Chapter 24
Breezy
Norah has been nudging me about this headhunter call.
She hasn’t exactly been pushy, but she’s definitely offered quiet reminders and soft encouragements, all while juggling Bennett’s stuff and Autumn’s adorable chaos with the kind of grace that makes me wonder if she ever actually sleeps.
“Just take the call, Breeze,” she’d said more than once. “It doesn’t hurt to listen.”
And I brushed her off each time, because why would I want to listen? I walked away from that world. Technically, I buried it with my father when he buried me in his betrayal.
But the art world isn’t letting me off the hook so easily. Everyone knows my name. Everyone knows what I built.
And according to Norah, who still very much has her toes dipped in the art world water because of Bennett, there are a lot of people out there who want a piece of me now that Bishop Galleries stopped calling dibs.
“I don’t know how that headhunter got my number or email, but with the way he’s been hounding me over getting a chance to speak with you, I feel like you need to give in to his desperation.
Maybe use it to your advantage, you know?
He probably has some opportunities worth hearing.
Maybe even ones that spur a little excitement in ya. ”
That was the one statement that came out of Norah’s mouth that ended in me scheduling a Zoom appointment with the headhunter who wouldn’t leave my sister-in-law alone.
Though, I did let two more weeks of time fly by in Red Bridge before I hit send on the email to him. And fourteen more days in this small town have been a blur of snow and Tad Hanson. Nights in his bed and mornings sneaking back across the yard and afternoons lost to laughter in his barn.
Besides when I’m spending time with Autumn, most of my time goes to him.
Sleeves rolled up, boots borrowed, and pretending I know what the hell I’m doing, I’ve even started hanging around the Hanson Farm during the day without trying to hide it.
Randy eyed me suspiciously the first time I showed up, leaning against a fence post like I might faint if a sheep sneezed too hard. But Tad shrugged and said, “Breezy has been kind enough to offer us some temporary help while she’s in town.”
I’m not so sure Randy bought that story, but he didn’t question it. He went about his usual farming business. Though, he’s yet to assign me any chores or tasks. If anything, he keeps his distance.
And my fake gig as a temporary helper on the Hanson Farm has become the official story.
When I started disappearing for full days and coming home smelling faintly like hay and sin, I had to tell Bennett and Norah something.
So now they think I’m helping the Hanson brothers with farm chores like some kind of city-girl-does-manual-labor redemption arc. It honestly sounds like a plot from a Hallmark movie more than real life, but whatever.
Nothing about life feels real or predictable these days.
Of course, Bennett’s reaction was a mix of annoyance and hilarity.
He’s never been a fan of Tad Hanson. Pretty sure being neighbors with a sheep farmer whose sheep never stay behind the fence is at the foundation of that ire.
But after he’d bitched a while about how incompetent Farmer Tad is, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at my expense.
“Breezy Bishop, cleaning up sheep shit?” he’d choked out.
“I fear Red Bridge might be going to your brain, sis. If you hang around here any longer, you might end up selling scarves at the farmer’s market. ”
He’s not even wrong in his teasing. I mean, maybe Red Bridge is going to my brain?
However, what my brother doesn’t know would probably kill him. I mean, if there are any fresh callouses on my hands, they have nothing to do with mucking stalls and everything to do with clutching Farmer Tad’s bedsheets.
And trust me, my brother does not want to know that information.
Tad even tried to pay me money once, really make the cover story seem real, and I laughed in his face. “The only currency I’ll take comes in orgasms and late-night cuddles,” I told him.
He wasn’t exactly upset about that. Managed to give me three orgasms that very night, in fact.
Basically, I’m living a double life—fake farmhand by day and shameless sheep farmer groupie by night. But when it comes to real jobs, today, I’m officially giving the relentless headhunter my listening ears.
The house is quiet since Norah and Bennett took Autumn over to Josie and Clay’s house to have brunch. And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for this call, sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop propped on a stack of art books.
On a deep breath, I tap the trackpad, and Zoom flickers to life.
A man in expensive glasses and a perfectly knotted tie appears, smiling as we make eye contact through the screen.
“Beatrice Bishop,” he says warmly. “My name is David Smith. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, David. And please, you can just call me Breezy,” I correct, plastering on my most friendly smile.
“Of course. Breezy.” He consults his notes, the glow of his screen reflecting off his frames.
“Let’s get down to business and talk opportunities.
I’m honestly not sure if I’ve ever had someone get so many offers at one time.
Needless to say, the interest for you has been significant.
MoMA is seeking a Senior Curator of Contemporary Works.
Art Basel has an opening for Global Acquisitions.
And a foundation in London is very interested.
Excellent salary, extensive travel, and as you know, quite the prestige. ”
He continues rattling off more job opportunities, and I nod in the right places, hands laced tight in my lap.
Frankly, each job should thrill me. At twenty-five, I would’ve killed for them. At thirty, I did the work of all those titles combined. But at thirty-nine, listening to him list them kind of feels like hearing the door of a prison cell slide shut.
“So…what do you think, Breezy?” David asks, steepling his hands on his desk.
“They all sound…good,” I manage, but my voice sounds flat to my own ears. I clear my throat and try to add a little pep in my step. “Great, even.”
“I thought they were all pretty great too,” he says, already typing. “How about I push your name forward, and we can arrange some conversations as soon as next week? I think that’s what will really help you figure out where you want to land.”
All I can do is nod, even though, deep down, I don’t want to bother with any of it.
When the call ends, I close the laptop harder than necessary and sit in the hush of the room. My chest feels hollow, my throat is dry, and my stomach is aching with nausea. Not to mention, my head is spinning like a top.
I’m not so sure diving back into the art world is where I want to be.
Not so sure? Feels like the nausea is a pretty telltale sign of your true feelings.
I grab my phone to take it off silent and see if Tad sent me any texts, but I find three missed calls from Logan. They’re stacked on the screen like bricks, and a new voice mail banner is highlighted at the top.
I stare at it for a long moment before I press play.
“Breeze, it’s me. Logan. You know, the brother you hate and refuse to talk to.
” His voice is raw and stressed in a way I’m not used to hearing.
“Look, I… This is bad. I’m drowning here.
The board’s on me, the attorneys won’t stop calling, I don’t even know half the fucking curators’ names.
All I know is they’re not happy at all. They don’t want to work for me.
They want to work for you. I’m supposed to be on location in Santa Fe in three months, and there is no fucking way I can keep up with this.
I’ve already had to cancel photo shoots and press junkets and a million other fucking things. Please. Help me.”
The message ends abruptly, as if Logan were in the middle of cursing at someone before he had the sense to hang up.
After all the years I needed someone and did it alone, and now someone needs me?
After I’ve been kicked out of my own life, out of the empire that I was holding up for the past twenty years, now someone acknowledges what I achieved?
Not to mention, I had to hear about all the shit he’s had to sacrifice for galleries that should be mine.
Anger bubbles up from my belly and makes my throat burn.
Because, fuck you, Logan. Fucking fuck you.
But something heavier edges in behind the rage.
It’s not exactly sympathy, but a tired ache where love and family used to sit.
As pathetic as it is for me to feel this, I don’t get satisfaction in hearing Logan suffer.
I don’t get any sort of vindication in hearing that everything I built up with my bare fucking hands is slowly crumbling into chaos.
I set my phone facedown on the comforter of my bed like I can smother the sound of his now-nonexistent voice with cotton.
Outside my bedroom window, a drift slumps off the porch rail in a soft, collapsing sigh. And I let the hush swallow me for a full minute before swiping Logan’s voice mail into the trash.
Not today. Not now. And maybe not ever.
I pull on a hoodie I stole from Tad the other day—warm from the radiator and faintly smelling like him—and head for the kitchen. I need coffee. I need air. I need something that isn’t a title or a plea.
Later, maybe, I’ll figure out what I want. For now, I want the world to stop asking.
For now, I want to distract myself, and I know two little lambs by the names of Tom and Betsy that always bring a smile to my face.
It’s not long before I’m pulling on my boots and heading out the front door, across Bennett’s yard and straight to the farmhouse I’m starting to know like the back of my hand.
Straight to the sheep farmer, huh, Breeze?
This is really starting to seem like a pattern…