Chapter 13
Brie
The gallery wasn’t even open, but it already looked like the place had a life of its own: steel and glass, hardwood and hope.
The ceiling soared, raw beams and black-painted ductwork overhead like the skeleton of some giant prehistoric bird.
I’d hung the industrial pendant lights in a precise, alternating pattern, the bulbs soft enough not to scream “fluorescent middle school,” but bright enough for artwork.
There were still ladders leaning against the north wall, blue tape Xs stuck at regular intervals for the future install.
The back room, AKA my office, was stacked with paint cans, leftover tiles, and a curling extension cord that snaked across the threshold like a lazy python.
I paced, then retreated to the plate-glass windows, glancing up and down Main.
A single FedEx van idled in front of the children’s clothing store across the street; otherwise, nothing but wind and shoppers.
I told myself it was “peaceful,” but the silence just pressed on my ribcage, making me jump every time a car zipped by.
Lysander Hale looked exactly as I’d imagined from his Zoom call, but taller, with a kind of long-limbed angular grace you’d expect from a ballet dancer or a professional saboteur.
He wore black jeans, a white shirt crisp enough to have its own social media presence, and a tan trench coat that would’ve been laughable anywhere south of Oklahoma, but here somehow made him look like the most important person within a fifty-mile radius.
Inez was shorter, maybe my height, but with the kind of posture that made you stand up straighter just by looking at her.
She had dark, sharp eyes and wore silky black hair pulled back and tied off with a long scarf.
Her jacket was leather, probably vegan, and her boots looked more expensive than my last apartment rent.
They didn’t just enter—they arrived. Lysander held the door, then swept in, his voice preempting anything I might have said: “You, my dear, are a goddess of transformation. Look at this!” He spun, arms open, like he was about to attempt a jeté across the concrete.
“It’s stunning. I knew you had taste, Brie, but this is… ”
He trailed off, letting his hand do a lazy circle around the room. Inez, meanwhile, stalked the perimeter, touching the bare walls like she was inspecting a crime scene.
I tried to channel confidence, but my palms were already sweating. “Welcome to Wildbrush. Or, the closest thing I have to it until the drywallers finish and I can afford a sign that doesn’t look like an Etsy fail.”
Lysander grinned and gave me a dramatic hug, almost spinning me off the ground. “This is so much better than I hoped. You look radiant, by the way. Love that lipstick!”
I rolled my eyes. “I ordered it from Macy’s just in case of emergencies.”
He gave me a withering look. “Darling, everything you do is an emergency,” and then turned to call over his shoulder: “Inez, thoughts?”
Inez ran a finger over the brick, leaving a faint line in the dust. “It’s authentic. And not too precious.” She flashed me the barest flicker of a smile. “Good bones.”
“Good bones,” Lysander repeated. “Did you hear that, Brie? Inez Chavez only says that about places she actually likes.” He dropped his voice to a faux whisper. “She once called a Chelsea gallery ‘an overpriced mausoleum’ to the owner’s face.”
Inez didn’t argue.
I laughed, the tension draining a bit. “Well, as long as it’s not a mausoleum, we’re winning.”
We started the walk-through. Lysander and I flanked Inez like we were security detail, though it was clear who was leading the parade.
I pointed out the tall windows and explained my plan to use the front wall for her largest canvases.
“The natural light in the morning is basically made for your color palette. It’s like—here, look—” I dragged them to the tape marks by the window and pulled up the mockup on my tablet, then superimposed it against the blank wall.
Inez squinted at the screen, then at the wall. She nodded, just once. “Yes. The lavender in Drowned Plains will glow in this light.”
Lysander patted my arm, then stepped aside to let us have our moment.
I led Inez down the corridor to the secondary gallery, describing how I’d rotate in her smaller pieces as part of a seasonal display.
“And I want to hang my own landscapes in the permanent section here—” I pointed to a stretch of wall that still had two exposed junction boxes and a scribbled note from the electrician: “NO POWER UNTIL INSPECTED.”
Inez examined the space, then said, “Your work is very different from mine. But I think the contrast will be good.” She fixed me with those hawk eyes. “You are not afraid of bright colors.”
I grinned. “I am afraid of mediocrity. Color is easier to fix than boring.”
She smiled for real then, and it was like sunlight catching a mountain ridge.
We finished the circuit, past the unfinished bathroom (tile laid, no mirror yet) and to the back into what would become my future assistant’s office.
Lysander was already there, leaning on the cheap folding table I’d pressed into service as a desk.
He held up a finger: “Before I forget, your caterer is a genius. These little cranberry-fig goat cheese crostinis?” He bit one in half. “Michelin-star level.”
I looked at the spread I’d set out—Aspen’s best, the stuff that made even contractors pause mid-cursing.
There were canapés with shrimp tarts, bacon-wrapped dates, and a cheese platter that looked like it belonged at a wedding.
Inez reached for a pastry, then motioned at the walls. “When do you open?”
“Soft launch is in three weeks, if the building inspector isn’t a total bastard. I want your work up by then. Your exhibition will be the grand opening.”
I waited for a sign of worry, but Inez just said, “You will need the lighting finished by next Thursday. The colors need warm white. Not blue.” She glanced at the fixtures overhead. “Those are very…” She fished for a word.
“Warehouse?” I offered.
She nodded. “Yes. Warehouse.”
“There will be lighting tracks installed that can be adjusted per the artist’s instructions.” I told her.
Lysander shrugged out of his coat and perched on the edge of the table.
“I’m so happy with this, Brie, honestly.
You’re a natural.” He crossed his legs, balancing his phone on his knee.
“I’ve already told four buyers that you’re the real deal.
No pressure, but Inez’s whole career might ride on whether Dairyville’s premier gallery has a successful opening. ”
I tried to laugh, but the words landed with real weight. “No pressure at all,” I echoed. “Just the fate of the Southwest’s best new artist and the future of my entire adult life.”
Lysander grinned. “You’re going to crush it. I can tell. I’m not supposed to play favorites, but you are my favorite.”
I looked at Inez, who was now moving paintings out of their crates, holding them up to the walls one at a time, making tiny hand gestures like she was already arranging the whole show in her mind.
I found myself smiling, not just polite but with real, honest-to-god joy. “Thank you,” I said, and it felt too small, but I meant it.
We spent the next hour plotting layouts, talking through everything from price points to which day of the week would attract the most visitors.
Lysander had all these spreadsheets and color-coded documents, but he was surprisingly chill about letting me take the lead on curation.
Inez was more interested in the details—“Will there be security at night?” and “Do you want artist statements in English or Spanish?”—but even she was clearly energized by the prospect of showing here.
Every once in a while, I caught Lysander just looking at me, an inscrutable little smile on his face. At one point, he pulled me aside while Inez was busy measuring the west wall.
“You know,” he said, voice low and serious, “I could see you doing this in L.A. Or New York. Maybe Berlin, if you wanted to be really insufferable.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not happening. I like it here.”
He grinned, then his voice went soft. “You belong here, don’t you? That’s rare.”
I wanted to argue, but I didn’t. “Maybe I do,” I said. “Or maybe I just want to prove to everyone who ever doubted me that I can make something out of nothing.”
As if wanting to lighten the atmosphere, he spouted, “Marketing. I know you have your Instagram, and I can do a push through our agency, but have you considered collaborating with local businesses? You know, cross-promote. Aspen could make a Wildbrush pastry, the dance studio could do a pop-up performance during the opening, stuff like that.”
I nodded, scribbling notes. “I love it. I want the opening to feel like an event, not just a gallery show. Maybe live music? Or a mural in the alley?”
Lysander clapped. “Yes! This is the energy. It’ll be a party.”
We went around and around—website banners, print ads for the Amarillo paper and Dallas/Fort Worth area advertising, Facebook event, even a possible write-up in the university arts magazine.
I let myself imagine what it would look like: the space packed with people, voices echoing against the brick, every wall humming with art and ambition.
At one point, Lysander looked at his phone, then locked eyes with me. “So, the real reason I’m here…” He trailed off, tapping his nails on the glass. “I want to stay through the opening. See it through, you know?”
I blinked. “You want to stay in Dairyville for three weeks? What about your boyfriend? Won’t you miss him terribly?”
He laughed a little too loud. “Well, I would have if I hadn’t seen a pic of him wrapped around a hulking Spaniard at an out of the way club. I’m just thankful I had friends there who recognized him or he might still be fooling me.”
“Oh no, Lysander, I’m so sorry that happened. That little cunt!”