“Don’t stop your artwork on my part.”
The accent hit my ears and a small smile crept across my cheeks. I dipped my hands into the water bucket sitting at my other side, quickly washing the goop off my arms before I grabbed a roll of paper towels. I dried myself off while I walked out onto the floor, and there he was in all his glory, Max Wentmore with his tailored suit and his broad shoulders and his light accent. He was staring at the paintings, studying them as he slowly walked around the room. I could see his face falling slightly, and as I threw the paper towels into the small trash bin behind the cash register, I felt my stomach slide to the floor.
“I wish I could exchange artwork the way you can,” he said.
“
Well, your first three paintings that you gave me finally sold. I’m ready to cut you a check if you’re ready to take it,” I said.
“Oh, yes. I’m ready for it,” he said. “But every time I come in here, there’s something new on the walls. Not because you change them out, but because they actually sell. I wish I knew what your secret was,” he said.
“How are the paintings doing that I gave you?” I asked.
I watched him reach into his pocket while I wrote him his check. He put something on the counter as I tore the check out for him, but as I gave it to him my eyes looked down at the check amount he was handing me.
It was over by one hundred dollars.
“Here’s your check,” I said mindlessly. “Why is this check for so much? If the paintings sold—”
“Your paintings did so well in my shop that people are starting to believe my gallery is an off-shoot of yours. They wrote you a check for a donation. The extra amount is that donation,” he said.
I felt him slide his check off the counter as I picked mine up. Someone had wanted to donate to my gallery?
“I’m so sorry that happened, Max. I can’t imagine how—”
“This painting doesn’t look like yours. The style’s a bit brighter.” I saw him pointing at one of the paintings my in-home artist was doing. She was incredibly talented. Didn’t have her own gallery yet, but her artwork really resonated with the community I was pulling in. The painting he was looking at was a portrait of someone looking in a mirror. The woman sitting in front of the mirror was wiping tears from her eyes, but her reflection in the mirror was smiling. It was a very demure and saddening picture, which I knew would resonate with Max. But her use of bright colors to juxtapose the depressing nature of the picture is probably what drew people to her paintings.
But I didn’t have to tell Max any of this. I could tell by his eyes he was already thinking about it.
“It’s not mine,” I said. “There’s a local artist who paints on her back porch. I told her I’d put up a painting or two of her things to test out the community. See if they enjoyed it.”
“Do they like her stuff?” he asked.
“They do. She’s been up for a couple of weeks now,” I said.
“How many has she sold?”
“Max, don’t.”
“How many, Hailey?”
“Four paintings in the last two weeks,” I said.
“Four paintings,” he said.
“Max, in the whole of San Diego, there are multiple trends of art, all with different audiences who have different tastes. Maybe this side of town isn’t the audience for your art. Maybe you should do some of the park art showcases and take notes.”
“Take notes,” he said.
“You know, take stock of who’s interested in your art. Get their numbers. Start an email list. Ask them where they live. What they enjoy doing. You said you’ve been having some success online, right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Then you might be one of those lucky artists who could do everything from their home. Maybe you don’t need a gallery. Just your online audience, a way to ship out your paintings, and a place to paint.”
“If your gallery was failing, and your only choice was to relegate yourself to your little home and do everything online, would you give this up? What you’ve built with your own two hands?”
He finally turned to me, and I could see the sadness in his beautiful multicolored eyes. His bright features that had once drawn from me giggles and flirtatious blushes were now muted tones of sadness and depression. Before I could catch what I was doing, I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I felt him stiffen at first before he caved, wrapping his long, languid arms around me.