Chapter 19 – Maura
MAURA
The red paint sparkles on the canvas. Mixing the ground opal and red beryl in gave the paint a warm, textured look that reminds me of magma bubbling inside a volcano.
As I stand to get a look from a different angle, my body whines from soreness.
Whoops. I guess staying seated in front of a canvas for hours didn’t exactly make my muscles happy.
I'm stretching when I hear my phone pinging. Absorbed in my work, I haven't checked it for hours. James should be busy all day with work, so I'm guessing it's a text from my father, unwanted, or Brinley, preferred.
Instead, it's an email from the Whitmer Gallery, one of Toronto's most prestigious art galleries. I assume that they're just sending a promotion email for a show. Then I see my name in the subject line.
Suddenly, my heart starts buzzing like a hummingbird. There's no way the Whitmer would be interested in me…would they?
My fingers tremble as I open the email.
Dear Mrs. Keller,
I'm Sydney Meyer, the Senior curator from the Whitmer Gallery. I saw several of your paintings at the Copper Cup, and I wanted to reach out to explore your interest in putting on a solo show at the gallery. We feature a new local artist every April, and based on your work, I think you’d be an excellent candidate.
Please reach out if you have any interest.
Yours,
Sydney Meyer
-
“Oh my god,” I breathe. This can’t be real. Major studios don’t just reach out to unknown artists like this. It’s got to be some scam, targeting small local Toronto artists.
Even in my head, that sounds ridiculous.
Quickly, I search Sydney Meyer’s name on my phone. Her photo pops up immediately, an older woman with calm brown eyes. When I click on her bio on the Whitmer’s website, her email matches the one that contacted me.
Okay, maybe this email is a real offer. But I don't believe for a second it's because of my paintings.
I've just gotten married to one of the city’s wealthiest and most famous men.
Of course, any gallery would want access to him.
All they have to do is offer his wife a gallery show, and they'll expect him to spend his billions there.
Besides, the publicity is irresistible. The name Keller alone will draw people in, maybe in the hopes that they'll meet James himself.
I can just imagine people, snickering at my paintings, whispering about how my husband funded my vanity project. If I say yes to this, I'll only be embarrassing myself.
Then, bizarrely, a phrase from Peppermint’s article pops into my head.
Her own promising career as an artist.
Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit. I've been working for years now, and people have bought my paintings off the wall at the Copper Cup. Maybe—maybe—I'm just standing in my own way here.
I screenshot Sydney's email and text it over to the one person I know won’t bullshit me, Brinley.
Maura
Is this real or am I about to be murdered for my art?
Almost immediately, Brinley calls me back. When I pick up, ear-splitting squeals burst from the phone.
“Yessss, Maura!” she screeches. “You did it, you did it, you did it! I’m so happy for you.”
Despite my reservations, Brinley’s excitement makes my mouth curl into a smile. “Thank you, even though I’m still not convinced this isn’t a scam.”
“It’s not,” she says dismissively. “Even I know the Whitmer is the real deal, and so are you. They want local new artists, and you’re the perfect fit.”
Sighing, I lean back against the studio wall.
The fresh paint on my canvas glints in the gray spring light.
“I don't know, Brinley. They're probably only asking because of the whole media circus around my marriage.
I just…I just don't want to embarrass myself by imagining this is real, if they're not even interested in me and my work.”
“Well, I have good news. I know for a fact they're interested in you, Maura Matthews, not Keller.”
“Oh yeah?” I laugh. “How’s that?”
“Because Sydney Keller came into the Copper Cup three months ago, before you even met James. She told me where she worked and she asked if I had contact information for you. I didn't say anything because I didn't wanna get your hopes up, but…”
I let out a long breath. I want it to be true, so badly. “Are you sure you're remembering the dates right?”
Brinley laughs. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember because it was Christmas and we were slammed, and even though it was great news for you, it was personally inconvenient for me.”
“Sorry to annoy you with my career success,” I say, smiling.
“Get over here now,” she orders. “We need to celebrate, and I have a decaf latte and a pain au chocolat with your name on it.”
I bite my lip. It feels too soon to celebrate, when I haven’t even decided if I’m going to accept. But Brinley’s enthusiasm is infectious.
“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
When I open the door to the Copper Cup, I’m immediately doused in confetti. Brinley squeezes me into a tight hug.
“Here she is, our little Canadian Frida Kahlo,” she squeals. “I'm so excited. I can't believe I get to say, I knew her when.”
“Where did you even get confetti?” I laugh.
“I mean Trevor cut it out from napkins while you were driving over,” she says, dragging me back to the café counter.
“Where is Trevor, anyway?” I ask.
“Hiding in the storeroom. He did such a good job making the confetti, I decided he deserved a break from customers for the next hour.” She grabs a paper cup with stars and faces already doodled all over it. “Decaf latte, or do you want to go nuts and have a decaf Frappuccino?”
“A decaf latte is perfect, thanks.” Taking a seat, I pull off my coat and drape it over the empty stool next to me. “I still can't believe there's even a possibility that this whole thing is real. I mean, who just offers a solo show to an artist nobody's ever heard of?”
“Someone who knows talent when they see it,” she says. “You're insanely talented, Maura. I knew it from the first painting you showed me. And you know me. I wouldn't say that just to make you feel good. I really believe it.”
I know that's true. She's never held back before, especially in our conversations about my marriage. Brinley cares more about honesty than about protecting people's feelings, and right now, I couldn't be more grateful for that.
“So you think I should say yes to the show?”
“Of course I do.” She finishes making the latte and hands it to me. I take a sip, letting the rich flavor spread across my tongue and gathering the courage to say my most vulnerable thoughts out loud.
“It just scares me to say that I'm an artist. I like my paintings, but it's one thing to show them to my friends. It's another thing to have a solo show, where other people can judge my work. What if it's actually terrible? What if I'm just delusional, and I'm not an artist at all?”
“Imposter syndrome is a bitch,” Brinley says sympathetically. “But trust me, Maura, you’re an artist. I've never seen anyone get so passionate talking about pigments and stones. You have vision, real vision, and the ability to actually put it on canvas so other people can see it, too. That's rare.”
“So stop getting in my own way.” I sigh.
“Pretty much, yeah. Don't worry. If I hear anybody talking shit about your paintings at this show, I'll beat them up for you. Then I'll show them some Picasso paintings and demand that they tell me why they think he's so good, anyway.”
I chuckle. “Maybe because he's a genius who created a new genre of art?”
She waves her hand. “Cubism is overrated if you ask me.”
The door opens, and a few chatting customers walk inside and head toward the café counter.
“Okay,” Brinley says. “I'm going to serve these people, and you're going to reply to that email and say yes, right?”
“I will. I promise.”
Well she gets to work, I open my email and type a response.
Dear Ms. Meyer,
I'm definitely interested. Are you available later today for a phone call to discuss what you're looking for? I have about fifteen paintings which I think would work in a series, but several are quite large, depending on how much space you’d like to give me.
I'm looking forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Maura Keller
-
I press send before I can come up with a reason not to. My fingers tremble as I close them around my latte cup. I feel terrified, and I feel alive.