Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound genuinely grateful. It is a compliment, after all, even if I don’t feel like I did anything special tonight.
Vivian adjusts her glasses, inspecting the flutes. “Marriage won’t get in the way of this, will it?” she asks suddenly, her tone light, but there’s no mistaking the worry beneath it.
Ah, there it is. The topic she’s been dying to bring up since the moment she saw me arrive tonight when her gaze swept to my ring, and she said, “I’m so thrilled for you! Tell me everything!” But as she asked when it started, how I fell for him, and how long it’s been going on, I detected a hint of nerves in her tone too.
That’s understandable. In her mind, the idea of me married to a rich man probably scares her. I suspect I seemed a more reliable option to take over her business when I was merely a single flighty artist.
Good thing I barely had the time to answer her questions when I arrived. Still, I’m not really sure what to say to her now. Because I’m barely sure of a damn thing in this brand-new marriage. I hardly know what our forty-eight-hour-old marriage means. And I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself with this bloom of hope that a mural job will vault me to name-brand artist level, like that’s even a thing. I’d just like to make art regularly, art that matters, art that makes people feel a little joy as they move through their days. A bright painting of birds perched on a playful tree’s branch on a restaurant wall that makes someone smile, a mural of ladybugs and honeybees outside a flower shop that makes people think about Mother Nature and caring for her, and of course, scenes of kisses, so many scenes of kisses, that make you feel like love is worth chasing. If I could be like Lichtenstein, like Klimt, like Hayez…
I almost, almost sigh, the happy, dreamy kind, before I steer out of the fantasies and focus on the moment, and the question—will my marriage change anything?
“Not really sure,” I say, and isn’t that the truth? I wipe off the champagne glasses and straighten a few plates on the counter to avoid looking directly at her. I don’t want to let on that Asher and I are making things up as we go along. Like, oh, say, the whole damn thing. Freaking viral photo. “We haven’t really talked about it.”
But I can’t tell her the whole truth of my marriage and how fake it is. She’s too practical. Besides, she’s my…benefactor. Aunt Vivian makes it possible for me to keep making art. She ensures I get these regular catering gigs. Though, maybe she thinks Asher is the one supporting me now. The thoughts make my head spin.
“Then let’s all get together and talk about it,” she says. “There’s so much to discuss with him in the family now. How about dinner?”
“Dinner would be great,” I say, but then pivot. “Or a hockey game.”
That’ll be easier. Less chat time and more shouting-at-the-ice time.
“Good,” she replies, smiling crisply. She does everything crisply. “Because just look at that out there.” She waves a hand subtly toward the open doorway that leads to the sleek gallery space, where the rich and beautiful continue to admire the blinking neon installations. “It’s hard to make a living as an artist, Maeve. Even if you’re married to an athlete. Besides, their careers are so unpredictable. They could end any day. And really,” she adds, lowering her voice to a whisper, “what are you going to do for work—make light installations? It’s like winning the lottery, hoping people will care about your art. But food?” She nods firmly. “Food is reliable. People always need to eat. And these days, everyone wants to be entertained with pretty food and events—especially with the way the world is going. Might as well give them what they want. Feed them as the world burns down.”
Her practicality isn’t new, but it still stings the way it always has—she doesn’t believe in me. She doesn’t believe in the dreams I have. Not like my mom did, or my dad, before his demons took over and he descended so deep into his grief that he was never coming back out of it. But, just maybe, I’ll prove my aunt wrong.
I plaster on a smile. “Thanks, Aunt Vivian. I appreciate the job.”
“I know you do, sweetie,” she says with a hopeful smile.
I don’t want to disappoint her more than I already have, so I grab a tray and head back to the gallery floor, shaking off the conversation and all its uncertainty.
As I pass through the main room, collecting half or mostly empty champagne flutes, I feel a little out of place but not entirely defeated. The crowd is elegant and polished—the kind of people who glide through life as easily as they glide through galleries like this. And then there’s me, catering instead of attending. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like someday, my paintings could hang on these walls.