Choose Me (The Me Novellas) (7 page)

“They are good hanging here, no?” Yuri asked, pleased.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He was still holding on to my elbow and he squeezed it gently. “Katya loves them. She is here. She wants to meet you.”

Katya was the one he’d texted. Had sent photos of my artwork to. He’d acted on her behalf, buying my ticket and shipping my art before I’d had the chance to agree. As Lance had pointed out last night, I should focus on that. Yuri had just been acting on instructions. If there was someone to be upset with, it was Katya.

The owner of the gallery who’d also afforded me the opportunity of a lifetime.

That had done wonders to help diffuse my anger toward both of them. It hadn’t extinguished it, but it had helped.

He led me to the back of the gallery and pushed open a door, off to the left, that led to a short hallway with two open doors. He stopped at the first one.

“She is here,” he announced.

I resisted the urge to peer around the corner and peek into the room. A chair squeaked and heels clipped across the floor as she approached.

“Meg.”

Katya was a hundred years old. Or at least eighty. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Yuri, severe looking with a silver crew cut and steel blue eyes. Wrinkles tugged at her mouth and pulled at her eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand in greeting.

She offered her hand, translucent skin over bony fingers, and we shook. Her skin felt paper-thin, like the peel of an onion.

“You are a good artist,” she said. Her voice was raspy, like she’d suffered a bout of laryngitis.

“Thank you.”

“I am glad you could come,” she continued. “For this exhibit.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said. Or commanding me to come, I wanted to add. But I didn’t.

She smiled thinly. “As I recall, I didn’t exactly extend an invitation.”

Touche.

She fingered the silver chain around her neck. “I have been in this business a long time. Sadly, I do not have much time left. So, when I see something I want, I go after it.” She motioned to Yuri. “It is why he’s here.”

Katya noticed my puzzled expression and chuckled. It sounded more like a wheeze.

“Two years ago, I went home,” she told me. “To Moscow. I saw his work there. Moscow is no place for such talent,” she scoffed. “So I brought him here.”

“You arranged for him to come here?” I asked. He’d told me he was on a visa.

She nodded. “I have ways of making things happen.”

Clearly.

“Two years he has been here,” she said, her eyes locked on Yuri. “Two years and he has made a name for himself. Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

She turned her attention back to me. “And now it is your turn.” She stepped back into her office, motioning for me to follow.

Katya’s office looked more like a sitting room than the office of a gallery owner. The walls were papered with a textured burgundy wallpaper and her desk was a mahogany antique, a Queen Anne chair positioned behind it. A small, burgundy and gold baroque-style settee sat in front of the desk. I settled on the edge of it.

“Tell me about your work,” she commanded.

I raised my eyebrows. “Um, what would you like to know?”

She studied me. “Everything.”

When I didn’t respond right away she sighed. “Perhaps I should clarify,” she said. “I want to know why I should care about your work. You as an artist. Because I have the power to make you incredibly successful, my dear. If you want it badly enough.”

ELEVEN

I walked the six blocks back to Lance’s apartment, my head spinning.

My meeting with Katya had been brief. I’d recited my inventory of paintings, telling her what else I had in my studio back in Minneapolis. But I’d stumbled over the other parts of her question. Why she should care.

And how badly I wanted success.

Yuri had walked me out, the sunlight momentarily blinding both of us. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “That went well.”

I whirled to look at him. “It did? I feel like I just had a meeting with the Godfather.”

He smiled. “She is a good woman.”

“No doubt,” I said. “But I’m feeling a little out of my league here.” He was the last person I wanted to admit anything to but, at the moment, he was the only person available.

“She is a strong woman,” he agreed. “But she knows what she likes. And she knows what her customers want. What the art community wants. It is a blessing that she has taken an interest in you.”

I knew that. I did.

But at what cost?

I rummaged in my purse and pulled out my phone. There was one person I could call. One person who would know what to do.

“Hey, babe.”

I wanted to cry when I heard Andy’s voice. “Hi,” I said instead.

“How are you?” he asked. “How did it go at the gallery?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. How could I put into words—over the phone, no less—what had just happened?

“It was fine,” I said.

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna need more than that,” he said, chuckling. “You meet the owner? How did your pieces look? Did you get more details about the show?”

I started with the easy questions. “The show is tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. The pieces looked
…
amazing.”

“That’s great,” Andy said. I could hear the sincerity in his voice. He was genuinely thrilled for me.

A dog walker approached, a poodle tethered to one leash, two boxers on the others. I stepped to the left to let them pass.

“And I met the owner. Katya.”

“And how did that go?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Meg,” he warned.

I sighed. “She likes my stuff. A lot.”

“Well, we knew that,” Andy said. “I mean, she wouldn’t have flown you out if she didn’t.”

“I know.” I crossed the street, hustling to make it with the pedestrian walk sign that was flashing. I swallowed. “And she offered to buy all my pieces.”

“What?” The line crackled. “You’re breaking up. Did you say she offered to buy something?”

“Not something. Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Ten thousand a piece.”

“What?”

“Ten. Thousand,” I repeated. “A piece.”

I heard him expel his breath. “Holy shit.”

I opened the double doors to Lance’s building and nodded in greeting to the man standing at the concierge station.

“Why?” Andy asked. “Why would she buy them? Isn’t her job to display them at her gallery? Take a cut of the commission if they sell?”

I hit the up button at the elevator. A woman in shorts and running shoes stood next to me, wiping sweat from her brow.

“That’s how it usually works,” I said. The elevator dinged. “I’m heading up to Lance’s apartment. Pretty sure I won’t have service in the elevator. Let me call you back.”

I ended the call and stepped into the elevator. This was the part of the conversation I didn’t want to have with Andy. Because I didn’t want to have it with myself.

Katya had laid out her terms very carefully. She didn’t want to simply display my art. She wanted to “sponsor” me, she’d said. Commission works from me that she would pay for upfront and then sell to her own private set of clients.

The gallery exhibit was simply a way to get me to DC. So she could see me in person and offer her proposition.

When she’d first recited numbers, my heart had leapt. Ten thousand per painting was more than I’d ever imagined I would make. She’d pulled out a checkbook as she spoke, her bony fingers wrapping around the enameled pen.

“I am prepared to pay you for the paintings currently on exhibit,” she’d said. “And an advance for five more.”

She slid the check across the polished surface of the desk.

I stared at the elegant script, my eyes zeroing in on the number. One hundred thousand dollars.

For my art.

I felt the sheen of sweat break out on my palms, could hear my heart in my ears as it began to pound. I was pretty sure Katya and Yuri could hear it, too.

“One hundred thousand dollars?” I asked, my voice a raw whisper.

She nodded. “To start.”

“But
…
”

She cut me off. “Naturally, we will reevaluate our arrangement at the end of these commissions. We can increase your commission rate if it is warranted. Or, if the work is not what my clients want, we can terminate our agreement.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said slowly, trying to work it over in my head. “You’re going to buy all of my paintings on exhibit. And pay me for five more. Up front. No questions asked.”

Katya nodded. “That is correct. A package deal.”

“How long would I have to complete the work?”

“I am a flexible person,” she said. She closed the checkbook and stowed it back in the top drawer of her desk. “Six months is a typical arrangement. However, should you need more time, we can make arrangements accordingly. We have studio space available year-round so renewing a lease is not a problem.”

“Studio space?” I frowned. “I wouldn’t need any. I already have a studio.”

She smiled. “A studio here, my dear.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

She leaned close to the desk, folding her hands on the table. “This agreement is for here. In Washington, DC. I consider myself more than just a businesswoman. I am a mentor. Right, Yuri?”

He was sitting next to me on the settee, listening. He nodded.

“With such a large commission—and for such a new, unexperienced artist, I might add—I like to be involved in all stages of the pieces I sponsor.”

“You want me to live here?” My voice came out shaky and unsteady.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“But
…
but,” I faltered. “But I live in Minneapolis.”

“Yes,” she said. “Just like Yuri lived in Moscow.”

I sat there, my mouth agape, and stared at her.

“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “This is DC. We are a short drive from Philadelphia. New York. Boston. You know what this means? My clients are all over the Eastern seaboard. International, even. They travel here. To me. For art. This is an opportunity you won’t get in Minneapolis. This is an opportunity you won’t get anywhere, period. Except here.”

I tried to process what she was telling me.

She tapped her fingers on the desk. “Yuri tells me there is someone back home.”

I glanced at Yuri. He stared straight ahead, his eyes on Katya.

“Six months is not so long,” Katya said. “To give your dream a chance.”

“I don’t know,” I said, my words stilted. “I need to
…
I need to think.”

She nodded. “I understand. It is an agreement not to be entered into lightly.” She reached out and took the check, sliding it back across the table.

“We can revisit the subject tomorrow,” she said. “Before the show.”

And that’s how we’d left it. A monumental, life-changing decision for me to “consider.”

I found the spare key Lance had given me and inserted it into the door knob. I pushed it open. Lance was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “How did it go?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

His eyebrows drew together in concern. “You OK?”

“I need to call Andy.” I headed to the bedroom and closed the door.

I collapsed on to the bed and re-dialed. Andy picked up before the phone even rang.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

It took all of five minutes to relay my conversation with Katya.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, his voice tight. “She gives you a hundred thousand dollars. For five paintings you have now and five paintings you’ve yet to paint.”

“Yes.”

“On condition that you do them there.”

“Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over us.

Finally, he spoke. “What did you tell her?”

I sighed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

“Is this
…
is this something you’re considering?” He hesitated. “Is this something you want to do?”

The silence hung between us again. Because I couldn’t answer the question. To be paid a hundred thousand dollars for my paintings? And for six months out of my life? It seemed like Katya was coming out with the short end of the stick on the deal. What if my paintings bombed? What if no one bought them? She’d be stuck with all of them—and out a cool hundred grand.

But if I did it? I’d be living in Washington, DC for six months. One-hundred-and-eighty days.

Without Andy.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.