I wouldn’t mention that Norah made trips to the warehouse sometimes on errands for the gallery owner or manager. It was unlikely she’d be there.
*****
The small warehouse was on the outskirts of downtown Denver, in the middle of an industrial area. Across the street were several businesses related to granite and home remodeling.
I’d picked up the painting when we dropped by my dad’s place. Gianna had seen my little studio set up in the basement. I did some of my painting at my mom’s apartment but it was convenient to also have a place to work at my dad’s.
I didn’t think Jim would want to use this particular painting of a depressed kid in solitary for suicide watch, his wrists already covered in bandages from a failed attempt. Who would want to buy it? It wasn’t something a person could hang over the fireplace. Jim swore the rawness of my art would appeal to a certain type of buyer, but I didn’t see it.
When Gianna saw the painting before I wrapped it, all she said was, “That’s sad.” Blue eyes had searched my face, I wasn’t sure what for.
The only other vehicles parked in front of the warehouse were a black van and a white truck Tyler used to transport the art. I’d set up a time with him yesterday to make sure he’d be here.
Gianna stood a few feet away as I retrieved the painting from where it lay in my trunk. “You’re so grown up,” she said with a thoughtful look. “I’ve never even had a job.”
I stopped in front of her, holding the painting. “You don’t need to work. I’ll support you.”
She made a face. “I already have a daddy, Caleb.”
“I’m serious, Gianna. When we move in together-”
She interrupted. “Move in together? Are you crazy? My parents would kill me.”
“I’m not talking about right now, when we start college or after our first year.”
“Oh.” Her lips adorably formed a circle on the word.
“Come on, Tyler is waiting.”
She jogged ahead to open the heavy metal door for me and I took the opportunity to check out her ass in the skirt she wore. Tyler as nowhere in sight, so I carefully placed the painting onto a worktable.
From what I understood, Jim Doran, the gallery owner, was a collector himself. He was loaded and the gallery was basically a hobby for him.
Along with the rawness of my paintings, I knew my actual talent was raw too. But the gimmick of a juvenile delinquent who painted the reality of youth corrections and city life would gain exposure for the gallery. If I decided to make a real career out of it, I’d have to go into an art program to mature my talent.
Tyler came from one of the aisles carrying a wrapped sculpture. “Hey, Caleb.” In his mid-thirties, Tyler had worn gray coveralls each time I’d seen him.
I moved to help him place the sculpture onto a dolly. “I put the painting on the table.”
“Okay, thanks.” Tyler noticed Gianna standing near the door. “Who’s this?”
I held out my hand. “Come here, baby.” Gianna approached, taking the offered hand. “This is my girlfriend, Gianna. Gianna, this is Tyler.”
“Hi,” she said, slipping her hand out of mine to shake the hand he’d ripped a work glove off of.
“Nice to meet you, Gianna.”
I realized the moment he recognized her from some of my paintings, especially the one of the attack. I shook my head minutely and he got the message.
“Is this the last one?” he asked, going over to the painting to uncover it.
“I think so,” I told him.
Tyler covered it back up. “Jim plans on coming down here next week to make his final decisions on yours and Sydney’s pieces.”
I was curious about the other artist’s work. I’d met her at dinner one night, but I’d yet to see her paintings. Jim said she had a different style, but that her work would complement mine.
“If I paint anything else, I’ll give you a call, Tyler,” I said before letting the man get back to his job.
“He seemed nice,” Gianna said as I opened her car door.
“I like him. Now, what do you feel like doing for the rest of the day?”
“Can we go to the zoo?” Her expression was hopeful and I couldn’t deny her.
“Of course,” I answered, shutting the door before she could glimpse my lack of enthusiasm.
So we went to the zoo and, for the first time ever, I felt sorry for the animals locked in the cages. I could relate. When I got home that night I started a new painting. It depicted Ian wearing black and white prison stripes and looking dejected while locked in the gorilla cage at the zoo.
A sign posted outside the cage said, Don’t feed the animals.