Page 97 of Pining for Pierce
That was an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt, but it was short-lived, and once Pierce had recovered, we spent an hour searching through his canvasses, finding six that we thought worked well, and setting them aside. It was fun, and I enjoyed it. I think Pierce did, too, and when we were done, he hugged me.
“Thanks for that,” he said.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, and then lifted me in his arms and carried me down the stairs, and straight into his bedroom.
It felt as though we had a lot to celebrate, and we took our time doing so, although later, when we were lying together, still a little breathless, I think we both found it hard to believe what had happened.
I still felt that way when I woke the next morning, but there were things to do. I had to get ready for work, and so didPierce… although he also had to get the canvasses over to the gallery. We’d deliberately chosen ones that weren’t too large, so he could transport them in my car, and he went over there at lunchtime on Wednesday. It meant we couldn’t have lunch together, but that evening, he told me he’d met a woman called Abigail, who was going to be in charge of his exhibition.
“She’ll be overseeing everything, from the advertising to the posters and programs… and the web pages they’ll be putting together as well.”
“Did she like the paintings?” I asked, as I sliced a pepper.
“Yes. She thought they were just right. Exactly what they were looking for, evidently.” He came up behind me, kissing my neck. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“It looks that way,” I said, turning in his arms, so he could kiss my lips, and then I got on with preparing the dinner.
Abigail called yesterday to tell him the posts would go up on the gallery’s social media page this morning, and Pierce told me over lunch at the coffee bar.
“I feel like it’s all happening so quickly,” he said. “They’ve built a web page already, and the posts are going to link to that.”
“Okay. And they go live tomorrow?”
“Yes. It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I nodded my head, and he reached over, taking my hand in his. “You are still okay with this, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Mr. Bowman wanted more paintings, and you haven’t had time to breathe so far, let alone paint.”
“I know. I was thinking that earlier.”
I could hear the panic in his voice, and realized I hadn’t helped the situation. “You’ve still got time,” I said, and he nodded.
“I know.” He raised my hand to his lips, kissing the palm as he smiled at me. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
“And will you still love me if this all goes wrong?”
“You know I will. I loved you before you became a rich and famous, in-demand artist.”
“I’m not rich and famous.”
“Not yet… but you are in-demand.”
“It feels that way,” he said, shaking his head, and I had to smile, because despite his worries, I could tell he was enjoying himself.
Today has been even more enjoyable… although it’s also been a little scary. That’s because the posts went live at around seven, and I’ve been checking on them ever since. I know I should be working, and like most Fridays, today is really busy, but I can’t help looking at my phone every so often… and whenever I do, it just gets more and more crazy. The ‘likes’ are off the scale, and as for the comments…
It’s clear people are gonna be attending the exhibition in their droves, and although most of them have never seen Pierce’s work in the flesh, they can’t seem to praise it highly enough.
I’ve messaged him about ten times now, although I don’t know why. He’s clearly keeping a close eye on the posts too, and by lunchtime, the scale of the response is just unbelievable.
We’ve arranged to meet outside the coffee shop, but I’ve already been here for nearly ten minutes, and there’s no sign of him. I wonder if I should pick us up some sandwiches. We can always have lunch in the apartment. Or maybe I should text him to see if he’s okay and what he wants to do. I pull out my phone, just as I see him come out of the store. He seems to be on the phone, talking to someone and smiling, as he locks the door, checking for traffic before he crosses the street.
