Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Whitney
Cultured Class
Half an hour later, I arrive at Hughes College with two coffees in hand in time to catch the tail end of Dr. Brown’s ancient art history lecture.
From her lectern, in her roller-set, bouncy, dark curls à la Fresh Prince Aunt Viv—the Black one—she tosses me a direly deadpan expression, wordlessly confirming the topic is about as dry as I remember, and I’m her oasis.
The corners of my mouth quirk up when she winks at me.
This is her superpower, and every last student in the hall knows it too. There isn’t an empty seat in the house, and that’s to her credit. Dr. Brown’s got a way of commanding respect while staying completely genuine. Effortless, grounded, real. Just down to earth.
“Next week, we move from gods to mortals.” Her raspy voice carries sharp, loud, every bit a thunderous force, before a bright smile stretches her deep burgundy lips. Joy glitters in her eyes as she purrs, “Now, go stand before something beautiful and let it talk back to you.”
A collective wave of laughter and chatter rushes over the lecture hall as they take heed, rising and rushing the door, proudly ready to flirt with statues because she decreed it so.
In five seconds flat, Dr. Brown’s at my side like she can’t get away from this place fast enough, and truthfully, I’m glad. Time is definitely of the essence.
“Riveting lecture?” I stifle a laugh, knowing good and well that this woman—whom I hold in the highest regard—isn’t about to lie for my sake. We’ve been through way too much to uphold perfunctory pretenses. Or lie to one another.
Usually.
“Oh hush, child.” She purses her full lips and gives me a wide-eyed, chastising look as she takes her coffee. One that I know too well. It says I’m absolutely right, she’s just endured professional torture, but I’m dead wrong for broadcasting it with her students in earshot.
Which, fair.
She cuts me a slight side-eye and sips slowly, her gaze flickering about as, all around us, they pour into the hallway. I raise my hands, conceding her point.
Click-clacking away on her sensible black heels, she waits until we’re clear of the crowd before ducking her tall, lithe frame into her office. The door’s barely closed before she exhales a full-bodied sigh.
“Lord…” She frowns. “Like watching goddamn paint dry.”
We both fall out cackling, leaning on each other just to stay upright. And it’s so genuine, I almost feel bad that I’m not here just to chitchat like old times.
The gag is, we’re not even close to the same age.
Dr. Brown’s got at least a couple decades on me.
But I’ve got an old spirit. Basically just out here, a sixty-year-old woman at heart, rocking a pressed denim jumpsuit with trap beats looping in my head.
But this woman? Make no mistake, she is dope.
At least in Georgia, and Ellswood particularly, she’s a literal icon, a legend in Black creative excellence who goes hard for her own.
If there’s something or someone noteworthy happening in her city, she’s definitely got the inside track.
And this is why I’m banking on this woman.
Or, in this case, absolutely buttering up an academic and artistic thought leader just to shamelessly pry for even a crumb of information on the estate rep for this hush-hush collection everyone’s talking about.
But desperate times, right?
“Dusty, dull-looking paint,” I pile on, living for every second of this. Just acting a complete fool as I throw in a polite little twerk for good measure, further fueling the shenanigans.
Dr. Brown hollers, breathless and clutching her chest. And, bless her heart, she tries to bend and shake what little her mama gave her. But the Lord definitely skipped her on booty day.
“I know that’s right, ma’am,” I hype her up, tickled as hell—and feeling a little guilty that I’m pouring it on thick and waiting for my opening to bring up the collection. “Let the record show that Dr. Brown is that woman, ladies and gentlemen!”
“Lord show you right.” She straightens, beaming from ear to ear. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
Oh, you don’t know the half of it.
As she trades her heels for no-nonsense sneakers, ready to cover some serious campus ground, she glances at me.
“All right now, don’t get too comfortable,” she says. “We’ve got work to do and tons of ground to cover.”
I stand, summoning all my nerve. “Actually, Dr. Brown, I was hoping to chat for a few… about some industry happenings I’ve heard about recently,” I say, hoping she’s picking up what I’m putting down without me asking outright.
“Industry?” she repeats.
For all of ten seconds, she stares at me unblinking, and I think, Oh, hell. This is it. She’s about to call me out.
But then she studies me for a beat and nods softly.
“Shall we?” she says, ready for the hunt. “We can talk on the way.”
By which she means window-shopping the Hughes talent pool, and I realize what I respect most about her is how she faces challenges—the dry, dull stuff, the obstacles—as nothing more than a means to an end.
The same way she grits her teeth through lectures that spark zero joy, Dr. Brown didn’t even flinch when I told her Gertrude conditioned my inheritance on getting a finance degree instead of fine arts.
Instead of backing down, though, Dr. Brown took me under her wing.
She wouldn’t let me take my eyes off the prize, mapping out a way for me to double-major.
“Those who can’t paint, curate,” she said, basically ensuring I got my bag and my dream gallery.
“We shall,” I say, exiting her office, so grateful we’re still working together, developing artists beyond their degrees, mentoring, exposing students to more opportunities with my gallery. Hopefully disclosing secret artists.
For a solid two hours, we turn the campus inside out, sitting in on lectures and workshops and observing in studios.
We visit on-campus galleries, chat with other professors about their most promising students, and review pieces set for Hughes’s juried student exhibitions.
The entire time, I’m asking veiled questions.
I start off generally. Have you heard the whispers about that Harrington gallery? They’ve got something big coming. Do you know who’s curating? Who tipped them off? Is it even real?
Of course, stand-up woman that she is, Dr. Brown gives me nothing.
At this point, though, I’m determined.
Tell me I can’t have something, not to ask, and you can basically guarantee that it’s now my personal mission. Purely out of spite.
So, as we continue on Dr. Brown’s rounds, determining that there are some incredible emerging artists who, with a little strategic portfolio planning and professional development, could change the industry—in a couple years—I double down.
As soon as we plop down on a bench in the middle of the quad, facing the sprawling green east lawn, I twist to face her.
“Who’s the artist?” I blurt out.
Again, she’s tight-lipped, but I’m undeterred.
“Can you tell me anything about the person? Are they local? Is the name being withheld because of legal stuff or scandal? What sort of medium are we talking, acrylic, oil, sculptures, photography—”
My stomach croaks loud as all get out.
“There’s a Greek place in the student union. They make a mean gyro…” Dr. Brown laughs at me, rummaging round the bottom of my purse and coming out with a fun-sized Snickers. But I’m onto her tactic.
There’s no deflecting here, ma’am.
“Listen…” I chuckle, popping it into my mouth with a soft, sated moan. “Really, don’t worry about me. I’m headed to happy hour after this at Amour Frite. I will be eating good.” But a small sigh slips out of me. “I was just hoping you’d have some intel on—”
“The Great Golden Hope?”
Laughter hijacks my chewing, and I almost choke on a nougaty, chocolatey chunk.
“Something like that. Golden unicorn. And yes, I was supposed to be letting go and letting God handle it. I figured I’d just keep looking. Between online searches, the dozens of monthly submissions, and Hughes’s students, something had to give, right?”
“Of course.”
“And then this morning, I found an artist who I truly thought could be the one.” I shake my head.
“I just don’t know if I’ll find my Great Golden Hopeful Unicorn.
If you can’t tell me any information about this collection either, I don’t know.
Maybe I just hyped it all up in my head, and I need to focus on the business end. Keep the gallery booked up, you know?”
“Always be closing?” she scoffs.
Dr. Brown doesn’t even bother hiding her skepticism. Her twisted expression screams, Ma’am, you are a lot of things, but Glengarry Glen Ross isn’t one.
But then she presses her lips together, and it’s absolutely her tell.
“What is it?” I slide my purse off my shoulder and plop it between us on the bench, meeting her gaze. “Dr. Brown, why are you holding out on me?”
Now, if she were a liar, she could’ve easily waved off my question. Improvised, tossed me a quick I was thinking about my next riveting ancient art history lecture. It’s not always about you, so relax. Please and thank you.
But she doesn’t say anything.
No, instead she focuses on her hands, refusing to look at me. And that’s how I know for certain. Not only is she holding out on the artist, but she’s got intel.
“Ms. Graves…” She ups the lip pursing another notch until her face contorts with visible discomfort.
I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
For a beat, I sit back, unable to contain my smile. My entire chest expands with anxious excitement. Especially given her other tell: whenever she calls me Ms. Graves, it is always followed by—
“Now, I’m not supposed to share this with you”—and three, two, one—“but I think you have a right to know.”