For 100 Days (100 1)

I know the game I’m supposed to play behind the bar to bolster my tips, but I can hardly pretend to be interested in faking a little playful banter right now. I’m still edgy and anxious, wondering how long Margot is going to keep me in suspense.

Just when I think I can’t take another second, my phone begins to vibrate in my back pocket. It’s all I can do not to drop the whisky bottle as I return it to the shelf in my hurry to get to my call. Heading toward the back of the bar area, I pull my phone out and covertly check the caller ID.

It’s her.

Finally.

“Cover me?” I mouth to Tasha when I see her glance my way from across the bar.

She nods and holds up crossed fingers. Taking a deep breath, I slip off to the ladies’ room with my phone in hand. “Hey, Margot. How’s it going?”

I’m amazed at how casual and calm I sound when I answer, considering my heart is pounding about a hundred miles an hour.

“Long day,” she says. “The gallery owner came in for meetings with me and the rest of the staff. I just got out about five minutes ago and saw your text.”

I cringe at the reminder of my moment of weakness. “Yeah, um, sorry I missed your call this morning. I was working on the new piece and I guess I didn’t hear the phone. Anyway, I can’t wait to show this one to you. I think you’re really going to like it.”

“I’m sure I will. You know I love your work,” she says. “And I’m the one who should apologize. I probably shouldn’t have left a message at all. I wouldn’t if I’d known how hectic things were going to be here today. I didn’t mean to keep you hanging like this all day.”

There is a hesitancy to her voice that makes my mouth go dry. I drift to the farthest empty stall and close myself inside for some privacy, and to try to muffle the noise. There is a steady flow of chattering restaurant patrons coming in and out of the restroom and music from outside in the main house vibrates the restroom walls.

Margot hasn’t said anything more, and I realize she’s not calling to give me good news.

> “Something’s wrong,” I murmur, trying to guess how bad the blow is going to be. Normally, she’d be pressing me for details about my work and how soon before she can see it, but she’s holding back. “You won’t be taking the new painting, will you?”

She’s silent, then she sighs quietly. “I’m really sorry, Avery.”

Her apology hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I’m just as stunned as if I’d been slapped. “No, it’s okay. I understand. You’ve got a lot of my work already. Maybe we can talk about it after another piece sells, or—”

“Avery,” she says, her tone going even gentler now. “Like I said, the owner was in today. We talked about implementing some changes in the gallery collections. We’re going to be freshening things up a bit, clearing space in a few of the current displays to make room for some promising new artists that the owner feels strongly about . . .”

And I’m not one of them.

I don’t make her say the words. There’s no need. I know this conversation can’t be easy for her. Hell, it’s not easy for me, either.

I sag against the brick wall of the toilet stall and close my eyes. “How soon before you need to remove my work?”

She blows out a short breath. “Shit, Avery. You know I hate this, right? I wish the decision was up to me, but—”

“It’s okay. I understand. You don’t have to say anything more.”

My words are clipped and quiet, but not from anger. Not at Margot, anyway. She’s the only reason my work made it into the gallery in the first place. Dominion is one of the smaller galleries in the city, but it’s got a reputation for quality and vision. It’s also known for a willingness to take risks when it comes to the artists they showcase in their small, but respected, Fifth Avenue location.

Margot Chan-Levine is both the manager and the principal curator for the gallery. I didn’t know that when we met for the first time a year and a half ago, nor could I have imagined that she would like my work enough to acquire some of it for sale at the gallery.

Unfortunately, it seems her instincts were off when it came to me.

“Sundays are my only free day right now,” I tell her. “Or I can come by one night before work this week and make arrangements to pick up my stuff.”

“No, don’t worry about that,” she assures me. “We’ve got a lot of events going on at the gallery right now, so honestly there’s no rush. I can keep your pieces in storage for a while until you’re ready to take them. I realize this is a total blindside, and I feel awful about that. Besides, I know you don’t have any extra space at your apartment. Let me at least do this for you.”

Her offer to help stanch this new hemorrhage in my life should be a comfort, but my old defenses kick in, urging me to refuse. I can’t stand the thought of asking her to do anything more for me than she already has. Except she’s right about my furnished one-room studio having no room to spare. It’s small even by New York standards, but that’s not the worst of it. In a couple more weeks, I won’t even have that meager roof over my head.

My building was sold a few months ago and is going condo. I’ve held out as long as tenacity and the law will allow, but my time is almost up now. I’ve got the eviction notice to prove it.

“Say something, Avery. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Sure I am. I’m fine.”