Chapter 17

Meadow

On my way to Pathways the next day, I still feel buzzed from last night’s champagne and the passionate night with Henry that followed. The showing was a raucous success, and I allow the relief to flow over me. It’s been so long since I had that many people at the gallery, and I want to relish in the moment.

Intimacy has been next to impossible since Jessie. But maybe it’s time for me to crack open my heart a little more. Who knows? Maybe I will take Henry up on his offer. My lips curl into a smile at the thought of that. How scary could it be to greet the day with a hot man’s arms wrapped around me? Share breakfast and a sweet morning lovemaking session? Staying the night is starting to look more appealing.

Once I arrive, I unlock the door to the gallery and turn on the lights. I can still picture the crowd of very rich and very beautiful people who occupied this very space hours ago. I think about how Henry was so sexy and confident as he shared his art with all of the curious patrons.

I pop open my laptop, glancing at my full inbox with a mixture of joy and pain. It’s going to take a long time to weed through them all, but I’m sure there will be a multitude of late sales. Once word gets around about a successful showing, those that had other commitments or just wanted to wait and see which way the wind blew before they committed to adding to their collections will contact me and throw their hat in the ring for the remaining pieces.

I’ve even seen bidding wars erupt for a hot artist like Henry. Everyone wants to be able to show off their new Garrison at the latest house party. Too bad there are only four Garrisons remaining for sale. He’s going to have to hit the studio hard and produce, produce, produce. If things go the way I hope, I can finally treat Shannon to Nobu.

Speak of the devil, I think as he walks through the door wearing a pair of designer sunglasses. I smile at him. “Hey, you.”

He rips off his sunglasses and furrows his eyebrows.

My heart flips over. Everything’s going so right, so why does Shan look like he’s just lost his best friend. “What’s wrong?”

He clucks his tongue and waves a paper in front of him. “Have you seen The Times?”

“No, I’m just checking my email. We might be making reservations at Nobu sooner than later.”

“Meadow–”

I ignore the drama over the newspaper. How bad can it be? Silverman’s a douche, certainly, but he’s usually pretty dead-on when it comes to his artist critiques. He can be tough, but he gives credit when it’s due. No one can argue with the strength of Henry’s talent.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind treating you. You earned it, Shannon. And maybe Josh and Henry can tag along. We’ll make it a double date.”

He walks over to me and shoves the paper in my face, pointing to Greg’s column. “I’m so sorry, Meadow.”

I scan the article and take a deep breath. “How bad can it be?”

He makes a choking motion with his hands. “I could kill Greg Silverman, and I think we have some more wine left over from last night to help dull the pain.”

I sigh, anticipating the worst. “That bad, huh?”

“Like I said, I’m really sorry.”

I sip my espresso and read the article:

Art Imitates Commercial at Pathways Showing

by Greg Silverman

Potter Henry Garrison’s gallery opening at Pathways was well attended, and the cheap complimentary wine was flowing along with stale brie. And thank God because it would have been difficult to endure this event sober. As for positives, I don’t have much else to impart.

Garrison’s career began with much fanfare as he emerged from the School of Visual Arts and garnered attention with a few prestigious awards. He seemed to be New York’s next ‘it’ boy in the trendy art community of SoHo. But that was several years ago. Clearly, he’s made no strides to mature or improve his work which could only be described as juvenile.

Last night’s showing put Garrison’s digression on full display. His vases did not look as if they were personally sculpted on a wheel by his hand. I suspect that his work is commercially produced. Perhaps in an overseas sweatshop. It appears Garrison is fond of little girls who toil for hours without pay for their labor. To those of you poor saps who purchased a ‘custom’ piece at five figures or more, you should flip it over and check the signature. Below Garrison’s messy script, you’ll probably also find a machine stamp that reads, “MADE IN CHINA.”

I let the paper fall from my fingers. “What the actual fuck? I never thought he’d ever stoop this low. Never!”

Shannon snaps his fingers in the air above my head. “Dick move.”

The words blur, and I realize it’s because tears prick the backs of my eyes. Tears I can’t sweep or explain away. This can’t get much worse. To accuse Henry’s work of being commercially produced in a sweatshop? It’s beyond.

I shove the newspaper away. “I can’t read anymore.”

Shannon’s face falls into an expression of gloom and doom. “I can’t blame you.”

“He annihilated Henry!”

“He’s a barnacle on the ass of the art world. Payback’s a bitch. How are we going to feed him his just desserts?”

I chew on my lower lip. “I’m not sure. I’ll think of something, though.”

“We can start by telling Henry not to buy the paper this morning.”

I drop my face in my hands. “This is gonna cost us a ton of potential customers. I’d banked on a bidding war over the last four pieces. Thank God we have a zero-return policy on the ones already purchased. No buyer’s remorse in the art world.”

“I hope not.”

“Even though Silverman is an ass, the art scene worships him. They treat his crackpot opinions like the gospel.”

Shannon heaves a heavy sigh filled with sadness and regret. “So much for Nobu.”

I pause. “Wait… do you think we’re overreacting? Maybe it won’t be that bad. It’s just one review from one critic. We can get through this.”

He rubs my back. “Sure we can, missy. Tally ho and all that shit.”

I nod and clap my hands together even though they are veiled in a thin layer of terror and perspiration. “And we did make monster sales last night. So, it’s not like all is lost.”

Shannon shakes a meaty fist at the sky. “Yeah, to hell with Silverman. That’s the spirit.”

I sip my espresso and nod. Then, I pop open my laptop. I see there are thirty-seven new messages.

I click to open them one after the other. Most are ingenuous check-ins from virtual strangers mentioning Silverman’s review and hoping I’m okay. One even has the audacity to ask if I’d be interested in selling Pathways to him. I shake my head in shock and horror. “Damn!”

My phone chimes with new social media alerts. Pathway’s Instagram is lit up like an Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day. I glance at the screen. It’s all about Silverman and his stupid review. “This shit went viral!”

Shannon looks over at me, and for a second, I think I see the glisten of tears in his eyes. Shannon never cries. Not over heartbreak or anything else. “It’s hard to comprehend how that odious little man can have so much power.”

I feel some tears of my own sprout anew, but I shove them back into the dark crevice they came from. “We are really, really in trouble over this.”

He leans in and clasps my shoulders in a hug. “I know you. You’ve never been a quitter.”

I close my laptop screen. “I don’t know, Shannon. This is the worst review we’ve ever gotten.”

“Maybe, but don’t worry.” He clears his throat and begins to sing, “You will survive! As long as you know how to love, I know you’ll stay alive!”

I shake my head and smile. I appreciate his efforts to cheer me up, but I can’t help but feel like the walls are grinding in, squeezing me like a vice. There are countless galleries that haven’t survived the wrath of Greg Silverman. I wonder if I’m next.

I try not to think about the worst-case scenario, but it’s no use. I put everything I had and then some to build this business. To close my doors would be devastating… not to mention the fact that Shannon and I would be out of a job.

Dream over.