She waves it off. “I would say that the fifty Gs it netted speaks for itself.”
The conversation I had with Valentina pushes to the forefront of my mind. “A gallery owner made an inquiry about more pieces. She wants to purchase them outright rather than take them on consignment.”
Harriet’s pale eyebrows rise. “Is that so? I’d say that counts a hell of a lot more than Standish’s opinion, not that her art requires monetary validation, but cold hard cash is always nice. Is she going to do it?”
I study the bubbles rising in my champagne flute. “I don’t know.”
Harriet’s long silence drags my attention back to her face. “Do you know what would be the height of stupidity?”
“What?”
“To not take every opportunity to do the thing that makes your soul the happiest, especially when someone’s willing to pay you for it.”
Her easily dispensed wisdom and the knowledge in her faded blue eyes hit me like a fist to the gut.
“You should pass that along to your friend. Free of charge.” She winks.
“But what if ... what if she hasn’t created anything new in a very long time? What if she’s not sure she still can? What if she lacks time because she has a real job to pay the bills?”
Harriet sips her champagne. “Excuses are like assholes. Everyone’s got one.”
I laugh quietly, shaking my head. “I suppose they are.”
She gestures to the sunset fading in the sky. “There are twenty-four usable hours in every day, especially if you know how to get the good drugs.” Her lips quirk into a smile before she turns more serious. “But all joking aside, it all comes down to one question. How bad does she want it, and how hard is she willing to chase that dream? If she’s not willing to make sacrifices, especially a sacrifice of something as simple and easy as sleep, then she doesn’t want it bad enough.”
How bad do I want it?
Isn’t that what it always comes down to? My entire life has been a struggle, sometimes with me fighting tooth and nail to have the opportunity to go after what I want. A college degree. A job at Seven Sinners. Respectability.
No one has handed me a damn thing. And now, for the first time, someone is holding out one of my dreams on a silver platter, and I’m questioning whether to reach out with both hands and grab on?
That’s not like me at all. In fact, I’m not sure I even recognize myself through this haze of indecision.
“Let me know when you’re going to finally admit there’s no friend in this equation so we can start talking about whatyou’regoing to do about this. If you won’t take ownership of your dream, you’re never going to achieve it.”
I stand and round the table to refill my champagne flute while I digest Harriet’s words. They don’t surprise me. She’s uncannily perceptive. I take another sip and set the glass down on the table, dropping any hint of pretense.
“Standish called it trash. An abomination.” Uttering the words tears open the wounds he inflicted and splays my true reservations wide.
“Standish wouldn’t know talent if it slapped him in the face. He’s too busy inspecting his own anal cavity.” Harriet reaches out to take my hand in her small, wrinkled one. “But, darling, if you’re going to do this, you’re going to need to grow a much thicker skin. There will always be critics. Doubters. Haters. If there weren’t, then you wouldn’t be doing it right. In the immortal words of Tay-Tay, you have to shake it off.”
Releasing my hand, she waves me off. “Now, go change your clothes, track down a welder and some scrap metal, andcreate. Here’s your sign, girl. It’s time.”
Chapter 17
Temperance
It’s not quite as simple as going to find a welder and scrap metal, like Harriet said. Or maybe it is. I guide my Bronco the next morning down a road I know by heart. A road I’ve wished a million times I could forget.
The road that leads home.
For others, going home brings feelings of nostalgia, warmth, and maybe excitement, but for me it’s more complicated. Especially because I don’t have a home anymore. The falling-down old cabin has probably been reclaimed by the swamp by now after being left in disrepair for so long. Either way, I’m stopping before I get to the dirt track that would take me back to the place where I lived most of my life.
Buckshot holes puncture a rusted yellow sign showing a black arrow. My designation is just around the next sharp curve.
There’s another reason it’s not as simple as going to find a welder and scrap metal. Coming here to create also involves asking for favors, something I’ve never been good at, and facing some painful, bitter memories.
Should I have called first?