Chapter 6
6.
Birdie was whistling when she left the wine store, a spring in her step despite the evening chill. The staff inside had greeted her by name and she was able to put six bottles of the good stuff on her mother’s account. Things were looking up! The insurmountable problems of this morning now seemed entirely surmountable.
The busy crunchy-granola town was centered around a few main streets lined with quirky boutiques, cozy cafes, and chichi general stores, most with hand-painted signs. It wasn’t technically home —her mother and Rafi had moved up after Birdie was already living in Brooklyn to pursue a career in comedy and kissing. But considering she’d been visiting several times a year since then, being in Woodstock felt like wearing a favorite sweatshirt, with exactly zero ex-managers or former one-night stands to kill the vibe.
Birdie was putting the wine in Ray’s back seat when a gathering across the street caught her eye. Woodstock Art, one of the local galleries, looked like it was hosting a party or an opening. The sign out front declared Free Mulled Wine!
Birdie loved community events and spontaneous plans and, most of all, free wine. After all, it was Christmas! Not for another twenty-three days, but Birdie would absolutely be using this excuse to do just about anything for the rest of the month.
Inside, many of the attendees were older, close to her mom’s age—women with “fun” earrings, men with leather bolos who looked lightly stoned. There’d famously been an influx of Brooklynites moving upstate for whom art and wine were obviously a draw. Much of the crowd wouldn’t look out of place at a Bushwick poetry slam. Ironic stick-and-poke tats? Check. Flawless ombré locs? Check. Gender-nonconforming progressives who were passionate about composting? Sweet bébé Jesus, check.
“It’s the simplicity for me,” Birdie overheard Flawless Ombré Locs say to the person next to them. “The negative space, the austere aesthetic. Jacob’s a master of what’s unsaid.”
“Mmm,” agreed the friend. “Yes, exactly. ”
Birdie sipped her mulled wine, which was delicious, as she examined the paintings. Thick black strokes on raw canvas. The kind of thing a billionaire might have hanging in a loft the size of Delaware. Was it any good? Birdie had no idea. She liked art but would never pretend to “get it” any more than she understood state taxes or NFTs.
Her phone pinged. Liz, texting her a picture of their mother’s vintage-sexy 1983 Playboy cover in the downstairs guest bathroom. Terrifying. Birdie thumbed a reply— Hello doctor? I need to remove both my eyes.
A droll female voice sounded next to her. “The art’s on the walls, you know.”
Birdie huffed a laugh and looked up. The chatter and movement around her seemed to fade away.
It wasn’t just that the woman standing next to her was beautiful: tall and long-limbed in a white men’s button-down belted as a dress and thigh-high cream boots that looked incredibly hot against her brown skin. And it wasn’t just that she was clearly a badass, with her gold septum piercing and her shaved head that was somehow the most elegant haircut of everyone in the gallery. This person glowed, like a house decked out with non-tacky Christmas lights.
“Hi.” Birdie pocketed her phone. “It’s me. I’m the problem, it’s me.”
Sexy Head’s lips twitched with cautious amusement. “Someone said you’re a comedian. I guess they were right?”
Sexy Head had been asking about her ? A Christmukkah miracle! Birdie turned on the full Belvedere charm. “I’m Birdie, and I am a comedian, sadly. I’d describe my personality as a mix of narcissism and crippling self-doubt, but I am fun at parties. I’m very into The Great British Baking Show, my cat, and breakfast. Wow, you really have a way of getting people to open up.”
Sexy Head rewarded all this with a half smile. Her eyes were licked with liner in a way Birdie was incapable of executing but always appreciated. “Favorite breakfast food?” the woman asked.
“Bacon.”
“Perfectly cooked or burnt to a crisp?”
“Ah, trick question. Burnt to a crisp is perfectly cooked.”
Like it was a secret: “Bacon is also my favorite breakfast food.”
“Should we start a podcast?” Birdie phrased her question like it was obvious they must.
Sexy Head laughed, a real laugh, and the sound was like a glitter gun going off in Birdie’s heart. “Sure,” she said. “Humorous self-care or grisly murder-of-the-week?”
“Let’s mash it up,” Birdie riffed. “ Massage Oil and Massacres. Death and a Long, Hot Bath. ”
Every laugh was a good one. But amusing this attractive stranger felt better than any laugh Birdie had gotten in months.
Sexy Head nodded at the paintings and lowered her voice. “So. What do you think of the art?” She phrased it as if she found all of this a bit pretentious and definitely not worth whatever insane price tag Jacob was charging.
Birdie told the truth. “I don’t get art.”
“Oh c’mon.” Sexy Head nudged Birdie’s ribs. “What’s your first impression?”
Birdie was nothing if not a master of reading the room. Obviously, this divine being who radiated a self-realization Birdie would never achieve wanted her to snark on the art. Bond over being snobby contrarians. Something Birdie was 100 percent capable of. She edged closer, speaking as co-conspirators. “Let’s not kid ourselves. Art is a scam.”
Sexy Head’s eyes widened, scandalized. “What sort of scam?”
“The kind where anyone can slap some paint on a canvas and charge a million bucks for it. It’s giving Theranos, it’s giving Ponzi! Art is actually the greatest con of all.”
“At this point—” Sexy Head started.
“A rich man’s racket, a sexy swindle,” Birdie went on, gesturing at the bold brushstrokes of the painting in front of them. “My cat could pull this off.” She scanned the crowd. “Jacob is probably some douche in a beret who thinks that—”
The woman cut her off, speaking rapid-fire. “At this point I should tell you that this is my show.”
Record scratch. Birdie froze, mouth hanging open. “Wait, what?”
“Jecka Jacob.” Sexy Head indicated some words stenciled on the far wall.
It’s Not Black & White by Jecka Jacob .
The wooden floorboards beneath Birdie’s feet seemed to warp. She only half heard someone in a floating dress offer a Hey, Jecka, great stuff.
Birdie’s mouth was dry, her mind tripping over the insane things she’d just said. Art is a scam. A rich man’s racket. Jacob is probably some douche in a beret. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean that. I said all that to impress you.”
Jecka looked incredulous. “You told me your cat could ‘pull this off’ to impress me?”
OH FUCK. All caps, neon bright. Birdie shook her head so frantically it threatened to pop off. “I didn’t mean that! I was just trying to be funny!” Nothing mattered except Jecka understanding she’d been kidding. “I love your paintings. My cat could never get on your level.”
“For a comedian, I think your material could use some work.” Jecka’s face was stuck somewhere between amazement and disbelief. “I’m getting a drink. It was very…weird to meet you.”
“No, wait!” Birdie lurched forward.
It happened in slow motion. The mulled wine still in Birdie’s grip arced up and out of her plastic cup. The graceful crimson wave sailed through the air before hitting the canvas they’d been standing in front of. The tossed wine seeped into the canvas, running in rivulets toward the floor. Jecka’s black-and-white painting now featured a third color.
The gallery became pin-drop silent. Not hushed. Not briefly muted. Violently still.
Birdie didn’t need to look around to know everyone was staring at her with the horror she was feeling one hundredfold. There had been nightmare silences before. Onstage, after the audience had turned against her for any number of reasons (too confident, not confident enough, too vulgar, too coy). The silence every time her deadbeat director dad stood her up, let her down, made her feel like an inconvenience. But this silence was different. This silence was worse. A bad joke was one thing. Destroying someone’s artwork was unforgivable. It was immoral.
Birdie was panting, her gaze ricocheting from the cup to the canvas to the artist, the cup, the canvas, the artist.
Jecka looked on the brink of hysterical tears. Or the swift and effective firing of an artillery of expletives. Then her expression relaxed. Jecka started clapping. Cheering, like her team had just scored the winning goal.
“Congratulations, Birdie,” Jecka announced to the entire gallery. “You just bought the first painting.”
Birdie’s gaze landed on the informational placard next to the artwork. The price tag of her accidental new purchase? Eleven thousand dollars.