“John McBride, yes,” I said.
“He was a drug user, right?” she asked. “I can’t remember his whole story. Something about art helping him get clean. I loved that part of his story.”
“You’re basically right. John was homeless and strung out on drugs when I found him in Los Angeles. He was sketching people and animals as they went by and selling his drawings for ten dollars a pop on the street corner.”
“Ten dollars,” she said breathlessly. “If only they knew who they were purchasing those from.”
“I had this little studio, barely any bigger than my little store I have back behind that wall. He wandered into my studio high during one of my classes, and I sat him down with a canvas and a brush. Art seemed to calm him, broaden his mind, and open up his horizons. He ended up coming to every class I gave and was eventually there every day doing some sort of painting,” I said.
I felt my eyes tearing up as Kelly continued to marvel at his paintings. I could still see John’s face that night, how angry he had been when he’d come into the studio and saw those men holding me in the air. It was like he became inhuman, ripping them off me.
I closed my eyes and took in a slow, deep breath to try and calm my nerves.
“What happened to him?” Kelly asked.
“He was killed,” I said.
“What?”
“Yeah. He was killed trying to protect someone who meant something to him.”
“A girlfriend?” she asked.
“No. Just a friend,” I said.
“Mrs. McBride, no offense, but no one gives their life for someone who’s just a friend.”
“John did,” I said. “It shows you the caliber of a man he was. Art saved him, but it didn’t pull him out of his addiction. It showed him a better way of life. He kept selling his art, found odd jobs to do, and ended up making enough to get his own place. Art gave him the rope he needed to climb out of the hole he had dug himself. It’s why hiring the right person for this place is so important to me.”
“You don’t want your personal philosophy to be muddled,” Kelly said.
“Correct. I want someone who understands that art is so much more than some high-society understanding. It’s rehabilitating and nurturing. It can be life-giving, and it can change the lives of those who succumb to its warmth. It can bring joy and peace, and it can give those who struggle to express themselves the perfect outlet to do just that.”
We stood there, the two of us, taking in John’s paintings. I couldn’t believe I was about to sell these off. I couldn’t believe things had spiraled so far out of control that I was about to relinquish these
to Ramon Escalante. I knew he would take good care of them. I knew he would put them somewhere where they could be cherished, but it was all I had left of John. It was all I had left of the man who had saved my life.
It was all I had left that connected me to someone I should’ve known better than I did.
The warmth of a pair of arms descended around me, pulling me once again from my thoughts. I looked over and saw Kelly’s head leaning toward mine, her arms hugging me around my shoulders. I wrapped my arm around her and accepted the kindness of this stranger, our heads meshed together as we stared at his paintings.
“I think John saved the life of the woman who saved him,” Kelly said. “And I think that says a lot about him as a man.”
A tear rumbled down my cheek as I held Kelly closer. We stood there in the middle of my art gallery as her warmth filled the open space. I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, allowing myself to soak up a strength I so desperately needed. I was so used to being the source of my own strength that I hadn’t come to terms with how worn down I had become, how weak I felt in my bones, and how heavy my soul felt with everything spiraling around me.
I didn’t just need an assistant or a manager for this art gallery.
I needed her to run this gallery.
“So,” I said. “When can you start?”
“Wait, are you serious?” Kelly asked.
She turned her head to look at me as her arms let me go.
“Very serious.”
“Mrs. McBride, it’s an honor. And I can start anytime you need me,” Kelly said.