CHAPTER 35
Sybil
And there she was, Red.
She was just as I remembered, the first painting I ever sold. I could visualize Cat and me ruminating about what theme to invent for the shows, and we’d started with the rainbow. It was befitting my limitations and tackled my anxiety over color head-on.
All that remained of the place where my journey of recovery started was Red.
My studio where I created it was gone, even the anger and fear of never knowing the color, also gone.
I’d healed from this; it was apparent in my reaction to seeing it in person once more.
The anger in the brushstrokes felt like a long-ago echo, a version of me that no longer felt like who I’d become.
It was a shadow of the journey I’d taken.
Nearing it, I feared my awe was too obvious, but I didn’t care—I’d be telling my truth to them tonight, anyway. God, I wished I could touch it, but I squeezed Nash’s hand, grounding myself to him instead.
Red was my version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and seeing it felt like a sign that all had come full circle, and now I could find home. I tilted my head, adoring this feeling. I wasn’t scared or nervous, but open and soaring free.
I let my gaze linger on it for another moment, committing it to memory.
We moved down the line, and I made a point of viewing each of the other pieces with similar awe and genuine amazement.
There were jewels the size of quarters, and furniture made during World War II, smuggled here from Germany.
Amazing pieces with stories far more deserving than mine.
I could hear a gavel echoing from the main room. Nash turned toward the sound, then back to me. “I think it’s almost time to start. I’ll take you ladies back to your spot before I duck out to join them on stage.”
I nodded in agreement, and Bee looped her arm through mine, guiding me and Nash back to our spots as more people arrived.
None of them paid me any mind, and I wondered if that was on purpose.
They would say hi to Bee and greet her, but didn’t seem to push to know who I was, and it felt nice.
A few times, someone would approach and whisper something to Bee, and Bee would hold my hand and chat back before they left again.
I could hear the crowds of people gathering out front, and a man peered back from the stage and toward Bee and me.
He was a stout man with polka-dot suspenders over a pressed shirt and matching polka-dot tie.
I would describe his look as eccentric and bold.
He seemed familiar to me in the face and jaw, smiling as he approached.
“You must be Sybil,” he said in a gentle voice, hands in pockets. “I’m Mr. Beaumont. Jeffrey, you can call me.” His eyes were soft and wrinkled with age, a full mustache and a beard on his face. It was so obvious now; he was their father.
Bee hopped up and gave him a hug.
“Looking lovely tonight, Betty,” he complimented.
He looked back at me, smile large. “And you also, my dear. I’ve heard so much about you from Nash. It makes me happy that you’re with us, and staying with these two ragtag kids of mine. I’m certain they’re taking great care of you, and I’m so sorry to hear about your home.”
I smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
“Jeffrey,” he amended.
I nodded. “Thank you, Jeffrey.”
He didn’t push to shake my hand or make it awkward for a single moment.
“You let Nash or Betty know when you’re ready, and I’d love to come for dinner one night to get to know you better, my dear.
I’m just so glad to have you here. Anytime you want to come, we’ll make sure you’re more than comfortable.
At the office as well, we can give you a private tour one weekend if you’re interested, just us. ”
He was kind and accommodating, and I could see how Nash’s mother met and fell in love with him. It was also clear this was where Nash got his gentle mannerisms and keen eye for emotion.
The gavel once again clacked somewhere on stage.
“That’s my cue to get out there!” He clapped his hands, rising on his toes with an adorable spin.
“Good luck, Daddy!” Bee yelled after him.
I watched Jeffrey jog back and step up onto the stage, perpendicular to us, as he addressed the room with his hands in the air.
People clapped politely. Nash was also up there, hands in pockets and smiling to the crowd.
The auctioneer stood behind a beautiful podium.
He wore a suit and had well-coiffed hair, a gavel grasped in his hand as he announced the first lot item and the opening price.
The bidding began.
Looking at the live feed of the room, I saw it switching between the stage and the various bidders around the space. Several people held phones to their ears, the entire thing rather calm compared to what I’d imagined in my head.
The auctioneer wasn’t performing the fast, obnoxious calling I’d expected, but stating the current bid as it appeared on a screen behind him in various global denominations. The piece on auction was being presented by staff members wearing branded aprons and white gloves.
As the bid increased, the crowd quieted, only raising their hands to call out a higher bid when needed. The first lot, a diamond brooch from the 20th century, sold for over four million dollars. A staggering amount discussed among the entire room as though nothing.
I turned to Bee, whispering, “What’s the highest-selling item you’ve sold?”
Bee looked away from the screen, now watching as the diamond brooch passed us, handled by the stage staff before being handed off to the guards. They placed it back into a Pelican case in the back area. “We once had a Van Gogh sell for $260-million.”
I balked. “Jesus,” I exclaimed. “What about more modern art? What’s the highest you’ve sold there?”
She thought for a moment. “We had a Jean-Michel Basquiat go for $110-million. Quite impressive, right?”
These were staggering numbers. My recent piece had sold for half a million, which seemed small potatoes in comparison. “What about the highest-selling art from a living artist?” I continued, curious what my piece was in the range of.
She nodded, thinking briefly. “That would be the Jeff Koons for $58-million.”
My eyes widened. Red’s starting price was set at the price of my most recent piece, which made sense. “Wow.” Sweat dampened my skin under the sweatshirt. Bee squeezed my hand as though sensing my growing anxiety.
“Once art hits the auction level,” she explained, “prices skyrocket. It’ll be an interesting evening.” She spoke as though she knew what I was wondering about.
What would Red sell for? I wondered to myself. What if it sold for a lot more than my previous piece? Would all my art now be worth this much?
I heard the gavel, the third lot item selling at $100-thousand, a Bauhaus-style chair.
A chair.
What kind of world was I living in?
I knew the answer. This was my parent’s world—a world where material items reigned supreme, a world I had been told, time and time again, that I did not belong. Yet, here I was. I’d done it by accident. It was almost comical. I let a laugh bubble out.
Bee eyed me, but didn’t ask.
I watched another few jewels auction off, not one for less than a million dollars. My heart was pounding, not from anxiety, but from its much more welcome cousin, excitement. And then, it was time for Red.
I watched the guards from across the room, handing the piece off to a staff member dressed as the others were in gloves and an apron. He had a comically huge mustache, the kind you could curl at the ends.
I watched as he walked opposite us, entering the stage from the other side to show the piece around the room. My anticipation was palpable, my eyes on the screen as patrons whispered to clients over the phone, plenty of them not yet bidding on any of the other items, waiting for this.
The auctioneer announced the piece and the opening bid. I took a long breath and squeezed Bee’s hand. As though she knew the gravity of this moment, she took my hand in both of hers for added support.
I sat forward in my seat, back straight and head buzzing with champagne, and maybe an ounce of hope.
Hands rose. $800-thousand, first counter-bid, a man in a weird velvet suit and metallic shoes—he looked familiar.
Bee squealed. “Oh my gosh! That’s a huge jump.”
I looked at her, breathing hard now. “It is?”
She was nodding, eyes alight. I looked to where Nash stood on stage, a smirk on his face as he looked down at his hands, then at us off stage. He nodded with agreeable excitement.
Next bidder, a woman in thick-framed glasses. $1.5-million.
My free hand flew to my chest, breath reedy as my airflow stopped. Three times what Doubt had sold for.
Bee squeezed my hand.
Next bidder, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses. $3.5-million.
Nash rocked back on his heels, glancing at me again.
Back to the first bidder, weird suit guy. $10-million.
$10-million?
It was then that I realized who it was. It was the man from my latest show, the buyer of Doubt. I liked that guy. I was rooting for him now.
New bidder, a kind-looking blond woman on a cell phone. $15-million.
My hand was shaking, and I knew Bee could feel it.
Back to the second bidder, the thick-framed glasses woman. $30-million.
“Fuck,” Bee swore beside me.
Nash swiped his fingers across his chin. His gaze circulated around the room and then to me.
My head was ringing now. I reached for my glass of champagne, downing it in a single gulp.
The first man, my man of Doubt, of whom I had no doubt, stood now. His hand shot into the air, exclaiming, “$50-million!”
I froze. Dropping the champagne glass to the ground where it shattered. Bee jumped and shrieked. My eyes watched the man on the screen as he challenged each opposing bidder with a glare that said, don’t dare me; I will go higher.
The room was silent.