“Well… A lot of artistic geniuses have died poor and anonymous.”
“They were just ahead of their time.”
“Maybe so.” I shrug. “But they probably would’ve liked to have enough to pay for groceries and rent.”
Catherine laughs. “You’re so practical.”
“I just don’t like going hungry.” Especially since I’m on my own. Well, Max would come to my rescue if I asked, but I don’t want pity or a handout, even from my own brother.
“I think it’s awesome your brother brought his band to show support. Not that rock bands really help much in the fine art scene, but still. Anything that brings attention is good. And it doesn’t hurt they’re so gorgeous.”
“Aren’t you married?” I ask jokingly.
“Of course. And my husband’s great. But I’m not dead. I can enjoy myself a little so long as it’s limited to just looking.”
A man catches Catherine’s attention.
She raises a finger to gesture to give her a minute. “I have to talk with someone, but if you want to leave a little early, you can. I know you’re exhausted, and it’s not a big deal. My
people can wrap things up.”
“I thought you couldn’t see my dark circles through the makeup,” I say. I had my makeup done professionally.
“I can still tell. Most artists don’t sleep well the night before their first solo show. I know you must’ve been running on nerves all day from the way you picked at your lunch and dinner.” She grins. “Have fun meeting new people.” She starts toward the man waiting to talk to her.
I nod at her and try to mingle. People come by to say hello and discuss my art. Several ask how they can buy some for their private collections.
I answer them, making sure to paste on a polite smile. Grandma often told me that’s the only way I can look semi-normal, and not like “a rude sociopath.”
When the last person finally runs out of things to say and goes away, I let out a soft sigh. Dealing with a crowd is always a hassle. Remembering their names and faces is impossible, but the pressure to do exactly that weighs on me. Polite girls are supposed to be able to do that sort of thing. Like my cousin Sylvie, although that’s only Grandma’s opinion. Sylvie’s about as nice as a barracuda, especially to me.
And still no Jeff! What the heck is going on? Did he get into an accident after he landed? If so, shouldn’t he have texted me by now?
I reach into my bag to pull out my phone, but stop as I see Max and his bandmates coming over. It’s impossible not to recognize the broad-shouldered trio. And of course there’s the silver guitar pin on Max’s jacket lapel, glittering like a lodestar, allowing me to find my brother.
Max and Killian are sporting wet red stains on their shirts.
“We gotta go,” Max says.
“What happened?” I ask, staring at the stains.
Max grunts.
“Some idiots spilled wine,” Cole says.
“Did it in sync, too, like that’s going to make it look less obvious they did it in purpose. Women. I’m married, so I don’t know what they were thinking,” Killian says, his tone taut with exasperation.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. Somebody should teach those women that spilling red wine isn’t the best strategy for seduction.
“I’d give you a hug, but I don’t want to soil your dress,” Max says. “Maybe we can catch up later? Like after the reception. I’ll text you.”
“Yeah, sure.” I want to talk to him about Grandma and our childhood home later, in private—maybe tomorrow.
We say goodbye. Once they’re gone, I pull out my phone. There are several texts from Jeff that I missed.
[–Jeff: I didn’t want to say it like this, but… I just wanted you to know I want to say congrats. You deserve all the success.
I smile. He can get a bit convoluted and wordy when he gets emotional. He’ll tell me this again in person when he gets here. And I’ll kiss him to show my appreciation.