The twelve-foot-high ceilings are white, as are the walls. It’s stark and bare, which it should be if you ask me. The art is the point. The art should be everything. Those pieces are the only thing anyone should be looking at in here.
Every square inch of this place is perfect … because the art is unique, exceptional and fully on display.
It sells substantially better online, though. Especially now that we have videos of each individual piece and a strong social media presence.
Nowadays, everything sells better online according to Mandy. My boss has a generation of experience more than me, complete with darn good taste. She also has a closet and a half of high-end clothes for all her trips up to New York that make me envious of her. And a husband who loves her and two perfect children who are my age but still in college. Graduate school for one, med school for the other.
She’s the epitome of what every one of my classmates wanted to be when I was at UD for art history.
Her own gallery, trips to every opening around the world worth mentioning in Aesthetica Magazine … and the well-rounded social life of a wife and mother. I’m nowhere near her level. I get her coffee, I crunch the numbers and manage the advertising, and in return, she lets me pick the art.
My gaze wanders to the paper cup of coffee I got for her, knowing she’ll be in for the weekly meeting in T-minus five minutes.
Mandy offered to pay my way to a handful of out-of-state galas this past year, but I always said no. Bridget is just a little young for me to feel comfortable leaving her for that long. Mandy knows, but she still always asks.
It’s e-ver-y-thing when she comes back with pictures and stories about the events and artists. I may be working under her, but I still get to live the dream vicariously through her. One day, I’ll be in her shoes. I know I will. Years ago, I may have thought it would never happen, but I’ve clawed my way past that depression and now I know I won’t stop until I’m on top like she is. Until then, she’ll get me the new artists I’m dying to feature, and I get to learn everything there is to know about running one of the foremost galleries in the country.
Gulping down at least a third of my far too sugary latte, I smile as I tally up this quarter’s sales. She recruited me to get the new website online and trusted me to provide the videos detailing the art along with writing the copy for the website. And I freaking crushed it.
Another five-second happy dance ensues, but this time someone walks by the front, their shadow preventing the afternoon sun from making its way back to me in the middle of the gallery. I plaster a sweet smile on my face, tapping at the keys and doing my best to look professional until the shadow passes.
The silence and the wait remind me of when I first applied for this job. I was terrified to hand in my résumé anywhere in this town, let alone this place, my first choice for a job instead of settling for doing anything else here. It was a dream come true to have Mandy Fields move her art gallery to Beaufort. I didn’t have my degree, only three years of higher education under my belt. That wasn’t why I was afraid, though.
My father ripped people off for a living. Every member of a board of directors, every family with any kind of financial influence, all lost money by investing with a crook. Said criminal being one Albert Williamson. My father, more than likely, stole from Mandy and her husband too.
It was just as devastating as it was embarrassing. Even worse, it was damning in this small town.
Everyone knew exactly who I was and my situation when I came home early from college to pick up the pieces of what was left. They all knew I’d never had a job and that I was his daughter. Who the hell was I to ask anyone to hire me? Let alone for my dream job.
My worst fear was that they thought I didn’t fall far from the tree. Why would anyone employ the daughter of a liar and a thief?
The news broke about my father, and he died the next day. Two weeks later, I learned there was no money. There was a single bank account with a few thousand in it but the cheat disguised as a bimbo that my father had been sleeping with ran off with it all.
So I had nothing but a tainted last name and bills to pay. I had no experience, and no lifelines left. Mandy wasn’t my first option simply because of the shame. Renee convinced me to go for the one job I really wanted in this town. She said all the whispers and dirty looks were mistakes and the people around here would remember who I was and what I was made of. Fake it till you make it and all that. It’s her motto and she pushed me to do it. I’m so grateful she did. Robert gave me a place to stay so I could sell my family home and work on paying off debt after debt.
Four years later, this is the only job I’ve ever had, and with the new website and increased sales, it’s paying pretty darn well to boot.
I suck down the rest of my coffee before clicking on an email about the exhibition coming up. We’re hosting the event and I needed lodging information from Chandler. He runs the inn a few blocks down.
The rates and blocked-out dates were the last pieces of information I needed to send out a mass email to all invited guests. By the time I’m done thanking Chandler and whipping up a draft of the email, which I forwarded Mandy to check before I send, a new email comes through. It’s from Mandy. She can’t make it in today. Darn, I really wanted to brag about—I mean, celebrate the sales. On the other hand, literally the other hand, is her coffee, which I shall gladly drink.
I finish mine and scoot hers closer to my laptop. It doesn’t escape me that it’s a bit vexing to not allow any drinks in the gallery, even though I drink coffee right here every day.
But I’m a single mother of a three-year-old. I need the coffee if I’m expected to function and unlike patrons, I can’t exactly leave just to get a drink when I’m supposed to be working.
Just as I’m replying to Mandy, updating her on several things she should know ASAP, including the details about the exhibit, the door chimes a subtle ring and I hear a familiar voice.
“Why is it always dead in here?” Renee asks in a comical tone that makes me smile. She wanders over to one of the new pieces we just got in from New York. It’s abstract circles painted with watercolors on a four-by-seven canvas. The edges have a hint of silver and, in the right light, they look like the phases of the moon.
“She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” I ask Renee in return, ignoring the question about it being dead in here.
After squinting at the name on the info card next to the canvas, she tells me, “Yeah, Samantha has serious talent.” She whispers when I make my way to her, sans coffee, “This would look even more brilliant in my bedroom.”
The laugh is genuine, leaving me with a grin. “You wish,” I say. With my arms crossed, I admire the painting again.
“I’m doing the video for it today, want to sit in?”
Renee walks to the bench at the front, leaning against it she makes a face that forces my grin to grow wider. “I’d really rather not.”
Renee isn’t exactly into art. I don’t hold it against her because most people like to look at it, but are bored by the details. I get it; I know it’s my nerd side. She doesn’t hold that against me, which is why we work so well together.
“I was on my lunch break and thought you may be lonely in here. Since, you know, there’s never anyone in here.”