Page 34 of Big Mad
“Right on time, beautiful.”
I sorta needed that fine specimen not to use flattery, or I’d probably run faster than I’d been prepared to run at this morning’s therapy session. In minutes, I’d parked and hit a footpath inside a blocky building in the Warehouse District.
The door sat open when I arrived, and Omari, in a three-piece suit without a tie, leaned against the frame. So casual. His mouth tipped into a one-sided smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Of course,” I replied. “You’re in between meetings with your wealthy art buyers, right?”
“My next client always runs late.” He gave me a look that said,Chill, what’s the rush?And gestured me inside.
“Mm-hmm.”
I stepped into an apartment so modern it made the new kitchen, which Washington and I spent a year getting city permits for, look like it was from the eighteenth century. He closed a MacBook on the quartz counter. As he strolled toward a couch that screamed expensive but uncomfortable, I took a seat at the high-backed barstool. I placed my leather portfolio on the counter. “Mr. Riche, you never saw my work in person?”
“Nope. Just online before Mad Bold & Blown shut down. Even if you closed your store,” he said, glossing over that embarrassing ordeal with a soft smile, “you should never have got rid of your website.”
“Ah, so you’re not only an art dealer, you’re also a business consultant. Got it.”
“Nah. What I’m saying is that someone else is gonna own your domain. You try to buy it back in the future, it’s gonna cost you. That’s all I’m saying, Maddy.”
“Oh?” I had never handled the website and possessed zero knowledge concerning it. Except forIt’s not pretty enough.OrIt’s not bold enoughwhen I discussed the aesthetic with the web designer. I loved mixed moods.
Omari took it upon himself to open my portfolio, and he whistled. “As a big admirer of your work, I wish I got to see you make magic.” His voice was low. “This is better than online. Are you ready to jump back into our world?”Dang.He sounded as if we were a team.
“Uh …”
“C’mon, Maddy. The world could use more artistic inspiration. You got that, girl.”
He smiled between me and the enlarged images of my past artwork as if he were watching his favorite movie, and I murmured my gratitude.
Then he wasn’t giving me attention at all. The man perused every page.Should I turn on some music, set the mood? Or continue to twiddle my thumbs?My stiletto boots dangled from the high chair like a toddler testing gravity.
“Have you ever replicated older designs?” Omari asked, closing the leather-bound book with a soft thump that echoed through his minimalist apartment. “Or something with an antique inspiration?”
My eyes narrowed. Hadn’t he started to mention this at the DuVall’s event? “I work from the imagination.” At least I did when my moody Black woman figurines didn’t feel so literal. “Antique knockoffs aren’t my style.”
He leaned back in the chair across from me, casual, his gorgeous body sculpted for lifestyle magazines. “Of course. But some collectors, well, they appreciate the illusion of history. Something that appears centuries old.”
My tone sharpened. “Sounds like a lot of work for dishonest money. The only burns I don’t mind, regardless of how cautious I am with a blowtorch, come from that. A blowtorch. Not hawking off somebody else’s designs.”
“Hold up.” His laugh, smooth and slightly amused, wrapped around me like a red velvet rope. But did my eyes un-narrow? Nope. “Madison, I heard around town, not that I’m with NOLA’s gossip mill, that you could use money.”
Dang.This was exactly why I hated my lapse in judgment. I should’ve split assets the way Washington suggested.
“Listen,” Omari said, “I’m not tryna get you to do anything unethical. My clientele is very diverse. I’ll spend ages confirming that a Certificate of Authenticity is legit for them.”
I nodded, still scanning him like a hawk. The COA was an authentic certificate that listed every sale of a piece, like the art world’s version of gossip receipts. The paper basically said,Relax, Jessica, this art is real. And no, the Louvre hasn’t gotten robbed … again. Most collectors wouldn’t even touch a piece of art without a COA. It would be a bad investment if the art was part of a heist, and the original owner popped up and said,That’s mine.
Omari rattled off celebrity names, then one wealthy enough to call Warren Buffett a pauper. Dude could buy the moon if it were on auction.
“Yep, that man, Maddy. And then I have those like us,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, I-get-you tone which made me itch to believe him. “Living large-ish, but with mature taste.”
Meh. I think he meant the old me. Living Large. And with mature tastes? A sistah only loved ancient wine.
He rubbed his chin. “They don’t require COAs to prove the piece they’ve bought was legit. My people know the deal. It isn’t old. Hasn’t passed through many hands. Since I told them I’m selling amood,right?”
Dang.What sort of telepathy caused you to get my love of mood, sir?As if Omari knew he had me, he added, “All they’vegotta do is check the pontil mark on the bottom. They’ll know it ain’t real.”
I nodded. The pontil mark was a rough spot where the artist broke the glass off the blowing rod. A signature. No two were the same. So, Omari Riche was art-rich. Dude knew my craft very well.
