Chapter Thirty-Eight
Addison changed a half a dozen times in front of her bedroom mirror to the soundtrack of a Spotify Christmas playlist. The scene, reminiscent of a nineties movie montage, wrapped with her in the first outfit she tried on. The black pencil skirt, color-blocked sweater, and high suede boots were a perfect balance between standing out and blending in.
She slipped in her EarPods and bounded down the stairs of her downtown apartment to the tune of Darlene Love’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” At the corner bodega, she paused to inhale a big whiff of evergreen from the line of fresh Christmas trees that had been delivered the day before. She loved the short period of time when the scent of the city was elevated from What’s that smell? to a delightful blast of pine and maple syrup. It was the hap-hap-happiest time of the year, and Addison was feeling it, along with a bellyful of butterflies.
Overly zealous, she decided to walk the twenty or so blocks to Chelsea in an attempt to wrangle said butterflies. It was tough to tame her emotions, and she soon found herself nearly skipping. Nearly skipping made it worse.
She spotted the for-hire light on an approaching cab and raised her hand.
“CC Ng Gallery, 500 West Twenty-Ninth, please.”
She slouched back into the black leather seat of the taxi and lowered her gaze.
Be present, Addison.
Meditating didn’t seem possible, even though she had gotten so very good at it. Nothing could contain the excitement in her belly.
“I’m heading to my first show,” she told the cabbie, leaning forward. “I’m an artist.”
It may have been the first time she had said those words out loud. I’m an artist. It was for sure the first time she believed them.
“Very nice, very nice,” the cabbie replied. “What kind?”
“Ceramics,” she said proudly.
She sat back and closed her eyes again, thinking of Paresh’s first lesson in meditation.
Focus on your breath. Notice the sensation of the air as it enters and exits your nose. Place your left hand on your belly, and lose yourself in the rise and the fall—the rise and the fall.
Miraculously, calmness enveloped her, until she pulled open the heavy door to the CC Ng Gallery and saw her name typeset on the wall with those of five other emerging artists.
Addison Irwin, works in clay
Addison had spent the last four months actively working in her Fire Island studio, creating similar sculptures to the first piece that had caught CC’s eye—Utter Confusion. She named each of the other ceramic sorority sisters she was showing after emotions she had felt over the past six months—in no particular order:
Stark Gratitude
Pure Pride
Total Panic
Complete Madness
andSheer Joy
She’d made Sheer Joy—a wild-haired woman dressed in a rainbow, dancing with her arms raised above her head—just the month before, the day after Ben had written, Marry me? in the sand and placed the perfect emerald ring on her finger. It was a surprise, but it also wasn’t a surprise. Their future together had been sealed the day they hung Gicky’s portrait of them over the fireplace. They had barely left each other’s side since.
Today, Ben was coming straight from an interview with a baseball player in Atlanta. Addison tried, unsuccessfully, not to let her brain go toward him and the precarious timing of his arrival. When she saw him across the room, her heart jumped. She wondered when and if that would stop happening.
Ben wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear, “So proud of you, baby.”
The sweet, intimate moment was cut short by Kizzy, Lisa, and Pru’s boisterous entrance, with Pru’s husband, Tom, and the metro version of Terrence Williams following staidly behind.
Kizzy squealed at the sight of Addison’s work laid out on bright white rectangular pedestals in the center of the concrete-floored room. Much like Addison herself, some of the pieces were playful and whimsical, and others felt more serious and contemplative. And while many of the other artists there were displaying works ten times the size, Addison’s women demanded attention.
Addison’s parents soon followed, her mother, like Kizzy, gasping in delight. It was ironic; if Beverly Irwin had been this supportive of Addison’s art ten years earlier, Addison might now be less starving and more artist.
“Hold up your engagement ring in front of your sculptures,” her mother instructed. “I want to take a picture.”
Addison was about to say, Stop! but Ben mouthed, “Just let her,” so she acquiesced.
As soon as Beverly realized that her sister-in-law Gicky was responsible for marrying off her older daughter, she forgave her for absconding with the soup terrine. When Addison had called and said she was engaged, Beverly had looked up toward the heavens and yelled, “I forgive you, Gicky!” at the top of her lungs. She didn’t do it in front of Morty. He would find no humor in it. He was still working through his guilt, and probably would be for a long time.
Addison posed for a few pictures, then warned, “That’s it, Mom. Chill!”
Chillwas usually a trigger word for Beverly Irwin, but she let it go. It was too good a day. Morty stepped in with a kiss for his daughter, followed by a wink.
“C’mon, Bev, let’s check out the other artists.”
Addison paused for a moment to take in the room.
Pru and Tom canoodled in the corner; they were big fans of Lisa’s worksheets. The last time Addison asked, Pru told her they were back to passionately arguing and making up again. They weren’t the only ones to praise Lisa’s method; one of her clients was a bigwig at a publishing house and swore that Lisa’s approach had saved her marriage. She offered Lisa a book deal—and The Lisa Banks Method was set for a late spring pub date. It was already in the top one hundred self-help books on Amazon, a great sign.
Another great sign was the pictures that Kizzy had texted to the group chat just the day before: a photo of her signed divorce agreement followed by a couple of tag choices for Terrence’s new surf-wear line. They all hearted the photo of her new marital status and placed three thumbs-up emojis on the second iteration of the Vagabond Surfer logo.
Finally, Addison landed on CC Ng, deep in conversation with Roberta Smith and Jerry Saltz. The power couple were legendary art critics, Roberta for The New York Times and Jerry for New York magazine. She feared Jerry would compare her work to souvenir models of Michelangelo’s David in a Florentine gift shop. She remembered him making a similar judgment about a sculptor once before. Roberta, she worried, would label them banal.
“Look at the couple talking to CC, are they smiling?” Addison asked Ben, her thumbnail going right to her mouth for the first time in ages.
Ben wrapped his arms around his fiancée’s waist. He knew a thing or two about critics and reviews.
“It’s gonna be fabulous,” he said.
And it was.
First in line at the corner newsstand the next morning, Ben and Sally raced home in the rain to the apartment the three now shared.
Ben called out, “Where you at, nepo baby?” as they entered.
Addison yelled back from behind the bathroom door, “Aah!” before busting out with, “Nepo baby? No way! Let me see that!”
She read the review out loud.
Masterful and exuberant, the newest nepo baby of the art world.
“Aaaah, the irony,” she squealed before continuing.
Addison Irwin, niece of the late, great Gicky Irwin, brings her own kind of whimsy to clay. At first glance, the intense color and playful forms of Irwin’s work will all but guarantee a smile, but there is more to them than meets the eye. A closer look reveals the complexity of the young Irwin’s work and its astonishing detail in texture, pattern, and glaze.
“Oh my God, this is crazy!”
“No, it’s not—you’re amazing! I can’t wait to see what you’re going to make next!”
“Well, you’re gonna have to wait a bit. Less than nine months, though.”
Ben paused and contemplated her words for a moment, before his expression erupted in an incredulous smile.
“Wait, what? Are you…”
Addison pulled the telltale plastic pregnancy test wand from the pocket of her robe and showed him the plus sign. He took it and studied it.
“Are you sure?” he said, tears instantly running down his face.
She reached into the other pocket of her robe and pulled out two more positive tests.
“I’m sure!” she laughed before joining him in his tears.
Ben kneeled on the floor, placed his hands gently on Addison’s belly, and planted a sweet kiss on the place where their baby grew.
“You can’t believe it?” Addison laughed, quoting his usual reaction to extraordinary things.
“Actually, I can believe it,” he uttered. “I believe it with all my heart.”
Sally came charging between them, knocking them onto the couch and licking the remnants of happy tears from their faces.
“We’re having a baby!” Ben told Sally, who took off in circles of zoomies around the apartment.
“She can’t believe it,” Addison said, laughing, ignoring the fact that it was Sally’s usual reaction to a wet coat.
They watched the dizzying spectacle in silence, each thinking about where they were and where they were going. Ben took Addison’s hand in his and brought her into his arms.
“Thank you for saving me.”
“Thank you for saving me right back.”
And the rain stopped.
And the birds chirped.
And somewhere in the sky, there was most definitely a rainbow.