3. 3
Lars stares at my newest piece hanging on the gallery wall. It’s on display only. Owen and Annie by the lake on their wedding day. I used the bokeh effect to put emphasis on their figures. They look out at the lake, so their faces aren’t seen in this watercolor.
“Why isn’t this one for sale again?” Lars asks. “This one might actually sell.”
“It belongs to my brother.”
Lars sighs. “But if it’s here, then you must be willing to recreate it for someone else?”
“With different subjects. Yes.”
Another sigh. His brows raise in a look that screams insufferable. I’m pretty sure I’m not the insufferable one though—no matter what Lars Simon believes.
He just likes to have something to complain about when it comes to me. Usually, it”s how little I”ve sold. I either have too many pieces in the gallery or not enough. I definitely don”t sell enough. But today, it”s that I”m displaying a piece that isn”t for sale.
The thing about a gallery though, pieces are for show as much as they are for sale. The majority of our visitors aren’t looking to buy. They’re looking to look.
But Lars doesn’t want to hear that. He doesn’t care about the visitors who aren’t also shoppers.
If he weren’t the only curator in town, I’d leave him. But he is, not to mention he’s also the landlord of my loft and the small studio attached, as well as the owner of the building across the street. The very place I hope to call my teaching studio one day.
Whether I like it or not, I need Lars on my side.
My turn to sigh.
Lars crosses his arms. “If you want to sell more pieces, Miles, you have to be more open about letting some of these go.”
“I let plenty go. But not this one. It’s my brother’s wedding gift.” Plenty? It’s not exactly true. My pieces aren’t flying off the wall by any means. But I am willing to sell most of them, just not this one.
“Right.” A breathy, impatient chortle vibrates from his chest. “Moving on. You wanted to see me…”
“Yes, I did.” My eyes catch the one and only patron inside our little gallery at the moment. Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen her before. I’m sure of it.
And yet, she’s familiar.
She’s staring at the one and only Manoli piece in this gallery. I’d like to tell her it’s overpriced and nothing close to his best work. But I won’t. Lars would wring my neck and never consider what I’m about to ask of him.
“You wanted to see me because…” Another impatient sigh falls from the man who has way too much control over my life.
This time, I can’t blame him. I’ve been standing here contemplating how to tell our pretty blonde visitor what she should and should not buy rather than get down to business.
“Right.” I clear my throat and blink my gaze away from the girl. “My studio.”
Lars tugs on the vest of his three-piece suit and blows a raspberry from his lips as he turns away from my painting. “This again?”
“Hear me out. The Inclusion Center brings in more than half my students, but none of them can make it up those stairs easily. And for some, like Walt, it’s impossible. His wheelchair won’t allow it.”
Lars walks to the other side of the hall, past the girl, and stops in front of another one of my pieces. One that’s been sitting there for a month without a single offer.
“You know, the longer it sits here, the less I like it.” He stares at the songbirds emblazoned with bold colors and perched on a branch.
I’ve thought about giving it away a hundred times. But in the end—I always hope for the right owner to come in, to feel the joy in this piece, and to give it a home. More than a sale—that’s what I want. I want my songbirds adopted by the right owner. The one who wants—no, needs—them.
He squints as if looking at the piece with different eyes. But mostly, he”s changing the subject.
“I want the building across the street,” I blurt. “I need it. You know that I need it.” While I want someone to come and adopt my songbirds for all the right, sentimental, artistic reasons, I have to survive. And eighty percent of my income is brought in by my students—the elementary kids who come twice a week, the teens who come once a week, and the adults with disabilities group who come three to four times a week.
Turning on his heels, Lars faces me. His round spectacles slip to the ridge of his nose, and he bumps them up with the back of his hand. “You can’t have it.”
“You’re using it for what? Storage? I’d be willing to go through it to find a new place for the things you have there. I’d pay additional rent for the space.” I blow out an exhausted breath. “If I could use it for my teaching studio, my students would double.” All true—but really, the building across the street would mean that Walt, Cinnamon, and half a dozen more would be able to join the regular class. That’s all they want. They don’t want the at-home one-on-one lessons I’ve provided. They want to join the class, to be like everyone else, to be with their friends. I don’t blame them. “Double,” I say again because Lars sees the world in dollar signs. I’m speaking his language.
“I don’t see how any of that benefits me. No matter the amount of students you attract, you pay me the same rent.”
I shake my head. “But I’d be paying you more—rent for my loft and the addition of the other building.”
Lars wrinkles his nose. “You forget, Miles. I write the check for your cut of the pieces you sell. I know what you’re making. You cannot pay me enough to use that building. This I know.”
He’s only half wrong. He knows my income based on what I sell but not with my teaching. Still, it’s difficult to argue with him. My plan would require Lars to give me an incredible deal on rent—at least, in the beginning.
It’s a deal he isn’t willing to make.
“H
ey, Walt.” I peer down into the man’s crystal-clear blue eyes and wave a brush in front of him, trying to grasp his attention. “You don’t want to paint today?”
He sticks out his bottom lip and turns his entire torso away from me. “Not here.”
“It’s May. The sun is shining. I thought you’d like it out here.”
Walt may be confined to his chair, and I heard one of the staff in this group home once say that Walt was a nine-year-old stuck inside a forty-two-year-old’s body, but he is a force.
“No,” he says, and I’m not sure that bottom lip could protrude any more than it currently is.
“It’s better than the kitchen, right?” But it doesn’t help that other members of Walt’s house come to class in my second-floor studio. But not Walt. The building is too old, and there’s no way we’d get his chair up that flight of stairs. Not to mention, my studio is a bit of a box.
Walt loves art and expressing himself through painting and drawing. So, I”ve been teaching him at the group home. But in the last few weeks, he”s decided he doesn”t want to be left out. He doesn”t want to have anything other than what his friends have.
“What if we talked the guys into moving class into the garage for the summer? We could all work out here together. We could invite Cinnamon to come over too.” I’m pretty sure Walt has a thing for Cinnamon. He talks about her enough.
But not even the lure of little Cinnamon is enough to cheer him today.
His head dips and his clear blue eyes drag over at me. Shaking his head, he stares right through me. I haven”t enticed him, not even a little.
Sweat pools at the back of my neck. I rub it away but can do nothing for the tightening ache in my muscles. “I know, buddy. I’m working on a new place. I promise. But Lars—”
“Lars!” he spats, sitting up straight and shaking his head. Walt rolls his eyes. “Don’t say his name. Don’t say it! I do not like him, not one little bit.”
I want to chuckle—I know just how he feels. I stuff the temptation deep down—it wouldn’t help. “I get that,” I tell him. “So, you can’t count on Lars, but can you count on me?”
Walt tilts his head to the side, his lips protruding out again. He holds out a hand as if to shake mine. But when I set my hand in his, he claps his fingers around my thumb, holding on, dapping up, telling me he does trust me. He does count on me.
I don’t know how, but I’ll be securing a new studio. I have to.