Chapter 13 #2
Then she was gone, and he was breathing heavily. His agent—Beverly Merriweather—was coming to his studio in an hour. She’d flown from London to meet him and see his work.
See his work!
He was going to be sick.
Sinking to the floor, he put his head between his knees and told the tiny spots to go away.
He slashed through the proverbial air with his invisible sword as a litany of soul-crushing thoughts surfaced about him being good enough.
Fuck that. This was his time to shine. Passing out and missing the meeting with his agent would be cruel. Even for the wheel of time.
When he could finally raise his head without it going sideways, he managed to push off the floor. He headed for the garbage first. God, he needed to clean this place up. Then he would clean himself up. Put on something…
Shit. What did one wear to meet one of the greatest art agents in the world? The suit he’d worn for his first date with Phoebe? Yes! He’d looked respectable and yet fashionable. It was a dusty rose. Only a painter—or an older French man—would wear that color.
He sprang into action.
When Beverly finally arrived at the house, his wild mass of curls was still wet at the ends, but he was dressed to impress. He’d even put on the cologne Nanine had bought him long ago for good luck.
When he opened to front door to greet her, he couldn’t help but be a little shocked at her stature.
She was a petite woman in all black with low heels, who barely came up to his shoulder, yet she was a titan in the art world.
Brooke would say you could smell Manhattan on her.
Now fifty-six, she had dyed her short one-length hair a dark brown and had thick black-rimmed glasses.
And she was wearing three rings—with rocks so large you could find them blindfolded—and an emerald tennis bracelet that probably cost more than his first car.
“My God!” she cried, shedding her coat like a second skin and handing it to him. “I’ve been in many homes in Paris, but I have to confess, this one is absolutely gorgeous!”
Was he supposed to say thank you?
She strode into the foyer like a queen and glanced around, her hair spray as potent as her perfume. Something he imagined Elizabeth Taylor might have worn back in the day, like White Diamonds.
“Axel decorated this place, didn’t he?”
His nerves were jumping, and he wasn’t used to people exclaiming about things like décor.
Talking to strangers had always been hard for him.
Getting up in front of his first class to teach, an agony.
But this was his agent. He forced himself to smile like he’d seen Kyle do with businesspeople.
“Yes, with my dear friend and business partner, Brooke Adams. She has a long history in fashion.”
“Of course, I know Brooke’s work from TRENDS!
Terrible about that attack from Giulia Mariani that led to her being fired—completely unjust from what I’ve heard—but then again, every industry has its feuds.
You have to watch your back. People envy talent, which you’re about to discover on a level you’ve never known. Good thing you have me, Sawyer.”
His stomach was knotted now. “I’m beyond honored, Ms. Merriweather.”
More precious stones flashed from her earlobes as she tilted her head to the side, studying him.
“Call me Beverly, and I love the suit. I can already see you wearing something as spectacular at your first gallery show. Makes good copy and impresses clients. But first, take me to this atelier of yours. I am dying to see your work in person.”
“Can I get you a café?”
“After I see your work. With Axel behind you, I’ve been absolutely tantalized by you, Sawyer. The photos I’ve seen are captivating, but seeing it in person… It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
The light-headed feeling came again, and he strode to the elevator he rarely used, praying spots wouldn’t appear behind his eyes. While she was capable of handling everything from orgies to ravens, he didn’t want to pass out in front of her. God, waking up in her arms on the floor…
No, she’d toss a cold glass of water in his face.
“This way, please. It’s up three flights of stairs and—”
“Say no more! I love Paris for all its stairs and quirkiness, but I won’t pass up an easier ride to the top. Metaphor. I assume your atelier is at the top.”
“It does have the best light,” he explained, feeling cramped in the elevator. Although physically small, she was larger than life. Grasping for something to say, he settled on, “You had a good flight from London, I hope.”
Really? He wanted to slap himself.
“It was perfect. Nothing like London for its old-world atmosphere.”
God, she was making it easy. She was the kind of person who always knew what to say and could make someone feel at ease. Rather like Phoebe, he realized. Just the thought of her had the sick feeling in his stomach subsiding.
“I’m glad you had a good trip.” The elevator opened and he let her precede him. “It’s down this way.”
When they reached the door, he took a deep breath. Thankfully no stars appeared behind his eyes as he let it out, so he turned the knob and gestured inside. “Welcome to my studio.”
Here we go. He had his proverbial sword ready.
She didn’t stride in. She slowed her pace, her steps so light her heels didn’t make marks on the tarp. Obviously, she wasn’t worried about getting paint on her. She continued her survey of the space, tilting her head to the ceiling.
“My God, you were right about the light. I know painters who would kill for light like this. Sawyer, this is a beautiful space.”
His throat was backed up, so he didn’t respond, but that was fine.
She was moving to his first canvas, the largest of the lot—the one of his first date with Phoebe.
She stood there with her back to him. The silence grated at his nerves.
But then he caught Phoebe watching him with her brilliant green eyes, assuring him everything was okay.
Better than okay. He only needed to be still.
And not hyperventilate. Sticking his head into a paper take-out bag would be humiliating.
So he stood just inside the studio as Beverly went to his next canvas and then the next. Three finished works—ones he was proud of. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t be sticking his head in the take-out bag?
When she arrived at his painting in progress, she touched her finger to her lips. “My, my. This one is going to be as breathtaking as the others.”
Breathtaking…the word hovered, as if spoken from the ether.
Part of his soul floated up to the heavens.
The angels were singing. The moment felt reverent, and he wished he could see the scene he was in from above, so he could paint it later with some holy title like The Anointing because that’s what it felt like to him.
“You paint people with a gorgeous sensitivity,” she finally said. “The heart of them. The woman in all three. She is based on a real person, yes? Like Nanine is, and I expect the other women in the painting in the restaurant.”
He could barely nod for all the buzzing and tingling her praise had left in its wake in his body. If she wanted to know more, she would ask. But he would not mention Phoebe. Or his roommates. That was his to share at some later point if he chose.
“The Lydia Corbett to your Picasso.”
Whoa! Picasso? Shit. He might need that bag after all. He’d take the reference—despite Picasso having met Lydia when he was seventy-three, and she only nineteen.
“The colors are spectacular.” She pointed to the painting from his first date.
“The aqua tones of her coat against the black night are magnificent. Titian-like in their power and depth. Not only are the tonals perfect, but she practically glows like a modern Madonna figure. Like in your Nanine painting. Do you have a romantic sense about women? Are you close to your mother?”
Two questions, his mind parsed, with answers so different it took him a moment to answer.
“If you mean Romanticism and the art movement at the end of the eighteenth century, then yes, I suppose I’m romantic.
When the women mean something to me, when I care about them, then yes, I paint from there.
As for my mother, I am not close to her. ”
She only nodded before gazing back around. “I see three finished works. One in the making. If you can secure the two from Nanine’s as loans, we have nearly six paintings right now.”
He knew what was coming. “I know I need more for a show, and I’m painting as fast as I can. Would you want twenty-five or thirty paintings?”
Her smile was dragon-like. “Normally, yes, but that’s where you’re lucky to have me because I don’t always play by the rules.”
He gulped. She was like a snake goddess with that scary, clever smile.
“Sometimes you need to break them to stand out. You’ve already done that.
The article in Le Monde. The other press.
Axel’s praise of you. It all has this beautiful energy we call buzz.
Sawyer, I’d like to have your first show be a smaller one, and it should happen soon.
Thirteen paintings. At a revered gallery.
We invite the crème de la crème of the art world to the show and whet their appetite for more. Axel will be there, yes?”
The urge to fidget overtook him before he stood tall. “He’s my friend, and he’s seeing someone who’s very dear to me. We haven’t spoken of it, but yes, I’m sure he will be there.”
“That ace in your pocket isn’t a small thing, although I can see it makes you a little uncomfortable. There’s no need to be. It’s the way of art. When you are older and famous, you will probably come to the first show of many painters.”
He couldn’t even imagine that day, but if he could give back to someone else, he would. It would be an honor.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’d like you to paint your heart out. I need thirteen of your best works; the finished ones at the restaurant and the ones here are perfect if you agree.”
Perfect. Holy—
He bobbed his head. “Of course.”
She pinned him with an assessing look. “The sooner the better, but I don’t want you to rush your process.”
“I’m on it,” he assured her.
That was seven more. He would see Phoebe and let his muse usher him along.
“Good. Now, I’d like to see the paintings at Nanine’s as well, if possible, although I already adore them.”
“Of course. I’ll call Madison—Chef Madison—to give her a heads-up we’re coming.”
“Excellent.” She gazed around the studio, a soft smile on her face. “I am glad you have come to me. We are going to do great things together, Sawyer.”
As they walked to the elevator, he felt more in his body. He could even feel his feet. “Ah…about the gallery. I think Axel shared with you the ones who’ve already contacted me.”
“He did.” She stepped into the small space and hit the button for the first floor. “The only one on the list that is at the level I’m thinking is the Anderson Gallery. I have a long history with them.”
He pressed back against the elevator wall to hold himself up. God, this was great! He hadn’t even had to figure out a way to bring her up. “You know Phoebe?”
“Since she was a kid,” Beverly answered breezily, like they were country club chums. “Of course, her mother and I go way back. I know River, too, but he’s never been a client. Too bad for him. The things I could have done for him.”
That made him laugh, only for him to realize she was serious when she swung her head toward him. He tried to cover his error with a cough.
“I’m glad you’re excited about showing at the Anderson, Sawyer, because it’s the perfect entrée into the art world for you.
The owner and I have already spoken about it.
Now all you need to focus on is painting a few more masterpieces.
After that, we’ll schedule a date. Like I told you when we first talked, just leave the rest to good old Beverly. ”
When they reached the first floor, his brain finally caught up with what she’d said.
His first show would be at Phoebe’s gallery!