Chapter Seventeen
Max, Now
Becs, one of the artists I’d like to confirm for the exhibit, takes contemplative strides through the barn. She graduated a year before me, and we stayed in touch. At a pop-up in Dubai last spring, she did some outstanding work that played a lot with textures, and she’d be perfect for our show.
“Love the place,” she says, inspecting the space. “Reminds me of this coffee shop I went to every day in Morocco during my residency. I’m tempted to stay the night.”
“I could get a room ready for you, if you’d like.”
So she can talk. That might be the first full sentence Daisy’s said in days.
Ever since tacos last week, she’s limited her responses to three words or less.
I would have asked her what was up, but between applying for permits, designing flyers, and making endless calls with managers, I’ve barely had the chance to breathe.
“I wish,” Becs replies. “Early flight out of LAX for Art Basel. Have you been?”
“Uh.” Daisy twirls a ring on her finger. “No.”
“Why would you, though?” Becs gestures to the setting sun. “When you’re surrounded by this? I’d never leave.”
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Daisy’s tone is wistful, and she looks at the landscape like she’s seeing it for the first time, too. Her shirt has ridden up in the back, revealing some peach fuzz that glistens in the light, and I want to rub my palm on it.
“Max always talked shit about his hometown,” Becs says to Daisy.
“No more than any kid talks shit about their hometown,” I say.
“On our first date, you told me you were—”
“Okay, we don’t have to get into that.”
“Oh.” Daisy looks between us. “Max didn’t mention that you two dated.”
She doesn’t look jealous or annoyed, just curious—at attention. I wish the comment bothered her as much as it bothered me.
“God, it was nothing.” Becs shakes her head. “In art school, everybody dates everybody. Very incestuous.”
A few months into my freshman year, I started dating.
There were women who I thought could be my type but really weren’t, like Becs.
There were a couple of longer-term partners—girlfriends who I liked a lot—but once things fizzled, we parted ways and stayed friends.
Reflecting on it now, I don’t know what I was looking for in those relationships.
I guess I never found that invisible string connecting me and someone else.
“He told me,” Becs goes on, “that he was from Bumfuck, California.”
“That was a joke,” I rush to explain.
“It wasn’t always like this,” Daisy says, more to Becs than to me. “For someone like Max, someone ambitious and so great at what he does, the town can have its limits.”
My defensive mode thaws, and Daisy smiles in a way that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Not so limiting anymore,” Becs says. “So, tell me all about this pop-up.”
Daisy gives her a tour around the barn while I explain the vision. Anytime I speak, Daze looks distracted—like she’s listening to me but her mind is elsewhere—and then she leaps back into business talk.
I can’t match that dedication. Any time she gives her attention to Becs, my focus trails up her legs, all the way to the fraying, stringy ends of her shorts.
“Sunset here’s something else,” Daisy says. “We’re able to catch the last bits of light splashing against the mountains over there, and then it’s cotton candy skies ’til the stars come out.”
“The setting is its own art piece. And then to have a museum here? Very meta.”
“We’ve got advertising, a fundraiser, some blog features, and an upcoming interview.” I glance at Daisy and give her an encouraging smile because I know she’s nervous about being on camera. “We haven’t sorted out specifics, but you’d likely have this corner here.”
I rattle off a list of other artists I’ve been in talks with—some bigger names than others—and Becs nods and offers some additional suggestions.
“Also.” Daisy clears her throat. “Also, I have some artists to recommend.”
“Great.” I worry she might overestimate my reach and propose someone unattainable, but I like that she’s done research. “Who were you thinking?”
“They’re locals.”
I stall for a beat. Holding a spot for someone in the area had crossed my mind, but well-known artists remain my priority.
People with a bigger following will mean more to Tate and set Daisy up for months of packed reservations.
Besides, artists of Becs’s caliber don’t want to fight for placement with someone who makes air-dry clay toothpick holders in the shape of a sun.
“It’s a great idea,” I say, letting her down gently, “but I’m not sure that’s the right direction for what we’re creating.”
“I like it,” Becs says, nodding. “You could call the pop-up…Here and There.”
“Or Near and Far,” Daisy says, and Becs gasps.
“Oh, that’s good. Better watch out,” she says to me, a thumb hooked toward Daisy. “She might take your job.”
“We should try to save as much space as we can for artists on the list,” I say. “Which is why we’re all here in the first place.”
This chat has gone completely off-track, and my eyes widen in Daisy’s direction, as if I can communicate through unseen forces.
Trust me. She responds with a subtle eye roll—she really shouldn’t look that pretty when she’s giving me attitude—and I invite Becs back into the conversation, showing her around before she departs.
The second the tires from Becs’s rental car hit the road and a cloud of earthy debris kicks up in her wake, Daisy turns to me. “Becs thought it was a good idea.”
“It is, but not for this.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about who we’ll have in this show since day one. The whole thing is a balancing act of who will draw in a big crowd, who’s right for the pop-up, who’s available…I have a list a mile long of dream artists, and they’re the priority.”
“What about my list?”
“I didn’t know you had a list.”
“Well, now you do.” She shrugs again. “This is our project, and we can change it or add to it.”
“Sure.” Although Daisy threw me a curveball, we’re in this together, and her ideas matter. “But if we open the floodgates for artists in Harlow to claim a spot, that looks more—”
“Bumfuck, California?”
“Hey.” I step forward, wishing that comment had never come up—wishing that I’d never said it in the first place, all those years ago.
“That was shitty of me.” Her face falls to the ground, so I cup her chin and meet her gaze.
“I was dumb and young and said whatever for a laugh.” My attention darts to her mouth for a nanosecond.
“I just want us to have the best chance at success here, and I know how artists think. If—”
Daisy doesn’t stick around to hear what I have to say; instead, she breaks the connection, walks away, and I instinctively follow.
The sunset has painted the sky a stunning combination of rose and lilac—a bouquet strewn across the sky.
A sliver of the moon pokes out from behind a cloud, and a smattering of stars dot the multicolored blanket above.
“Artists don’t want to compete to be in a museum like this,” I continue, hoping to knock some sense into her stubborn ass with my years of experience.
“There are egos involved. Politics. They want a prime spot, reserved for them. I’m not saying it’s right, but we have to play the game if we want the audience we’re aiming for. ”
“You’d be surprised at what people in this area can do.” She falters at the door to the casita. “If you’re so embarrassed by this place, then why bother with this project at all?”
“I’m not embarrassed. I only want the best artists we can get, and—”
“But what if—”
“And that doesn’t mean people here aren’t talented. But we want a big crowd, so we have to appeal to that.”
She tips her chin up. “We’d spend less on shipping.”
“That’s…okay, good point. But I don’t want shipping costs, which I budgeted for, to get in the way of an amazing exhibit.”
“Maybe you’re the one getting in the way. Wanting all these hotshots but turning your nose up at anyone from here. You’re from here, in case you forgot.”
“This is my job, Daze,” I say through clenched teeth. “Curating. Making choices, eliminating options, and tailoring what this museum will be. You have to trust me.”
“Trust goes both ways,” she says, stepping close enough I can smell her shampoo.
Words escape me because she’s right. Daisy has a lot on the line, and so far, she’s followed my lead. She knows Harlow the way I can’t after years away, so I should at least consider her suggestion, do more research, and decide if it’s feasible.
“Okay,” I concede. “Send me your list. I’ll look into some things, and…I’ll think about it.”
“I knew you’d come around.” The tiny victory makes her eyes gleam, and she presses her pointer finger into my chest. “People will show up.”
“Don’t poke me.” I grab her hand and chuckle, guiding it away as she struggles against me.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, scowling as she tries to re-poke me. Her other hand flies into view, but I snatch that one. After a handful of more failed attempts from her, she wriggles as a giggle escapes her.
Once I’ve gotten a hand encircled around both her wrists, I hold her arms taut, pulling her close enough that there’s no space between us. If I could freeze time, I’d stop right here and memorize every shade of chocolate and chestnut in her eyes.
She looks at me and swallows. In the dusk, her face and body glow a gorgeous golden hue. The nighttime chill must be setting in, because she shivers. “You’re not making this easy, Max.”
“I said I’d think about it. I meant that.”
“Not about the artists.” Daisy holds my gaze for a moment before looking away and gnawing on her plump bottom lip. She shakes her head. “We can’t work like this. I can’t work like this.”
My heartbeat picks up. She doesn’t mean the artists—she means me. She must want to send me packing to a motel and cancel the pop-up altogether.