Chapter Eight
Jesse
As I headed to work on Monday, I grabbed a coffee and a Boston cream from Dunkin’ and made my way to the subway. The store was just a few blocks away, so sometimes I walked instead.
As I did every morning, I glanced up at the apartment above the shop. That space used to be home—Dad’s and mine.
I was born and raised in Queens, and after graduating from Queens College, Dad decided it was time for a fresh start.
One of his old friends was selling off a mixed-use unit in Manhattan—a street-level commercial space with a small apartment above it.
Dad opened a hardware store downstairs and converted the apartment into a cozy, if slightly unconventional, living space for the two of us.
When I turned twenty, he handed me the keys and moved into a quieter apartment—the one I currently lived in.
He said I needed independence, and he needed peace.
It worked out well for both of us. After he’d passed away a couple of years before, I moved into his apartment full-time and started renting out the upstairs space.
It brought in a little extra income and kept the building feeling alive.
I unlocked the door to the store and stepped inside, greeted by the comforting scent of metal, paint, plastic, and glue—my childhood in olfactory form.
The place had only grown more crowded over the years.
I added new shelves every six months just to keep up.
Ever since the interior design business opened upstairs, foot traffic had picked up, and so had my inventory.
No rubber dildos yet—but hey, maybe I should reconsider.
Still smiling to myself, I flipped on the lights and headed behind the counter.
I dropped my bag, booted up the laptop, and glanced at the old-school cash register beside it.
My dad had insisted on keeping it, but I’d modernized the setup with a full POS system.
Most customers didn’t carry cash anymore, and I wasn’t about to lose a sale to nostalgia.
The chair behind the desk let out its usual groan as I sat.
The cracked leather and stuck wheels had been part of the shop longer than some of my tools.
Probably a blessing the wheels didn’t work—less chance of me launching into the wall of keys, screwdrivers, and assorted gadgets every household ought to own.
I reached for my coffee and donut, mentally sorting through the day’s to-do list. I had new inventory to enter into the system and low-stock items to reorder.
As I scrolled through files, I took a distracted bite of the Boston cream.
Business had been growing steadily, which was great—except now the responsibilities were piling up, too.
Lately, I’d been toying with the idea of hiring help.
Not full-time, just someone part-time to ease the load and give me more time for my art.
I believed in my artwork. But sometimes keeping the faith felt like clinging to a fairytale.
My student loans were still breathing down my neck, and even though I’d spent years studying Fine Arts, I had no real connections in the gallery scene.
And in this city, talent was second to networking.
It was frustrating, but true. I’d started a modest ad campaign on social media, praying someone influential might stumble across my work.
Until then, the only solo event on the horizon was one I’d be throwing myself—and trying not to cry if the only people who showed up were my friends.
I sighed. I wasn’t someone who got moody often, but when I did, the cloud settled hard. Even optimists had bad days. I needed to paint something gothic and broody—midnight blues, bottomless black. Maybe a castle buried deep in the woods, untouched by moonlight.
The bell above the door jingled, followed by a sharp gleam of morning sunlight that made me squint.
My mood lifted when I saw it was Robert Delaware—one of my best and most loyal clients.
Robert flipped houses and apartments for a living, and even though he could’ve easily gone to the big box stores for better prices, he always came here first.
“Morning, Jesse.” His crinkled eyes and warm smile peeked out from a beard that matched his reddish hair.
“Morning. You’re early today.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a fun new project.”
“Sounds promising,” I said, standing up and resting my hands on the counter. “What can I get you?”
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, but before unfolding it, he leaned in slightly, his expression lighting up.
“Actually, before we dive into this list, I’ve got something to run by you.
I just closed a deal with a client—art collector, money to burn, the whole nine yards.
He bought a place on Staten Island and wants to fill it with custom pieces—paintings, sculptures, handmade work, all of it.
When I showed him your website, he went crazy.
He wants to commission you to do the full interior art. ” He grinned. “What do you say?”
I blinked at him, lips parted, throat suddenly dry. Words stalled as excitement and fear warred inside me. It felt too big to be real—and too good to pass up.
“Holy crap.” I bit my lip, torn between excitement and terror. “It sounds amazing, but I’ve never done anything on that scale. Does he have a vision? A theme? Deadline? Contract?”
Robert waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll have to sort all that out with him. I just wanted to know if you’re interested. If so, I’ll pass along his contact info, and the rest is between you two.” He raised a brow. “Well? Are you in?”
My heart kicked into overdrive, even as my brain warned me not to get carried away. But the grin forming on my face had a mind of its own.
“Hell, yeah, I’m interested.”
“Perfect.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me a business card.
The thick beige card was embossed with elegant black letters. No address, no job title—just a name and a number.
“Benjamin McFarlane the Third,” I read aloud. “What does this guy do?”
Robert smirked. “Oil tycoon. His family struck it rich generations ago and built a fortune in drilling and refining. Officially, he’s an International Business Liaison. Unofficially, he travels a lot, works very little, and finds creative ways to spend the family fortune.”
He took the card back for a second, scribbled a number on the back, then returned it. “That’s his personal line. He said to call him directly if you have any questions.”
“I have a million.”
I glanced around the store, feeling momentarily unmoored. The opportunity felt surreal, but I wasn’t about to let it slip. I carefully tucked the business card into my bag, then turned to Robert.
“Thank you. Seriously. I don’t even know what to say. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
He smiled, a faint flush blooming above his beard. “It was an easy call. I just hope you two can work something out. If he likes your work, he could bring in more clients. Big ones.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, already feeling my imagination run wild. Me, in a mansion, surrounded by paints, charcoal, maybe even clay again, given full artistic freedom. It was exhilarating—and terrifying.
Snapping out of the daydream, I extended a hand. “Alright, let me see that list of yours and get you what you need.”
Twenty minutes later, Robert walked out, arms full of supplies. I held the door open, thanking him once more for thinking of me.
Back behind the counter, the doubts crept in. What if McFarlane changed his mind? What if he didn’t like my work? Worse—what if he hired me and I couldn’t deliver? Robert said he wanted more than just paintings. Sculptures. Custom pieces. I hadn’t sculpted since college. My tools were long gone.
My jaw clenched, breath catching as panic tried to claw its way in. I forced myself to breathe. One thing at a time. I hadn’t even spoken to the man yet. No promises made, no expectations set. First, I’d call him. Then I’d decide.
With deliberate calm, I reached for my phone and McFarlane’s card. I cleared my throat, took a steady sip of cold coffee, and dialed the number.
My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the phone ring.
“Hello?” A smooth, professional voice answered.
“Mr. McFarlane? Jesse Nielsen here.” I kept my tone confident. “Robert Delaware mentioned you recently purchased a house and were looking for someone to decorate it.”
“Ah, Ms. Nielsen.” His tone warmed immediately. “It’s great to hear from you. I admire your work.”
Flattered, I pressed on. “Thank you. What kind of art were you envisioning?”
“Call me Ben, please. As for the art, not much of a vision,” he admitted. “That means creative freedom for you. I want everything unique. You won’t create these pieces for anyone else.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Understood. Shall we meet to discuss this further?”
“Perfect. How about tomorrow morning? Best if you come to the house so you can see the space.”
“Sounds great. May I have the address?”
He shared the details, and we settled on 9 a.m. I thanked him and hung up.
My pulse raced even after the call ended.
This was happening. I could have a chance to show off more than just my brush strokes—murals, sculptures, mixed media, anything that matched my vision.
I had to pray I was good enough to impress Mr. McFarlane—Ben—and that we would agree to a price that suited us both.
Until then, I had work to do. Exhaling, I reached for the laptop’s mouse. That inventory wasn’t going anywhere.
Two hours later, I realized how sore my eyes felt from staring at the screen. I stood up to stretch, when my phone pinged with a new email. The sender’s name made me pause: Narcissus Gallery.
My heart skipped. “Yeah, right,” I whispered, a mix of disbelief and intrigue tightening my chest.
As if one of the biggest art galleries in New York would email me. I hovered over the trash icon, ready to mark it as spam, until boredom got the better of me. On a whim, I tapped it open.
The email looked surprisingly legit. No ‘Hello dear’ or ‘Urgent business!!!’ or ‘You won the big prize!!!’
The subject line simply read: Business Opportunity. The sender address looked authentic too.
I read on.
Dear Ms. Nielsen,
My name is Malcom Heffner, and I am a curator at Narcissus Gallery. I recently came across your online portfolio and was thoroughly impressed. After consulting with my colleagues, we would like to extend an opportunity you may not be aware of.
In support of emerging artists, the gallery is organizing a series of exhibits over the next six months, featuring work exclusively from up-and-coming talent like yourself. Artists may choose their own theme, though each submission will be reviewed by our curation team.
Would you be interested in participating? You would receive a one-week solo exhibit, along with a full promotional campaign created by the gallery.
If you’re interested, please contact us to discuss the details.
Regards,
Malcom Heffner
“Holy shit.” I blinked, rereading it. Then sat down and pulled it up on my laptop. I needed a bigger screen to search for the catch.
There had to be a catch.
Could my ad campaign have worked this fast?
I’d nearly forgotten about it. I’d targeted every gallery in the city and picked my best pieces for the showcase.
Mr. Yamaguchi—retired marketing whiz from 2D—had helped me write compelling copy, and he was worth every bag of wasabi peas I’d bribed him with.
Plus, gossiping about Sebastian’s revolving door of dates had been part of the fun.
So maybe someone had seen it.
I Googled the gallery. Then the curator. There he was—Malcom Heffner, Narcissus Gallery curator, LinkedIn verified and everything. I found a direct contact for him and typed a polite email asking if the offer was real.
Then I hit Send, spun in my chair, and squeezed my eyes shut. If this was legit—and if I landed the commission from Ben too—this could be huge. But I’d learned not to count my exhibitions before they were hung. Optimist or not, I was also a realist with a PhD in dashed hopes.
A new email pinged. My heart stuttered as I clicked.
Dear Ms. Nielsen,
I completely understand your need to verify. We artists are more aware of forgeries than most. ?
I assure you, the email is genuine. If you’re interested, please feel free to contact me at my personal number to arrange a meeting at the gallery.
He signed it the same as before, and included his direct number.
I let out a whoop loud enough to scare off a customer halfway through the door. Screw it. I was going to have a solo frigging exhibit in a frigging famous gallery!