Prologue #3
“You’ll want your own lawyer,” she advised. “Mine is good, and he’ll favor me. I want you to also be taken care of.” She dismissed the manager and then smiled at Keaton. “I don’t need to make money off you. I just recognize your talent and want to help you learn how to sell your work—and yourself.”
Monica said that he would need studio space to work from and that she would fund that portion for him. They could look together for a place to rent once he turned in his notice to Frank. He fought her on the idea of simply going in and quitting tomorrow, though.
“Frank gave me a job straight out of high school. I’m not going to do him dirty and walk away without notice, Monica.”
“Okay, I get it. But once you have an end date, we’ll start planning for your future. I’m going to make certain Dallas—and beyond—learns who Keaton Maxwell is.”
He shook hands with her. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I haven’t done anything yet, honey.” She smiled.
“But I will. I love a good project, and you will be easy to sell. You’ve got mad artistic talent, plus you’re easy on the eyes.
And I’m not flirting with you. Actually, I’m already seeing someone.
He’s a few years older than I am, but he makes me very happy. ”
“I guess I’ll go now and drop off the rest of these canvases at the gallery,” he told her since she had told the manager that Keaton would do just that. “I’ll be in touch.”
They traded cell numbers, and he borrowed the dolly again, taking the paintings which had yet to be sold back to his car.
He’d moved two of them before Monica had shown up, and he couldn’t help but think now that those individuals had paid a pittance to what a Keaton Maxwell painting would go for in the future.
He returned the dolly to his new acquaintance and grabbed the tabletop sign.
Deciding he didn’t need it anymore, he tossed it in the trash.
On his way to the car, he stopped at a food truck and ordered a Cuban sandwich and Dr Pepper.
He ate the sandwich on the way to his car, washing it down with the cold, canned soft drink, then made his way to the Clifford Gallery three blocks away.
The manager was waiting and helped Keaton carry in the canvases.
“I’d say it’s a case of right place, right time,” the older man said. “You’re really good. I’ll be able to move all these quickly, but I think I’ll only make three or four available to begin with. Whet the appetite of the art-loving crowd.”
They discussed a few subjects for future paintings he might attempt, and then Keaton said goodbye. He drove home, on top of the world. His days in construction were over. He was going to actually make a living being an artist. He couldn’t wait to tell Miss Peggy.
When he got home, though, an ambulance was sitting in front of the house. Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk and across the street. Keaton leaped from the car and saw two EMTs carrying a stretcher.
The body and face were covered.
Choking on a sob, he rushed over. “Is that … Miss Peggy?”
“Yes,” one replied. “Are you a relative?”
“No. I’ve rented a room from her for over a dozen years, though, and she’s like family to me.”
The EMT gave him a sad smile. “Then I’m sorry to tell you that she passed away. It was sudden. A heart attack. Nothing could’ve been done.”
“Where are you taking her?” Keaton asked, feeling lost as never before.
“To the morgue,” the other guy replied. “Hold on a minute, and we’ll get your contact information. They’ll be in touch with you.”
He watched them carry the stretcher to the ambulance as dozens of people looked on. Their next-door neighbor, Alicia, came over and slipped an arm about him.
“I was with her, Keaton. She was watering the roses. One minute, we were talking, and the next? She let go of the hose and crumpled to the ground. I called 911. Tried to do CPR.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for what you did, Alicia.”
“Let me know what I can do. You know she didn’t have any family.
She’s been renting this house for over twenty years.
I’m sure the landlord will be here and take possession as soon as he can.
If I were you, I’d remove whatever you want of hers, otherwise that greedy bastard will keep it and sell it. ”
“Okay,” he said numbly, heading toward the EMT who now approached him.
He received a sheet of paper, and it contained a number to call for more information. Keaton also provided his name and cell number to the health worker.
“Again, sorry for your loss,” the EMT said.
“Thank you,” he said faintly, looking around and seeing the crowd dispersing. It included the couple who had fostered him. They still lived across the street, and he had never spoken to them since the day they told him to leave.
Keaton returned inside, the good news he had been ready to share now seeming like nothing at all.
“No,” he said aloud. “Miss Peggy would’ve been proud of me. She always told me I would make something of myself as an artist. Now, I’m going to do just that.”
The last word faded, and Keaton gave into the tears. He had lost his best friend today. The door was closing on his past.
And he needed to look to his future.