19
After a few more days, the piece is ready.
As I assess the canvas, I feel strongly that it is one of the best things I’ve ever created. Part of me wants to hold on to
it as a keepsake for how I’ve felt this week. But it’s time to hand-deliver it to Rita Clementine’s house, which, according
to the address, is a brownstone in one of the wealthiest parts of Brooklyn.
Liam’s friend who owns a pickup truck agrees to give us a lift. As I sit in the bed, guarding my precious cargo, I replay
these last seven days and how they’ve brought me here, to this critical moment.
Once his friend parks, I take a deep breath as we carefully lower the canvas to the sidewalk. It’s not yet noon. We are early.
Because I don’t have a cell phone, Rita emailed me instructions, which I have printed and memorized.
Let yourself in. Walk straight back to the in-home gallery, which is the last door on the right. Arrange the piece as you
wish for it to be experienced. Call upstairs when you’re ready.
I steady myself. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. With a calming breath, I hoist my end of the canvas under my arm while Liam takes the other. At the door, I nudge it open and almost alert Rita that we’re here. I don’t want her to think an intruder is entering her home. But I remind myself that wasn’t part of the instructions. I don’t want to give her any excuse to kick me out.
We hobble toward the back, and I briefly take in the terra-cotta floors, the exquisite, powerful art, the sculptures and statues
that clog every space. At the door to the gallery, I prop the edge of the painting on my hip and push it open. We waddle in,
gently set the canvas on the rug, and I loosen my shoulders as I stare at the bare white walls. There are nail holes everywhere,
evidence of other art that’s been hung or shown, and for a moment, I wonder if there’s a camera in here. If this is all part
of some weird game to see how well I can follow directions.
“Where do you want it?” Liam is just as excited as I am, which helps.
I study the walls and the proximity to the door. I want Rita to stumble upon the piece. I want it to engulf her. I want her
to be drawn to it, like fire. Finally, I decide on the west wall, which has the most beautiful light, thanks to the adjacent
window. As we hang it and make sure it’s level, the light plays on some of the sea glass we found. It offers an unexpected
explosion of color, which adds to the overall effect. When we have it centered, I stand back. “Well?”
“It’s your time to shine, kid.”
He squeezes my shoulder and tells me he will be right outside. Before I call up to Rita, I take a moment to give myself a
pep talk. Normally I’d keep a running tab on all the little things I would tweak or fix. I would prepare myself to lose out
on this opportunity before I’d even given myself a chance. But this isn’t the Harper Swanson from Chicago. This is the Harper
Swanson who is on the precipice of something great.
My fingers tremble as I shove them into my pockets and walk out of the door and to the foot of the stairs. With as much confidence as I can muster, I call, “I’m ready!” and then scurry back into the room, perching in a chair in the corner to wait. Finally, she enters, and I stiffen, as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
But I do not take my eyes off of her; instead, I stalk her every movement as she moves fully into the room. I watch the way
her eyes sweep over to me first, almost bored, and then snag on the piece. She takes a tiny, audible breath, which in my book
is a victory, before creeping forward, folding her arms, and standing in silence for what feels like an hour.
She’s so still for so long, I wonder if she’s lapsed into a trance, but then she’s touching, moving, mumbling under her breath.
Finally, she looks at me, and I don’t know what I’m expecting—maybe a smile or nod, some sort of acknowledgment that I’ve
done a good job.
Instead, she simply sniffs and says, “I’ll be in touch,” before turning in her flats and heading for the door.
All the pent-up excitement, hours of work, lack of sleep, and physical and mental effort are about to walk out that door with
her.
I stand and can’t silence myself before I blurt out, “That’s it?”
She stops as if I’ve yelled at her, her shoulders hunched by her ears. She rotates slowly and narrows her eyes at me. “Excuse
me?”
I know I should stop talking, but I can’t. This means too much to me: this moment, this opportunity, my art on her wall. “I’m
sorry, I just... I’d really love to know what you think. If this is what you had in mind.”
“And I said I’d be in touch. Good day, Ms.Swanson.”
She leaves, and I fear I’ve blown it. I snap a quick photo of the piece and walk out of the room, visibly deflated. Liam doesn’t hear me coming because he’s on the phone with someone. I sit on the stoop as I watch his back. He laughs, and despite how down I am, my face cracks into a smile.
When he turns and sees me, he says he has to go and shoves the phone in his back pocket. “So? Did she love it?”
I shrug. “She said she’d be in touch.” Inside, I’m panicking. I know what “be in touch” usually means; it means, “Sorry, not
interested.” I replay the moment she walked into the room, though, the genuine surprise on her face.
“Maybe she’s playing it cool while secretly plotting your rise to the top.” He lightly touches my neck. “Let’s do something
to take your mind off it.”
Suddenly I’m exhausted. The whole buildup and adrenaline dump have left me feeling drained. “Is it okay if we head back to
your place?”
“Of course.”
It’s not a long walk, and Liam chats most of the way. I try to pay attention, but I’m too in my head, dismantling my dream
before it’s even fully built. Just when I am thinking of a hot bath and a glass of wine, we pause at Liam’s door.
There, with a bag slung over her shoulder, looking like she stepped off a Milan runway, stands a stunning woman.
“LaTasha?” Liam’s voice registers actual shock.
My gaze bounces between the two of them, and all thoughts of Rita and my art fly out the window.
The woman tosses her arms wide. “Surprise!” Her teeth are blindingly white against her smooth, dark skin. Liam steps into a hug, and I watch the two of them embrace. It is evident, from the look on her face and the way her fingers comb through his hair, that they have history. A pit forms in my stomach as I step out of the way. Her hands linger on his elbow, his shoulder, and then lightly caress his face.
I feel like I’ve been punched. Finally, as if remembering I’m there, Liam turns. “Harper, this is LaTasha. LaTasha, Harper.”
She extends one gorgeous hand my way, fingernails perfectly manicured. I am paint-splattered and scrubbed free of makeup,
but I shake her hand and mumble hello. I can see the question in her eyes, the same one I’m practically screaming internally:
Who is she?
Liam unlocks the door and motions us both in. I hesitate for only a moment, contemplating if I can run away. I don’t want
to know who this woman is, not really. I don’t want to step inside.
I’m afraid of what it might cost me to learn the truth.