Chapter 4 #2
Those words are akin to Mom calling and saying, I won’t hold you, and talking for another forty-five minutes when she swore she didn’t want nothing.
So, when Dr. Brown fixes her now-matte-burgundy lips after tossing back the last dregs of her probably lukewarm coffee, and tosses out that one-liner, I expect a little tea.
But, like, “industry-brewed, underground art collection from an old-money Ellswoodian”-type tea.
Not “the artist’s estate rep has already passed over the Artery” because my gallery exhibits mostly sculptures, ceramics, and wood pieces, and the Heartery specializes in fine art, since “they’re quieter, more exclusive, guestlist-only crowd. ”
Oh.
“So, wait…” I hold up a hand, still trying to digest the fact that my curatorial skills are being reduced to a societal cliché. “I guess I’m running a loud, run-of-the-mill, everywoman establishment, then. Good to know.”
“Now listen, I know you can do it, but the estate representative felt it might not be the best fit,” Dr. Brown says, sheepishly, like I’m just supposed to ignore that she’s telling on herself. “And besides, he’s not even fielding gallery inquiries.”
“So, to be clear, you do know who the artist is.” Who he is. I let out a humorless laugh.
She deepens her stare. “Whitney Graves.”
“Dr. Brown.” I match her disappointed tone, feeling salty.
For a beat, we sit here at an impasse, but my curiosity won’t let me stay quiet.
“Can you at least answer a few questions?” I ask, not even bothering to hide that I’m guilt-tripping her. It’s the least she can do, given the fact that she lied about what she knows, and I’ve apparently got no shot of pitching the rep for this top-secret collection.
With a soft sigh, she smiles. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
In quick succession, I fire off a string of new questions.
Has the estate released any details? Is there a foundation in the artist’s name?
How many pieces? Is it a few or an entire body of work?
Where are the pieces being stored, and who’s cataloguing them?
Who’s doing the valuation? And, most importantly, does the estate rep have a name?
That last question I fully expect her to ignore, but if there’s any chance I can slip this guy an invite to the exhibit opening this Saturday, I’ve got to try.
Dr. Brown must really feel guilty, because she answers eagerly.
No details have been released about the artist’s name or any foundation, but there’s an entire body of never-before-seen work currently stored off the mainland U.S. to be catalogued and valuated for insurance and private sale by Nothton’s Auction House in collaboration with the exhibiting gallery.
All of which makes total sense.
Honestly, I’m impressed.
Until she blinks a good dozen times and adds, “Warner’s the one who reached out for a list of reputable galleries… He didn’t say it explicitly, but he’s quietly looking to unload his late wife’s coveted art collection.”
And then it all clicks.
The estate rep is Warner. Warner Easton is the estate rep for his late wife Sherry Easton’s collection.
I open my mouth, then immediately close it because… since when was Sherry Easton an artist of a coveted collection? Who was doing the coveting?
And why’s Warner handling the collection so secretively?
Unbidden, the bold headlines rush to the surface of my mind.
I can’t lie. As much as I know there’s always a grain of truth in gossip, to me Warner’s got questionable character, at best. And seeing him sitting at that table in the country club with Ellswood tuned into every forkful…
He’s never beating the coldhearted, soulless, money-grubbing mogul allegations.
Not when he’s trying to privately offload his wife’s art collection for an undisclosed amount.
Oh no, sir.
“Okay, wait.” I slice my hands through the air, eyes clamped shut, mentally composing myself and trying to make two plus two equal negative infinity.
That’s how fast my brain is short-circuiting.
When I meet Dr. Brown’s gaze again, my mouth won’t close.
“Let’s back it up. So, Sherry Easton is the level-five-classified artist?
” Was she throwing chiseling knives along with blow dryers?
Dr. Brown straightens, scanning our surroundings and visibly irritated that I just blurted that aloud. Then she vaguely says, “It wasn’t public,” as if that explains everything.
Not even close.
My head is still spinning, and the questions are writing themselves. For starters, “What are we talking here, influencer artiste-caliber work? Cobbled-together ceramics, photography, finger painting? You can’t just drop that bombshell and clam up.”
Fire blooms in my belly because this could be another premature unicorn celebration. Who knows? Maybe Sherry’s talent was based on obligatory familial love. Maybe it’s a bunch of brightly colored, Warhol-style blow-dryer quadrants. Or feet.
Lord, don’t let it be feet.
I drag in a cleansing breath, futilely trying to keep my eyes on the prize, then remind myself that said prize is landing Sherry’s collection and not interacting with her grieving widower while pitching a collaboration.
Focus.
On the bench beside me, Dr. Brown blows out an exhausted breath, clearly regretting her decision to overshare.
“Oil paintings,” she says, discreetly. “About a dozen. Mostly of a handful of Luxe Ladies over the seasons. No rhyme or reason to them. Some repeats. But Warner said she never pursued her art seriously. Painting was just a hobby. But she leaned into it heavily the year before she passed.” She pulls in air through her nose, releasing it slowly out her mouth. “But…”
“But?” I prompt her, impatiently. Lord, deliver me.
“They’re…” She shrugs and gives me this faraway gaze, killing me with these long pauses.
Say it! Ma’am, your mic is on. Improv if you must. They’re what?
“…like nothing I’ve ever seen,” she finishes.
“You’ve seen them?”
“When Warner dropped by the following week, he showed me pictures on his phone, and I knew they were special.”
I’ve got chills.
And just like that, my heart’s involved. Invested. The need to see this collection is so overwhelming, I feel the blinders locking my tunnel vision in place.
Rare. Un-gettable.
Clive’s words buzz to the surface of my mind, igniting me inside out.
It’s not the golden unicorn, per se. But it is palatable enough to draw the masses.
Out of sheer curiosity alone, Ellswood will show up to see the preview night.
The headlines say it all: the people want more behind the scenes from the reality TV star and the tech mogul.
And okay, again, it feels wrong, thinking about a woman’s legacy in terms of exhibit-bait. But who else will value and care for her art like I will? Tell her truths, her joy, and even her struggles, through a beautiful Black lens?
All the pop culture vultures out there, ready to trademark and resell it at a premium? Harrington, taking all its cues from me?
I don’t think so.
And maybe I’m not Glengarry Glen Ross, always closing. But I’ve lived my entire life with versions of Warner, and that gives me a leg up on handling him. If he experiences the Artery, he might reconsider. And once the rest of Ellswood’s there, I’ll give them every reason to keep coming back.
A few minutes later, I hug Dr. Brown, thank her for trusting me with this information, and promise to see her this weekend at the gallery for Corinne’s opening that I’m about to kick into high gear.
The Artery’s about to be the quietly exclusive, guestlist-only gallery, hosting the event of the season.
Even if it means crafting a pitch sharp enough to pierce through the Tin Man’s heartless armor.
“Hey,” I say to Clive on Bluetooth the moment I close my car door. “I need you to add one more invitation. But it’s got to be hand-delivered on Friday…”