Just like that, my paranoia fled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Is that all of what’s dogging you?”
In the past I would’ve lowered my eyes in shame and mumbled something about being fine. But I’d gone beyond that with Gen. She knew I struggled with the highs and lows of creative chaos. She didn’t laugh it off as drama. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t tell me to snap out of it when that cloud of depression enveloped me completely. She just thrust her hand deep into the darkness, allowing me something to grab onto if I needed it. I hadn’t needed it often, but it was a relief to know it was there.
I smiled at her. “Sensors haven’t picked up signs of stormy weather ahead. You’re on first alert if anything changes.”
“Good. Losing that commission last week . . . ?”
“Took a bite out of me financially, but not emotionally. I’m making calls this morning about a couple of pieces I finished last night.”
“All right. Call me this week—any night but Thursday. Got a date with hot Irish rugby boy.”
“Break him in gently.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
After she left, I ditched my pajamas and put on real clothes. I’d just finished my short beauty routine (teeth brushed, hair combed) when the doorbell rang. I checked the peephole. What was she doing here?
I opened the door. “Mrs. Stephens?”
She smiled. “Surprised to see me?”
“Yes. I don’t give clients my home address.” Or encourage them to drop by. I paused. “But since your husband declined to commission my piece last week, you don’t fall into the client realm.”
“I don’t blame you for being bitter. But there’s a method to my madness that I’d like to explain. Do you have time to hear me out?”
“I was just about to head to my studio. It’s around back.” I slipped on my flip-flops and stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind me.
When we reached the studio, I punched in my code and the door opened. I led her to the small enclosed courtyard where I’d set up a fire pit (against city code) and a lounging area.
“This is lovely.”
“Thank you. Now, Mrs. Stephens—”
“Please call me Esther.”
“All right, Esther. Give me your spiel.”
She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair and stared into the cold fire pit.
Her unease increased mine.
Finally she spoke. “Michael’s dismissal of your proposed project last week was my doing. I’d made him think that your work was too left of center for my taste and I asked him to cancel the commission.” She looked at me. “I’m not a good liar, but I’m afraid I pulled it off too well with him. See, I’m a huge fan of your work. I picked up a piece in Santa Fe, probably seven years ago, at the Shifting Sands Gallery.”
Somehow I hid my shock and managed to say, “A watercolor?”
“And charcoal. I believe the piece is titled Desert and—”
“Darkness,” I finished. “I always loved that piece.”
“It just struck me, the complete separation of night and day. With the inky darkness at the top and the vivid colors of a reflective sun at the bottom. But, looking at it, you can’t tell if night is ending as morning approaches or if the day is fading into night.”
“There’s no right or wrong answer—that was the point.”
She nodded. “Stunning imagery. Anyway, Michael knew I liked your work and he recognized your name after seeing the Honor and Lies piece in the Federal Reserve building.”
I’d created that mixed-media piece after being bombarded with images of memorials for victims of violent crime and the news headlines about combat-related deaths. Images from soldiers’ military funerals—distorted to protect their identities—were juxtaposed with flyers, pictures and notes left at the site where a violent crime had occurred on an enormous canvas I’d textured like cement. In the corners, I’d splattered red paint to resemble blood. I’d added shell casings, broken handcuffs, frayed sections of a discarded American flag, soles from worn-out combat boots, candles and teddy bears and love notes with lipstick kisses, handwritten prayers and camo material. The 3-D effect is startling. As your eyes search out specific images, trying to separate them into neat categories, the images overlap and it’s impossible to discern between domestic violent crimes and the results of international terrorism. That’d been one of the rare works I’d created out of my own frustration and anger. I hadn’t been trying to make a political statement; I’d been searching for answers.