Prologue #2
He left the house and drove to downtown, parking in a lot which had been designated for vendors.
Another guy had a flatbed dolly cart and even let him borrow it, saving him trips to and from his car.
Keaton set up his paintings and took in the table display stand with his name and prices listed on it.
If today proved to be a success, he was even thinking about claiming a domain and creating a website for himself.
The festival started at ten, but people already roamed the park. Throwing frisbees. Dancing to music. A tai chi class was taking place nearby. He found a pretty girl in her mid-twenties and watched as she gracefully executed the moves.
Slowly, others began to arrive, the ones meant to take advantage of the festival.
Glancing around, he saw booths with grapevine wreaths.
Candles. Children’s clothing. Jarred salsas and jellies.
Several other artists were also present.
One guy was drawing caricatures. Another displayed black and white photographs.
A woman in her early forties had crafted silver and turquoise jewelry, while another was a sculptor.
He also counted two other painters, one who seemed to specialize in places throughout Texas, while the other displayed quirky cityscapes.
Everyone seemed way more prepared than Keaton.
They displayed signs with QR codes for their websites.
They passed out business cards and swag such as stickers and pens and magnets.
Some vendors even had brochures spotlighting their work.
All of that took extra cash, though, and he’d rather sink his money into his art.
Still, the idea of having a website was looking better and better to him.
Fortunately, two individuals stopped by his booth, perusing what he offered.
Each bought a painting, and pride swelled within him as he completed the sales.
He watched the pair, who were friends, leaving with his paintings in tow.
Hope filled him, and he thought this festival might be the beginning of a new chapter in his life.
“Keaton? Is that you?”
He swung his gaze to a woman who had stopped at his table. She was dressed casually in a sleeveless silk shirt and capris, with blood red on her toenails and dozens of bangles on each arm. Her engagement and wedding ring set cost more than he had made in his lifetime.
“Mrs. Winslow. It’s good to see you,” he said politely, giving the Highland Park housewife a smile.
“Monica, please,” she insisted. “You did enough work in our house, we should be on a first-name basis. Well, it was our house. It’s mine now.” She flashed a satisfied smile.
“Divorced or widowed?” he asked.
She laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Well, it was going to be number one—until my husband dropped dead on the golf course. He’d initiated divorce proceedings.
Found a gal who resembled me from twenty years ago and was ready to trade me in for that newer model.
Thankfully, the paperwork was in the early stages of being drawn up.
Since it was never completed, much less filed, I got everything—minus the trust funds for our two children. ”
“Well, being single looks good on you,” he complimented.
Her gaze turned to one of his paintings on display. “I didn’t know you were a painter. Of landscapes, that is. I know you painted the house more than once. And I simply love the cabinetry you designed and built. I recommend you to all my friends.”
“Let me tell you about this one,” he said smoothly, transitioning from his work on her house to his art.
For the next few minutes, Keaton showed her the paintings he’d brought with him. Monica seemed impressed.
“I’m going to buy that one with the bluebonnets and sunset.” She glanced around. “And I think I’ll also take the one which looks like an English garden.” She frowned, her eyes looking at his sign. “Is this what you’re charging?”
“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want to overprice myself.”
“Why, that’s criminal, Keaton. Your work is worth ten times that—and that’s how I’m going to compensate you.”
A thrill ran through him. He’d always thought he had talent, but he had no idea how to market himself.
“Is this the first time you’ve sold your work?” Monica asked.
“I did a couple of arts and crafts shows last month. One in Plano. Another in Richardson.”
She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t know the gold mine you are sitting on. All my friends would buy your work. Joy. Evelyn. Persephone. And Jacqueline. Definitely, Jacqueline.”
Keaton was familiar with every woman she named. They were all friends of hers who had houses he had worked on in one capacity or another over the last dozen years. All had more money than they knew what to do with.
“Have you ever heard of an artist-in-residence?” she asked.
“Traditionally, the concept can be traced back to the sixteenth century and the Duke of Florence, a Medici,” he immediately responded and then paused. “But you don’t want a history lesson, do you?”
“Certainly not. But I do know talent when I see it. You shouldn’t be working construction, Keaton. You should be spending your time devoting yourself to painting. I’m actually part-owner in a local gallery a few blocks from here.”
Monica pulled out her phone and sent a quick text message.
“I know the manager is there now. I’ve told him to come and meet us.” She paused. “I have more money than I know what to do with, Keaton. My kids are both in college and rarely come home. I’m looking for something to fill my days.” She grinned. “And I’ve decided you’re my new project.”
An hour later, Monica had insisted that he quit his construction job.
She would be bankrolling him as her personal artist-in-residence.
The gallery’s manager would view any completed paintings and have the first option to purchase them or pass, then Keaton would be able to sell them on his own if he wished.
Monica said her lawyer could draw up the contracts and asked Keaton to commit to a two-year period of association with her gallery.