. “I guess I’ll have to be careful with my words from now on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—tell me everything.”
April laughed. “So you’re also a gossip?”
“Horribly so,” Daphne said. “After keeping secrets my entire life, I’m hungry for other people’s drama.”
“You and Penny Hampton would be two peas in a pod,” April said.
“Who?”
“Town gossip. Kind of like Miss Patty and Babette.”
“Who?” Daphne repeated, laughing a little.
April leaned her elbows on the bar and clasped her hands together, like she was about to pray. “Please tell me you’ve seen Gilmore Girls.”
Daphne grinned. “I haven’t seen anything.” She pointed her thumb to her chest. “Suffocating religious upbringing, remember?”
April blinked at her as though she was a rare exhibit in a zoo.
“Well, hey there.”
Daphne’s head swung toward the silky voice behind the bar.
Cloverwild’s bartender pressed her palms to the glossy bar top, cerulean eyes glittering.
Her skin was pale and smooth, and she had a silver name tag pinned to her black button-up that read Sasha, she/her.
Her white-blond hair was short on the sides and tall and messy on top, and she flashed a crooked smile that Daphne was pretty sure could disintegrate cotton.
“Oh,” Daphne said, sitting up a little straighter. “Wow, hi.”