“Whoa, Care-bear, if you weren’t good enough, they wouldn’t have accepted you. It’s not like this is a big exhibition. Twenty artists, right?” She nods. “And lots of applicants?” She nods again. “And you got picked.” Another nod. I wipe my fingers across her cheeks and cup her face. “No doubts, then. You belong here. We better get inside so that you’re there when someone buys your pieces.”
She giggles at my enthusiasm. “You don’t actually process the purchase there. The buyer goes to the organizers and makes the purchase through them. Someone goes through and puts on a sold sticker. We all want that sold sticker, even the ones who say they are above commercialism.”
“Capitalism is a drug, Care-bear. Let’s go inside and do a couple lines of it.”
This earns me a full belly laugh.
Inside, classical music is piped through the speakers, and there’s a nervous tension in the air. Carrie’s good mood slowly drains away and is replaced by the same anxious energy from the car. I scan the room and notice that a few of the artist stations have visitors but most are empty like Carrie’s. Whitney is talking to an older woman who has a bag under her arm that I recognize as my mom’s favorite brand—Hermes. Those bags cost over ten grand, so the art lover must be a whale. She’s a perfect target for Carrie’s work.
“I’m going to piss. I’ll be right back.” I give Carrie a quick kiss on her ice-cold cheek. My girl needs a sold sticker and she needs one now. As I close in on Whitney, part of his conversation drifts over.
“That color is gorgeous on you. It makes me think of the cerulean blue that Michelangelo used at the Sistine Chapel—bright, vibrant, uplifting.” He waves his hands around her shoulders. “I want to paint you like that.”
I stop walking and hang back just beyond the two. Paint? The guy doesn’t have one drawing up in his booth. I smell a fraud. The Hermes lady coos. “Have you been to the Vatican?”
“No.” Whitney shakes his head. “I’m saving up so I can go, though. That’s why I’m showing at this smaller exhibition. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t because it’s for beginners, but I do need the money. Isn’t it shameful that money could stand between me and the furthering of my art? What I wouldn’t give for actual freedom. I think I’d do anything.”
He emphasizes that last word, and Hermes lady isn’t slow. She takes a step closer. “I’ve heard that you can be very grateful.”
Heard??? That implies there are others that have experienced his artistry personally.
A cocky grin spreads across his face. “There have been no complaints.”
“How much is this work did you say?”
“This one is five hundred, but you can get a custom version for a little more.”
“I don’t want to wait. How much for the whole booth?”
“T-t-the whole booth?” he stutters.
“I have specific needs, though, and all of the installation of your pieces will need to be personally overseen by you this week. My husband returns from Paris next Friday. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
I step away and walk out the doors to find the organizer of this cursed place. No way is my Care-bear getting shown up by this asswipe who’s literally selling himself to come out on top. I grab the first nametag-wearing person I see.
“Who’s in charge here?” I ask the guy in the navy shirt and pants with the same color tie. His permed hair looks like the top of a carrot.
“Mrs. Benson.” He points with his head to a woman dressed in all black, another expensive handbag dangling off her arm, diamonds around her neck and wrist. I was really joking about the whole capitalism thing, but I see how it is. The art world is like any other business. Anything, including prestige, can be bought. Good thing I have a deep pocket. I paste a smooth smile on my face and cross to Mrs. Benson. As soon as she turns away from her conversation with another man, I step into her path.
“I’m David Peters.” I use my dad’s name. “There’s a few pieces of art I want to buy. I heard you handle the transaction.”
Mrs. Benson’s eyes grow bright. “I certainly do. What lot?”
“Carrie Montlain. Her work really speaks to me.”
“Which one of her works?”
“All of them.”
“All?”
“All.” I take the woman’s hand and place it into the crook of my arm. “Lead the way to the register. I want to finalize this order before anyone else steals them away.”
Chapter Sixteen
Carrie
My anxiety keeps fading away with each second that passes by. I keep getting lost in conversations with people as they walk by my section. Everyone’s praises for my work have me on cloud nine. This is going way better than I could have imagined. I’ve enjoyed hearing all of the different interpretations people have on the same piece. It makes me feel accomplished when one of the paintings evokes an emotion from the onlooker.