Hailey

“What do you think you’re going to do?” Anna asked.

“I don’t know. I want to try and advertise the formal gallery somehow. Bryan’s dead set on having it, and I think it’s a good idea,” I said.

“What about putting up fliers across San Diego. I could help you with that,” she said.

“I don’t know. I thought about that, but it seems ...”

“Tacky? Juvenile? High school-ish?”

“Yes to all three of them,” I said.

“What about taking an ad out in the newspaper? You could do a small advertisement and run it for a couple weeks or something like that.”

Suddenly, I remembered that woman, the reporter who’d come into my gallery about a month ago. Our conversation ran through my head as I leaped for my purse and immediately started digging for her card.

“I take it I had a brilliant idea,” Anna said.

“Yes, you did. Thank you. Seriously,” I said.

“Well, my work here is done. Let me know if you need anything. I’m going to go look for apartments.”

“Wait, what?” I asked.

“Hailey. I told you I wasn’t staying here forever.”

“And I told you that you were welcome as long as you’d like,” I said.

“Well, I’m established in a little part-time job secretarial position, and it pays me enough to afford rent in San Diego along with renter’s insurance and internet, so that right there covers half of what I’ll need. I’ve found some really cute places, so once I narrow it down to two, maybe you could come take a look at them.”

My fingertips finally found the card as I pulled it out of my purse. I had to admit, moving my sister out and into her own place affected me more than I thought it would. I enjoyed having her around, having someone to come home to after the gallery had closed, but I also understood her need to have her own space and live her life on her own terms.

After all, it was why she’d moved out here.

“Good, because I want a say in where you’re living,” I said, grinning.

“That’s the spirit. Thanks, sis.”

Anna embraced me, and I hugged her close. I clutched the card in my hand as I watched Anna walk out the door and then turned for my cell phone to call Jennifer. I knew this would be a wonderful angle for a story in her column, and that would be the perfect type of exposure for the beauty that would be this gallery of John’s paintings.

I wanted everything to be perfect, complete with the announcement of his artwork to the community.

“Jennifer Skyles, entertainment reporter. What do you have for me today?”

“Jennifer, hi. I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but it’s Hailey Ryan.”

“The woman with the art gallery in the middle of nowhere, how could I forget? What brings you to my ear today?” she asked.

“You told me to call you if I ever came across a story you might be able to use,” I said.

“Well then, hit me. I’ve been struggling all week to find something,” she said.

“I have a slew of paintings from a dead artist, a student I used to teach in one of my art therapy classes. I think it might be a good angle for your column.”

“Okay. Talk me through the angle,” she said.

Wait, that wasn’t enough of an angle? What in the world did she want to know about it? How much should I tell her?

Would this upset Bryan?

“Um, well, the artist was homeless when I found him. He was selling his sketches on the street for money.”

“Are you serious?” she asked. “What were his sketches of?”

“Anything he saw in front of him. Lampposts, dogs, traffic flying by. He sold them for ten bucks a piece to buy food for himself,” I said.

“So, how did you find him?” she asked.

“I was in L.A. at the time and kept passing him on the street. So, I offered him the chance to come into my little art studio I had at the time, and I taught him how to paint and shade. All the things that make up the foundation of the art pieces I’m going to be showcasing in my gallery,” I said.

“Oh, this is perfect. Homeless man meets guardian angel who pulls him off the street into this wonderful art gallery and rehabilitates him. Keep going.”

“Well, the studio was only six-hundred square feet. I was living out of it at the time.”

“Oh, this is tasty,” she said.

“Uh-huh. So, he came to my art therapy classes and kept developing his craft, and all the paintings he created he did within the last four months of his life. He got himself clean from drugs, and he died saving my life.”

“Wait. You’re showcasing the paintings of a dead homeless man who got clean and saved your life. Are you serious? Where has this story been all my career? How did he save your life, Miss Ryan?”

“There was an art student selling drugs out of one of my classes. There were some guys who came around threatening me, and he defended me.”

“The dead homeless man,” she said.

I cringed at the way she was describing John, but if this got him the exposure and the respect he deserved for his artwork, I was willing to stomach it.

“Yes. His name’s John, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got it. So, he saved you from these drug-running thugs,” she said.

“Yeah, but it eventually caught up to him. He went after them to make sure they never came back, and they killed him, injected him with a lethal dose of heroin after he’d been clean for months to make it look like an overdose.”

“Oh, wow. Hell, I could do an entire week’s worth of articles on this story. Where in L.A. did all this take place? I’ll have to corroborate and cross-check with the police department,” she said.

“Well, the police wouldn’t listen to me about the conversation I overheard going on. I was the one who called nine one one after I realized what the guys were doing to him, but the police didn’t believe me. They saw the pockmarks on his arms and wrote him off. It’s not just a story about artwork and heroism, it’s a story of redemption, of going to the greatest possible lengths to prove your worth or however you want to twist it,” I said.

“Look, Miss Ryan. I can’t print hearsay. If it’s not corroborated by the police, I can’t run it.”

“But that’s what happened,” I said.

“I’m a journalist, not a gossip columnist. I’d look like an idiot running something the police had physical records to disprove,” she said.

“You’re an entertainment reporter,” I said. “Isn’t hearsay what you dabble in?”

The phone call fell silent, and I thought she was going to hang up on me. I was getting annoyed with her, with the way she was addressing John and the way she was boiling this beautiful story down to nothing but points she could garner with her boss. I knew this story had potential and part of me wanted to tell her I’d go to someone else with it, but for whatever the reason, I stayed on the phone with her.

“Miss Ryan, I get it. Your cute little love story with your unrequited love for your dead artist and how he saved your life is driving you to showcase his artwork.”

“I wasn’t in love with him. Not even close,” I said.

“Hearsay, right?” she said.

I could practically hear her grin pouring through the phone.

I wanted to tell her I was in love with his brother and that John’s death was the catalyst that started our journey toward one another. I wanted to tell her about how John’s death made us better people and made us reach out to the community to help anyone we could to keep the positive aspects of his memory alive. I wanted to regale her with all the details I knew she would simply soak up and bask in.

But I knew I couldn’t do any of that without Bryan’s permission first.

“It’s a good story, and it’s a true one,” I said. “What if you kept his death out of it? I mean, how he died, the supposed hearsay part.”

“Actual hearsay,” she said, “until you can prove otherwise. Look, sweetheart, that’s the hook of the whole story. A dead artist with his work being showcased by someone who pulled him off the street is nice and all, but the hook that’ll get the public’s attention is the heroism, the way he saved your life. But it can’t be corroborated, so it’s useless.”

“It’s not useless, and it did happen,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter if it did. If you can’t prove it, it can’t be run,” she said.

I wanted to tell her about Bryan. About how this man’s brother was the man I’d fallen in love with. About how John’s brother had helped me build this gallery and how our connection to him brought us together not once but twice. I wanted to spill our entire story to her to convince her to run it, so I could advertise John’s gallery professionally. I was determined to get her to see it. She might’ve been annoying and snobby for someone who simply wrote on entertainment and pop culture affecting the San Diego area, but I’d done some research on her ever since she first appeared in my gallery.

She had more influence than I wanted to admit, and her article would give us the broadest audience to reach.

That is what John’s artwork deserved, the best chance I could give it.

“I might have another angle you could take, but I’d have to check with the person involved first,” I said.

“I’ll make this simple. Don’t call me back until you have something you can confirm, and by confirm, I mean a paper trail or someone I could call.”

And with that, she hung up the phone and left me standing in my apartment in shock.

Who the hell did this woman think she was? She wasn’t some hotshot reporter with some blossoming career. She was an entertainment reporter with a column that was run maybe three times a week in the San Diego newspaper. She didn’t get to be picky about shit like this, did she? This was a fabulous story, even without John’s death in it.

I tossed my phone onto the couch and wondered if I should even ask Bryan. This was the perfect way to showcase John’s gallery, but at what point did I say enough was enough? I’m sure there were other reporters who would run the story, and I could take my time finding them since we hadn’t set a date for the gallery showing yet.

But for some reason, I wanted to show this Jennifer woman up. I wanted to give her the story of a lifetime, if only because she’d spat it back in my face. Not only would this be good exposure for John’s showcase, but it would also be wonderful exposure for Bryan. Sure, he didn’t do what he did for the exposure, but running an article like this and telling John’s story for the city to read might help with the closure he was seeking.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask, so I rushed over to my phone and called Bryan.

“Hello there, gorgeous,” he said.

“Hey there,” I said, giggling. “Listen, are you free tonight?”

“If it means I get to see you, then yes.”

“How would you feel about cooking dinner in tonight? You could come here, or I could bring stuff there,” I said.

“Why don’t we cook here? We’ve been spending a lot of time here anyway, might as well christen the kitchen while we’re at it.”

I could feel his grin pouring through the phone, and it sent shivers to my toes.

“Perfect. Anything in particular you want to eat tonight?” I asked.

“Could I put you on the menu?”

“I’m serious, Bryan,” I said, giggling.

“What about steaks? We could cook up some nice cuts, make some garlic mashed potatoes, and roast up some vegetables.”

“My mouth’s already watering,” I said. “I’ll hit up the store and be over there around five. That sound good?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “But are you okay? You sound a bit urgent.”

“Well, I do want to talk with you tonight. It’s nothing bad. Just some research I’ve been doing on how to advertise John’s evening gallery showing.”

“Sounds good to me. Let me know how much it’ll cost to advertise or whatever, and I’ll pay for it,” he said.

“One, we’ll split the cost because this is as important to me, and two, if you keep an open mind, we might not have to pay at all.”

“Interesting. I suppose I could hear you out.”

“You suppose?” I asked. “I’m hurt, Bryan.”

“I’m sure I could kiss the wound and make it better.”

“You’re relentless tonight. Should I wear something comfortable?” I asked.

“If by comfortable, you mean easily removed, then it might behoove you.”

“Behoove me? Who are you and what have you done with Bryan McBride?” I asked.

“I’ll see you tonight, beautiful. I’m wrapping up at the office now.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” I said. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Hailey.”