Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
My hotel room is up on the tenth floor, quiet and filled with stale air. The bed squeaks when I sit down on the edge, and even with the curtains flung open, there’s barely any natural light since the window looks out onto a brick building next door.
I feel aimless for a few minutes as I sit there. Anxiety has my stomach squeezed tight. I remind myself I’ve been here before, alone in New York, but it doesn’t help. I already miss Walt.
I busy myself by focusing on the last piece I need to finish for my collection. It’s hard to create a working studio in the hotel, especially considering I had to leave my easel back at Walt’s. I drag a small side table over to the window and throw a bathroom towel over it so it won’t get stained.
I unzip my suitcase full of art supplies and start lining up the items I need, preoccupying my brain with menial tasks in the hopes that it will stop darting back to thoughts about Walt.
After lunch, he calls.
I stare down at his name on my phone screen and my heart races with anticipation and dread. My fingers are covered in pastel dust. I couldn’t answer it even if I wanted to.
I watch my phone until it stops ringing, and then the screen fades to black. No voicemail, no text message. I can almost convince myself he never called at all.
Later, as I’m eating a salad from the supermarket down the street and flipping through bad movies on the TV, I get a call from Nadiya.
“Hey. Good news: your art arrived to the gallery safe and sound. I opened a few of the crates to look everything over and…Elizabeth, it’s good. Better than I thought it would be, though don’t let that offend you.”
My heart flutters in my chest, springing to life.
“What does that mean? Do you really think you’ll show it in the Paris gallery?”
“Absolutely. I fly out tomorrow, and once I meet with the team, I’ll let you know a concrete timeline for when I think we’d host the collection. There’s a slim chance it would be sooner rather than later. This might sound crazy but, word is, the artist we were set to show in two weeks is having an existential crisis. She wants to hold her work and renegotiate her commission rate with the gallery. Her lawyers are…” She groans, seemingly exhausted. “Right, sorry. I could drone on about this forever, but I don’t want to waste your time. Just keep your schedule flexible until I give you word otherwise.”
“Absolutely. I can do that.”
“Good. Have your phone on you over the next few days and I’ll be in touch. We have a ton of work to do if you’re going to show in two weeks. Also, look out for an email with the official Stein contract. Have a lawyer review it and send it back to me when you can, though don’t take forever.”
This is all insane.
I hang up and look down at my phone, trying to decide if I just made up that entire conversation in my head. I so desperately needed to hear a bit of good news after the last twenty-four hours that a part of me doesn’t trust it’s real. I check my call log and see Nadiya’s name, then bite back a smile when an incoming email pings my phone. It’s from her, and she’s attached the contract she just mentioned. She also attached a PDF from the gallery that includes details about how they’ll catalog and price my collection.
I immediately grab my laptop out of my suitcase and set up shop on the hotel bed. I open Google and start searching for a lawyer who specializes in art sales and acquisitions.
I have a dozen internet tabs open, each one leading to a different firm’s website. I’ve already been in communication with a lawyer from one of them, a young black woman who’s willing to work with my tricky timeline. She’s promised she’ll be able to review my contract tonight and get it back to me with any suggested revisions by tomorrow morning.
I’m so focused on the email I’m penning back to her that I jump out of my skin when my phone rings.
It’s Walt.
Again.
This time, I know I have to answer. I can’t continue to ignore his calls. More than that, I don’t want to ignore his calls.
I reach for the phone and swipe my finger across the screen quickly, before I can back down. The call connects and my stomach clenches.
“Walt?”
I can hear him sigh through the phone like he’s relieved to have finally reached me. Then, just as quickly, he speaks in a tone filled with indignation.
“Elizabeth. Jesus. Where are you?”
“I’m…”
Where? Where am I? I can’t force myself to say the word “hotel”, and that’s just as well because Walt’s already asking another question.