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Piper

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Shit. I am so late. I was supposed to meet Bridget Grant, the co-owner of the Grant Gallery, an hour ago. I tried to call her once I got my phone back from the clerk at the front desk of the hotel. The phone didn’t work so after I said goodbye to Joyce I raced home, changed into a red patterned dress and used some of the cash I hid in my freezer to take a cab here.

It was more expensive than the subway, but my livelihood is at stake. Bridget hired me to teach a class at her gallery based on a recommendation from one of my former professors and the samples of my work that I had sent her.

I’m not going to get rich teaching this class, but once I have the schedule worked out, I can take on an extra job to keep a roof over my head.

When I finally walk into the gallery, I’m instantly in love.

It’s a stunning space with sunlight filtering in from the street. There are several distinct areas. Sculptures are adjacent to the windows, framed drawings cover the back wall and there’s an array of paintings on display near where I’m standing.

I recognize some of them as Brighton Beck originals.

I know that he owns the gallery with Bridget, although she told me on the phone when we first spoke a month ago, that he’s not as hands-on with the management as she is.

She’s the one who hired me and I’m here to make her proud.

I know what she looks like from the images I’ve seen of her online. I’ve followed her work for years. She started out much like I did. She does drawings as well but her tool is a pencil and she hasn’t ventured into the realm of nudes.

That’s where I shine.

I wave to her from across the gallery. She’s standing next to a woman who is staring at a framed drawing of a child with a dog.

I know better than to approach and interrupt. If a potential customer is weighing their decision to purchase, they need room and time to think clearly. Art is a personal investment and it can’t be rushed.

Bridget waves back and smiles. She’s a beautiful, blue-eyed, petite blonde. She’s dressed in a pair of white slacks and a matching blouse. It’s an elegant look.

I motion that I’ll be near the paintings and she tosses me a nod. I’m grateful that I’ll have a few minutes to collect myself before I officially meet my new boss in person.

The past twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind. Being here at the gallery is the highlight of my day, but meeting Griffin Kent runs a close second.

Joyce talked non-stop about her boss as we raced around Manhattan trying to piece my life back together.

He’s single. He works too much and according to his assistant, he’s never stepped foot in a museum or art gallery.

I’m not surprised. He didn’t strike me as the type to find value in anything creative that is meant to bring joy and inspiration to the person who owns it.

He helps people end their marriages. His world is filled with cold destruction.

We have nothing in common, but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about him constantly since I left his office.

As Bridget approaches with the framed drawing of the child with the dog in her hand and the beaming woman by her side, I push all thoughts of Griffin aside.

My new life starts today and that’s where all my focus needs to be.

***

“I teach a class on Saturday mornings.” Bridget hands me a ceramic mug filled with coffee. “Our studios are upstairs. Beck teaches when he can, but his schedule is all over the place since he’s gearing up for a museum showing in Munich.”

I’m envious. I know it takes a great deal of talent to reach the level of fame that Brighton Beck has. His watercolor paintings have been displayed in some of the world’s most notable museums and galleries and they fetch over six figures at auction.

“Will I get to meet him?” I ask with hope. “I’ve admired his work for years. Obviously, I’ve admired your work too.”

That lures a subtle smile to her lips. “I promise when he’s around, I’ll introduce you.”

“Have you known him for a long time?” I ask because I don’t know the backstory between them. He’s been a big deal in the art world for more than a decade. Bridget has emerged as a name in portrait drawings just in the past few years.

“We met at a pub.” Her smile stays soft. “I knew who he was instantly. I was in awe but was completely intimidated by him.”

I know that I’d feel the very same way. We don’t create in the same medium, but I draw inspiration from many different artists.

“He met my best friend that night too,” she goes on. “We were both working at the pub. He fell head over heels for her. They got married, he encouraged me to explore my art more and here we are today.”

“You never really know what’s waiting around the corner,” I say quietly.

“That’s true.” She looks around the gallery. “I never would have imagined that I’d own a place like this and that I’d help new artists learn their craft.”

I never thought I’d be offered a job in Manhattan teaching an art class. I’m only twenty-five-years-old. Two weeks ago I was still working at a community center in Denver teaching drawing to whoever wandered in from the street.

“I’m eager to get started, Bridget.” I grin. “This is my dream come true.”

“You’re incredibly talented.” She looks up as the door to the gallery opens and a middle-aged man walks in. “He was in yesterday looking at a sculpture. I’ll go help him, but consider this job a step toward your future. You’re going places. I can sense it.”

Teaching at this gallery is going to change my life. I feel it.