Chapter 25 – Maura
MAURA
One Week Later
My teeth dig into my bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. It's an old nervous habit, because apparently my body would rather feel pain than anxiety.
The Whitmer has transformed, its white walls covered in my paintings. It looks just like I dreamed. One wall is warm and fiery, full of lively, red-accented pieces. The other side has darker, moody paintings, with The Thunderstorm at the center.
Bringing them together is Warm Front, the name I gave to the massive painting I’ve been working so hard on.
It almost fills the wall it’s on, and Sydney and I decided to leave the white space uncovered rather than squeezing in two small paintings.
If it works the way we think it will, people will linger here the longest, taking in all the details and shades.
Right now, of course, nobody’s looking at it.
Sydney just unlocked the door, but apart from her, her assistants, and two servers holding full trays of wine glasses, I'm the only one here. Oh god, what if I'm the only one who comes? What if not a single person comes to my solo show’s opening night except for me?
“They'll come,” Sydney says, answering the words I didn’t say out loud.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, I'm a new artist. Nobody's ever heard of me. There might not be a single person in Toronto who cares about my art.”
“That's not true.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because my office got all the RSVPs. Even if only half of them actually show, we’ll still have a nice, mostly full party.”
I sigh. “I hope so. I don’t even care if they just come for the wine. I just don’t want to be the first solo artist who nobody wants to see.”
“Enough of that,” Sydney says brusquely. “If you don't trust your own talent, trust mine. If I think your work is good enough, it's good enough. End of story.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. Trust me, I know my taste is impeccable. I've been doing this long enough to know the difference between true art and wall fillers. What you made…” She gestures at the paintings around us. “It’s true art. The kind people want to see.”
I smile shyly. “I wish I was as confident as you are.”
“You're feeling all the same things every artist who displayed here feels,” she says, patting my arm. “In the kindest possible way, you're not special. You're even being a little cliché. So relax. They'll come.”
I laugh despite myself. “Well, I wouldn't want to be a cliché.”
The door opens, and two eccentric-looking women in brightly colored caftans enter. I don’t recognize them, but clearly Sydney does, because she calls out, “Sydelle! Laura! How lovely of you to come.”
She shoots me an encouraging smile and mouths “collectors” before she walks over to schmooze.
I take a breath and smooth down my high-necked, minimalist gray dress. At least I look the part of an artist, even if I still feel a bit like a fraud.
I linger in the back of the gallery, watching as more people I don’t recognize filter through the doors. Soon enough, there's a small crowd, probably friends of Sydney’s, or just art connoisseurs who come to every event the Whitmer throws.
One or two people have broken off to look at my paintings, and I try not to stare too hard at them, wondering what they're thinking. Are they admiring my brush strokes, or are they just looking for a reason to avoid socializing?
I glance down at my watch. The party has only officially been going for fifteen minutes. I’ve been to enough of these openings to know how they go. People won’t really start trickling in until thirty minutes after the start time, with most of them showing up right before the auction at 9:30.
Shit. I hadn’t even started worrying about the auction yet. What if nobody bids? What if Sydney announces the first piece and it’s just crickets?
I sigh, slumping back against the wall. I’m sure Sydney knows how to handle these auctions. She’s probably talking to people, gauging interest from buyers even now. She’d probably come up with a reason to stop the auction if she thought nobody would really buy.
Suddenly, a mass of gold mylar balloons bursts through the door. Or at least, it tries to. Several of the balloons get stuck on the doorframe, prompting a loud stream of curses. Underneath all the gold, I can see three pairs of female legs, pushing through.
The balloons finally squeeze through, rising up to reveal my friends.
“I told you the balloons were too much,” Pippa grunts.
“There’s no such thing as too many balloons,” Cat replies.
“You weren’t saying that twenty minutes ago, when that gust of wind almost took you out,” Brinley points out.
My chest feels as light as the balloons. It’s not just me anymore—it’s my little team behind me. I rush toward them, where I’m greeted with hugs and a chorus of squeals.
“This place looks incredible,” Cat gushes. “I can’t believe I know the person who made all this!”
“I can.” Brinley wraps her arm around my waist. “I’ve been in the Maura Keller fan club for years.”
I smile down at her. “In a way, you get credit for all this. The gallerist found me because she saw my work in the Copper Cup. I owe you everything.”
“You’re crazy,” she scoffs. “I didn’t do this. That’s like Picasso’s roommate being like, ‘dude, I take credit for Picasso’ when all he did was ignore the chore chart and forget to buy toilet paper.”
“Fine, don’t take all the credit. You have to admit, you deserve at least part of it.”
“If you insist,” she says, and I’m surprised to see a shiny sheen of tears in her eyes. “Look at me, getting all sappy. I’m just—for whatever it’s worth, Maura, I’m so freaking proud of you. You made this incredible show, all by yourself, and I’m just so happy to watch you shine.”
I throw my arms around Brinley, a little teary-eyed myself.
“We’re hugging?” Cat chirps. “Where’s mine?”
Brinley pulls away to invite Cat in, then Pippa pounces in on our group hug, almost knocking us all over. It’s enough to choke me up. I never thought I’d get this—not just awkward acquaintanceships with other businessmen's daughters, arranged by my father, but real friends, who see me for me.
What if it all goes away?
I’ll always have Brinley in my corner, I know that for sure. But Cat and Pippa only befriended me because their significant others are friends with James. If I can’t get pregnant, if the whole contract goes out the window, will I lose them too?
I shake my head to get the intrusive thoughts out. I don’t have to worry about that right now. All I have to do is enjoy my gallery opening.
Pippa’s got her phone out, filming everything. When she’s done, she reviews the film. “I’m definitely posting this on Belladonna’s feed,” she declares. “I’m thinking of doing some local date night recommendations, and a trip to your show would be perfect.”
“Oh, get a picture of all of us!” Cat chirps.
“I’d be happy to,” a low male voice says. I turn to see Beau, standing with Ryan, Luke, and Nate.
My mouth falls open. I can’t believe they all came—they’re really James’s friends, and not mine. It’s surprisingly sweet.
Also surprising—James isn’t with them. He told me he’d be here, but it’s getting later in the night and he still hasn’t shown up. There’s nothing on his calendar to keep him, but something important might have come up at work.
Beau pulls out his phone, and the girls and I gather together for a photo.
“Hold on,” he says after he snaps the first one. “Lemme give you options.”
“I’m sure the first one was fine,” Brinley says.
“Don’t rush my process,” he replies, holding the phone up higher to take another.
“Beau’s a bit of a photo perfectionist,” Luke says. “You can stop posing whenever you want, or he’ll go on forever.”
“You never regret commemorating a great night with a great photo,” Beau insists. “We’d forget half the best times we’ve ever had if I didn’t commemorate them. And I’m done. Now was that so painful?”
“My cheeks hurt a little from smiling,” Cat says.
Nate leans over to me and asks, “I assume you’d like me to take these balloons out to my car?”
“Thanks, that’d be great.” As supported as the balloons made me feel, they also serve to block the view a bit.
It takes Nate, Ryan, and Luke working as a team to get the balloons back out the door.
Beau and Brinley go to get wine while Pippa and Cat snap photos of my paintings.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check my texts.
I’ve gotten a few congratulatory messages, but nothing from James.
I wonder what happened to him. Maybe something came up at work that he couldn’t get out of.
He’s the CEO. There’s nothing he couldn’t get out of if he wanted to.
“Maura, can I borrow you?” Sydney says, interrupting my thoughts. “I’d like to introduce you to Edmund Wu.”
She gestures toward an older man in glasses and a nice suit and mouths, “Buyer.”
I shove any thoughts of James to the back of my head and focus on charming Edmund Wu.
I need to befriend every buyer I can tonight.
Not because I care so much about them owning my paintings, but because I need someone to bid at the auction tonight.
I'm not sure my ego would survive having nobody make an offer.
The next hour goes by in a blur. Sydney whisks me from patron to patron, introducing me and talking up my work and my process.
Some, like Edmund Wu, ask me about my material choices and artistic influences.
Others not-so-subtly probe me about my previous sales, clearly trying to decide whether my paintings are good investments or not.
Finally, Sydney lets me know she’s ready to start the auction. I slink to the back of the room while she moves to the front, where a podium has been set up right in front of Warm Front. She clears her throat and taps on the microphone.
“Good evening,” she says, and the chatter around her fades to quiet.
“Thank you for joining up for Maura Keller’s gallery debut, Self-Erosion.
” A scattering of applause sounds, including a wolf-whistle from Beau.
“It’s been a long time since I met an artist as young as Maura with such a well-developed vision, and I’m grateful that she let the Whitmer host her work. ”
More applause, with some loud whoops from Ryan and Pippa. A few people near me turn around to look at me, and heat rises to my face. I wish I could turn invisible until this whole thing is over.
“All the pieces on display are for sale, and you can speak to me later if you’re interested,” Sydney says. “For now, we’ll be auctioning off the five paintings listed in your programs, beginning with The Thunderstorm.”
Silence falls over the crowd, and my heart pounds so loud, I’m sure people can hear it. I press my hand to my chest, as if that could slow it down.
A quiet voice speaks behind me.
“Apologies for being late, wife.”
I whirl to see James standing behind me in a dark suit, his eyes fixed on mine.
He's beautiful. The thought hits me before I can stop it. Not just handsome—beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
The sharp lines of his face, softened by the gallery's warm lighting. The way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead, like he rushed to get here. The intensity in his blue eyes when he looks at me, like I'm the only person in the room.
For a moment, I forget about the auction. I forget about the crowd and the paintings and whether anyone will bid on my work. All I can see is my husband.
“You came,” I breathe.
“I wouldn't have missed it.” He says it simply, like it's obvious. Like there was never any question.
I want to kiss him. Not for the contract, not for the baby, not for optics. Just because he's here, and he came for me, and something about the way he's looking at me makes me feel like I might actually be extraordinary.
But there are like fifty people watching us so I just reach out and squeeze his hand.
His fingers close around mine, and he doesn't let go.