Chapter 22 Cal
CAL
HANNAH: You got a request for a commission
CAL: No
HANNAH: People are dying for a VinCo painting
CAL: Which is why the answer is no
CAL: It stalls my creativity
HANNAH: Don’t you want to know who it’s for?
Ilook up at the painting in front of me and my soul hums with approval. It’s perfection and it’s mine—something the outside world will never see.
Three little bubbles pop up on my screen and I wait for Hannah to respond. It’s been a year since the last VinCo painting appeared in an auction, the proceeds having been donated to the charity supported by the event.
I had no part in it, my lawyer in Chicago handling everything to ensure I remain anonymous.
Blake hasn’t been overly interested in my studio, but I don’t doubt that he’s heard of the elusive artist, and it reminds me I really have to fix the lock on my studio door.
HANNAH: Come on, guess
CAL: No
HANNAH: Just one
CAL: Fine—that animal rights group that sends seven requests each month even though they’ve never made a donation we can find
HANNAH: Reynolds Advertising
Fuck.
HANNAH: Isn’t that your boyfriend??
CAL: Yes
I don’t bother correcting her that he’s temporary because he doesn’t feel temporary. But this complicates things.
A lot.
HANNAH: What do you want me to do?
I want to tell her no. I want to tell her that there’s no way in hell I’m doing that, but I can’t make my fingers type the words. Because I want to support him. He might hate his job and his life in Savannah, but he’s passionate about the gala and the good it will do.
CAL: Tell them yes but they can’t dictate anything about the piece
HANNAH: You got it boss!
CAL: I hate when you do that
HANNAH: That’s what happens when you ask your sister to be your manager
CAL: Hindsight is a bitch
HANNAH: Good thing your sister isn’t
CAL: Love you
HANNAH: Love you more
Dropping my phone onto the counter, I scrub my hands over my face.
Fuck.
VinCo had been Liam’s idea. He thought the combination of my full name, Calvin, and my nickname, Calico, would be perfect.
And I agreed.
Kind of.
I wasn’t anything like I am now, but Liam had snuck a couple of paintings into local galleries while we lived in France, and they sold fast.
And well.
He’d been thrilled but I’d been hesitant.
More paintings were commissioned and shipped around the world, but I hated the pressure that came with needing to be on and perfect.
Painting was supposed to be an outlet, not a revenue source. But Liam was confident it could be both. He was extremely proud of my work and wanted to shout it from the rooftops while I preferred to hide in the shadows.
After he died, I couldn’t paint—couldn’t force myself to put a brush to canvas.
So, on a whim, I took one that I had done early on and dropped it in a gallery in Montreal. Chatter had started immediately and I panicked.
I hadn’t expected anyone to care, and I certainly never imagined anyone would link the previous VinCo paintings together.
But they had.
And they wanted more.
So I found Roan Ellis, a lawyer in Chicago that already had a number of high-profile clients, and he agreed to represent me should I need him.
HANNAH: Stop panicking
CAL: How do you know I’m panicking?
HANNAH: Because that’s how you are
HANNAH: And you can’t take it back because I already told them yes!
Shit.