Chapter 16 Nola
NOLA
My dining table is lost somewhere under my art supplies.
On the bar my laptop sits open to my calendar, and I place a glass dish of diced fruit next to it as Callie walks in the front door for our weekly Monday meeting.
As I’ve known her, she’s only worn pantsuits in my presence and always lets her long hair be naturally wavy.
She’s a decade younger than me and while I’ve encouraged her to do something else with her life—supported the idea that young adults try out different jobs—I suspect she likes the free hotel stays I pass along and my general lack of neediness.
Last year she told me the amount of free time in her schedule allowed her to become a foodie and launch a social media account dedicated to eating her way through the Treasure Valley.
Last time I checked, she had a very healthy number of followers.
If there was something she would change about our working together, it would be my ever-dying devotion to paper planners.
“Good morning!” She helps herself to a bowl from the cupboard and sits on a barstool, serving up berries, pineapples, and apple chunks.
I love that we’ve worked together long enough that we have this rhythm and no pretenses.
We don’t small talk before diving right into things.
“Jaqueline called me a few minutes ago,” she begins, stirring the fruit with her fork.
“Stella said she’d like her first sitting to be this afternoon. ”
There’s a hint of smirk to her voice that I ignore.
I add this to the paper calendar next to my laptop and she adds it to the shared digital one, saying, “Sounds about right. That’s okay, I have a few ideas I’ve started that I can show her.
” I’m surprised she’s let us go this long without officially beginning.
“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ve been handed this without fighting for it?
” she says. Asked the same thing two months ago, I would’ve said yes.
Handouts don’t do anybody any favors, and I’m an artist—I’ve always had a need to feel like the praise for my work was earned.
But the tide turned in my favor and if my ultimate goal is a showing at the MoMA, I can’t bite the hand that feeds me.
When Stella gifted me the commission as a wedding present, I reminded myself this is, unfortunately, how business is done.
Nothing changes with my commitment to doing the best job I can.
I’ll still create a piece worthy of Stella’s praise and that of my peers.
The bonus is, her connections of friends who serve on the boards of many art museums, and all it will take is one quick phone call to make all my dreams come true.
I’ve resigned myself to being okay that connections are how anybody makes it in the world anymore.
“Does it make me a bad person if I say no?” I scoop my own bowl of fruit and avoid eye contact.
“My career has flatlined to lakescapes and snow-capped mountains. There’s no challenge anymore.
If this is my chance to get back in with the Art Bouncers, who am I to think I’m better off not playing the cards I’ve been graciously dealt?
” It kills me inside that three individuals—who I’ve given the aptly called nickname—have determined they single-handedly hold the keys to who is worthy of the accolades, who is up-and-coming, and who to continue celebrating.
Those three have buoyed my career to its heights and have turned their backs on me in my darkest moments.
With Stella in my corner, I have a shot at making it again without their opinions.
When I dare to look at Callie, she’s holding back a smile. “I can get behind that.” She takes a bite of her fruit salad and holds her fork out at me like a sword. “What I really want to know is what it’s like being married to Max Hutchings?”
“It’s a business deal, Callie. You know that.” I pop a berry into my mouth, hoping that’s enough of an answer for her.
“Sure it is.” Just like everybody else, she doesn’t believe me in the slightest. “You’re both living in this house together, and what? You do your thing and he does his and that’s it?”
My eyes slip to the floor in front of the couch where we sat Friday night.
Thinking about how close we were, how his lips were right there and the sizzle in the room, coming from more than the fireplace, is going to make me blush all over again.
As hot as that moment was—that was it. The next morning, he drove himself to the airport while Emma and I were gone for the STEM Robot Showcase, and he didn’t get home until late last night.
It’s not like we text and keep each other up to date with what’s going on.
I’d heard him come in the front door when I was almost asleep and forced myself to not leave my bedroom and barrage him with a million questions.
I figured I’d run into him this morning in the kitchen before he left for school but he was out the door extra early.
I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, but again, it’s none of my business.
“Yep.” I take a bite of apple and she stares me down. “That’s it.”
“You’re a liar, but I’ll let you simmer in that lie for now. You just keep your eye on the prize, boss.”
A corner of the rec room at the assisted living facility has been transformed.
Stark white sheets hang on the walls and lie on the floor; tables have been moved out of the way.
In the center of the space is a plum velvet armchair.
Stella stands in a long quilted robe, her hair professionally set and makeup immaculate.
I am tickled to see her Tiffany’s & Co. set on her ears and wrist. She forgoes greetings to inform me the lighting is best in this space starting at two in the afternoon.
She continues by telling me she will not let me take any photos—all painting must be done live.
This gives us an hour each session before I need to clean up and get Emma and Reese from school.
“Last time I checked, my grandson works in that building. Does he not?”
“Yes.”
“Is his green monstrosity in the shop? Is there some reason he can’t take them home?”
I hide a laugh at her disdain for his Land Cruiser, putting one hand on my hip and crossing my ankles. “Well, he goes to the gym right after work for conditioning.”
She waves this off as a non-issue and turns to her best friend. “Opal, did I raise my grandson wrong? He can’t help his wife and grandmother out because he needs to pump iron? He’s made a career of catching balls. Toddlers can do that.”
“Kids these days,” Opal agrees with a teasing tsk.
“What did Lisa say to you about this turn of events?” Stella asks airily.
Max claims the principal has acted like she has no idea we got married, despite the chatter that ran through the halls for a few days.
We know Opal didn’t blow our cover, so I’m curious what Lisa’s thoughts are.
Did it catch her by surprise? Does she only care that he shows up and does his job?
Opal laughs. “The only thing she’s said to me is had she known marriage would make him this nice, she would’ve asked you two to get married at the beginning of the year.”
“Really, Nola, how are you ever going to finish this if we’re doing an hour at a time?” Stella has pivoted back to the task at hand, glancing back and forth from the lighting to the lounge chair.
I roll my eyes at Opal as Stella removes her robe and hands it to an employee. I’ve only seen her wear brightly colored kaftans and was excited to show her the fuchsia color I’d mixed up just for her.
Instead, she’s wearing a tea-length, black, off-shoulder cocktail dress. She’s every bit the old Hollywood glam that Max said she once was.
“Stella,” I say, stepping close to check out the delicate lace on the bodice. “This dress is amazing.”
“What’s more amazing, dear, is that I was able to squeeze into it,” she says with a dry laugh.
“I’m onto the nutritionists here. They’re trying to fatten us up before we die.
” She tosses her eyes at the staff members, sure of her conspiracy.
“So many carbs and dessert every night. How is this sustainable?”
I bite my cheek and ask, “How did you want to sit?”
She drops into the chair, knees together, ankles crossed and forearms resting on the armrests. With one eyebrow cocked, she stares me down. It’s terrifyingly stately. Nobody could pull it off genuinely but her.
“It’s perfect. Just verifying, though, no smile?” I tease half-way.
She tuts. “I’ve done that before in other sittings.
I’ve had five portraits painted over my lifetime, you know.
I’ve done flirty, coy, and fun. This one is my legacy.
I am Stella Hutchings and I may have had to give up my spot as Palm Springs royalty, but I’ll never give up knowing that I am power. ”
There’s an unspoken, underlying warning in what she’s saying.
A battle in knowing that not only is she losing her mind but a fierce loyalty to her grandkids.
I’m the person who’s thrown the status quo of her safe cocoon into disarray, and this is the first time we’re alone for her to mark her territory.
Internally, I allow three seconds of self-doubt to creep in.
Thoughts of, I thought she liked me. I thought she trusted me with Max and her legacy.
Is she only agreeing to this for Max? Has she changed her mind about what she dubbed a fun scheme?
flood my brain, then I straighten up. This is only Stella giving her expectations to the artist. It’s business, nothing personal.
With the most convincing smile I can muster, I promise, “It’s a perfect vision and I’m going to do my best to capture it for you. You’re in great hands.”