To Build a Home

25 | Whiplash

We were pulling away from the cottage in Sadie's truck when I received a call from my boss back in New York. It was late afternoon and the property, which had been chaotic with the noise and movement of the workers all day, was finally still. The wind could be heard against the sides of the house and through the shimmying branches of the surrounding trees. We were the last to leave and I rolled up my window and turned the radio volume down, flashing the phone at Sadie for permission before taking the call.

"Jesus Christ," Cynthia said as soon as I put the phone to my ear, without waiting for a greeting or a clue that it might not be me answering, "You're alive! Shit. That was insensitive. I'm sorry, sweetie. Are you doing ok? How's the niece?"

"My nephew is fine, Cynthia, thanks. What's up?"

Cynthia was a middle-aged woman who had owned the gallery for almost three years. She had purchased it from the previous owner, a distant cousin of her father who had employed her right out of art school when she made the big move from California to New York. She was well connected and charming, good at attracting young crowds to the gallery, but you always got the sense that she wasn't paying attention when you spoke––until three months later when she asked for an update on a very insignificant detail that even you had forgotten you mentioned until that moment. I was curious what she could possibly be following up about now.

"Well, I know, sweetie, that you're not ready to come back yet, and I totally understand, Rhode Island must be divine this time of year, don't get me wrong, but I have the most wonderful news." She paused for effect and then she chuckled, tiny rapid laughs like bullets. "Well, do you want to hear it? I have a buyer for your work. Isn't that wonderful, sweetie? Did you even expect it?"

"What piece?" I asked, surprised. I had been trying to sell my work since I had started working at the gallery, before Cynthia was the owner, strategically placing my paintings close to the private selection in the back, buddying up with the featured artists and asking them if they knew anyone who might be interested. The high of having my work in shows faded a few years after school when there were never any bids. It was an amazing feeling to see my paintings on the white walls with the name cards underneath somewhere in Brooklyn, and to hear college students or socialites discussing my influences or meanings as they browsed, but it didn't pay the bills.

"That's why I'm calling," Cynthia said. "Not a piece, darling, the buyer was interested in the charming photos you sent. But I told him they weren't for sale."

"The photos?" I paused, confused. I had sent Cynthia a stack of the photos I captured for Amelia's laundry room to be framed by the gallery's vendor at a discount. I never meant for them to be seen. That day was the first time I had picked up a camera since high school. And someone wanted to buy them? Sadie briefly lost control of the wheel to look over at me in the passenger seat.

"I told him the photos were part of a show we were doing on one of our in-house artists and that I couldn't sell them until then." She waited for me to react. "Wasn't that clever? So you have to get your ass down here, sweetie, to plan the show! It's been a real mess since you left. But I'm not complaining!"

"Up here, Cynthia. Pennsylvania is below New York," I corrected.

"Whatever. Just get up here. It's wonderful news! We'll do a whole show for you. Talk soon." And then she hung up. Just as fast as she had appeared, she was gone. I turned to Sadie, who was looking between me and the road, the speed barometer pushing eighty miles per hour.

"Cynthia sounds like a bitch," Sadie said.

"She wants me to come back to New York."

"Like I said. A bitch. Just when I made a friend on the crew she has to take him away."