They gather at the front of the room, huddled close together, arms around each other, their happiness palpable. I snap a picture before they put on their smocks and take their seats. Once settled, I give them step-by-step instructions, making sure they understand the basic techniques. When I finish, I announce, “Now go have fun.” They chatter and dive straight into their painting, brushes dipping into colorful palettes. I walk around, snapping candid photos of their progress to send Natasha later, offering advice, topping off drinks, and making sure they have everything they need.
Over the next hour, the room grows louder and messier as paint splashes everywhere. The chatter picks up, a mixture of laughter, jokes, and the occasional clinking of wine glasses. Oncethey’ve put the final touches on their paintings, I call them together.
“Alright, everyone, let’s see your masterpieces. Natasha, you go first.”
Laughing, she steps forward, holding her painting up for everyone to see. Her giraffe has a big head and a bright pink background. It’s adorable. We make our way around the room, complimenting each person’s work, but when we get to the woman whose name I’ve been trying (and failing) to remember, she stares at her canvas like it’s betrayed her. “Okay, I have to warn you… it’s really bad,” she blurts out, then laughs too loudly, like she’s trying to cover up how uncomfortable she is.
I take a look at the painting, it’s not what I expected, so I give her a reassuring smile, wanting to let her know that it’s okay. I’ve seen plenty of paintings that weren’t perfect, but that’s part of the fun.
Natasha requests another group photo, so they all line up, holding their paintings with smiles. Just as I’m about to take it, the same woman who wasn’t feeling confident in her painting suddenly rips her canvas in half, letting the torn artwork fall to the floor.
The sound makes my blood run cold, and suddenly, I’m back in my childhood home. My mother’s cruel laughter echoes in my ears, mocking my drawings, while my father rips them up right in front of me.“No one wants to see that,”he’d say.“You’re useless.”My mother always agreed. But my brother would comfort me once they left, telling me I did a good job, that I’m talented, and to not give up.
I take a deep breath, shaking off the memory, wanting the birthday girl to have a good night. I’m cleaning it up as the woman who’d been frustrated helps gather the scraps of her artwork. The others exchange some glances. One even offers a soft, “Hey, it’s okay. You can always start again.”
She nods silently, still holding the torn pieces of the canvas.
The party’s atmosphere has turned awkward, and before I can speak to turn it around, Abigail clears her throat and changes the subject. “I’ve been looking to buy art for my husband,” she says. “It’s our wedding anniversary soon.”
My ears perk up at the mention of art. “Do you have a place in mind, or do you need a recommendation?” I ask.
“He loves a piece from Lincoln’s Gallery. I have an appointment with a consultant named Oliver.”
My stomach tightens at the mention of his name. I force a smile. “It’s one of the best galleries in New York,” I say sweetly, though bile rises in my throat.
Abigail’s face relaxes. “Good. It’s very expensive.”
“You’re in good hands with Oliver,” I assure her. “Now, let me call your ride.”
As they take selfies and get ready to leave, I organize the ride service and help them into the car. Once they’re gone, I begin cleaning up, but my muscles are tense from the torn canvas and at hearing Oliver’s rich and entitled name. I need to relax before going home to my brother…his best friend.
I grab a blank canvas and decide to paint the giraffe myself, drawn to its flowers. At first, my strokes are shaky, but after a few minutes, I lose myself in the painting. My body sinks into the chair, and my movements become smoother. I let the music fill the space, pushing away any thoughts from my mind, savoring the peace that washes over me.
Chapter 3
Oliver
“Doyouhaveanyleads?” I grip the phone tighter.
“No, sir,” Sam, my private investigator, replies.
I drag a hand over my face and lean forward, burying my head in my arms on the desk. My temples throb. My jaw clenches. “Why is it taking so long?”
“They’ve got some good security on them,” he mutters, like that’s supposed to be an acceptable excuse.
I flop back in my chair, the leather creaking under me, my pulse thumping in the base of my neck. “Try harder,” I snap, hanging up before he can respond.
I march over to the bar cart, shoulders tight, and pour two fingers of whiskey into a glass. The scent hits before the burn does, but it’s a welcome distraction. I’m raising the glass to my lips when my mobile phone buzzes in my pocket.
What the fuck is it now?
I answer without checking. “Yes?” I bark.
“Woah. What’s crawled up your ass?” Harvey, my brother, grumbles.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, willing myself to stay calm. It’s not his fault I can’t find the damn mystery artist. “Nothing,” I mutter.
He snorts. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
