Page 136 of After We Fall

“Know your painting. Know your buyer better.” I nod to her. “You taught me that.”

In the case of Dr. Evelyn Wimberley, I knew her well before she arrived this evening. Eighteen years ago, I ran away from home at the age of sixteen, hitchhiking myself right into the leather seats of her giant, warm Cadillac.

“I fell in love with the women at Twelve Bluebells Ranch during your presentation to the graduate committee last week.” She leans in with a hint of coconspirator in her movement and tone. “I’ve approved the final phase of your thesis project. I’m very proud of you.”

I swallow. All I’ve ever wanted was to repay her generosity by making her proud.

“But I’m only one vote,” she says. “Dr. Sloan and Dr. Hayword will be here tonight to further evaluate this portion of your proposal.”

My anxious heart ticks out the seconds. If I don’t complete the project requirement for my master of art degree by the end of the school year, my ever-diminishing bank account will run dry.

She pats my arm. “I think I’m going to follow my nose and track down one of those mini crab cakes.”

“Thank you, Evelyn, for your generous purchase. I’ll take care of the details for you.” After pointing her in the direction of the appetizers, I slide the painting information badge out of its plastic cover and turn it over.

SOLD. The bold red letters on the back of the card announce more funds raised for the residents of the nonprofit ranch.

I scan the room, and a stranger catches my eye. Tall, broad shoulders, dark brown hair clipped short. Probably a couple of years older than me. Hard lines on the planes of his face that don’t age him but instead tell a story.

As I approach, I take in his well-fitting khakis and starched white button-down shirt, rolled long sleeves showing off tanned, muscular arms. Confidence. Strength. A defined jaw that might hide a dry sense of humor. But he’s not to be toyed with, he’s to be respected.

From years of experience selling art to personalities of all shapes and sizes, I can tell this striking man doesn’t need my help to select a piece. He simply needs someone to come alongside while he ponders the world of colors in front of him.

Standing a few feet away, I clasp my hands in front of me and study the Matterson painting with him. Thin blue strokes of a waterfall plunge into the abyss of thick brown and black streaks depicting a mountainside lake. Slightly abstract but still recognizable.

He glances at me, but my stare remains fixed on the artwork, allowing him time to view the credentials hanging on my lanyard without forcing him to interact if he doesn’t see fit.

But I fidget in my black dress. The embellished bead-centered flowers and flared skirt called to me in the resale shop. Now I worry the scoop neckline makes a suggestive statement about myself I swore I would never make again. I tuck a rebellious piece of my wavy brown hair under the grip of my black silk headband.

“This painting is too moody,” he finally says.

Moody? Interesting. The painting matches the artist.

“I like what it tried to do.” His brows draw down with his disgruntled focus on the work. “But I can’t quite get behind it.”

Again, interesting. His statement resembles how I feel about Pete Matterson’s portfolio.

He turns his head to me. “What do you think?”

“It depends. Are you purchasing this for yourself?”

“It doesn’t depend,” he says, his tone flat, direct. “I want to know what you think of this piece as it hangs on the wall.”

I blink. I’m supposed to do my best to sell art, but this man wants a straight answer. Know your painting. Know your buyer better. “My problem is that I know the artist.”

He shakes his head once. “Take away what you know about the artist. What do you think of the painting itself?”

I bite my lip and release a slow breath. “The painting, while brilliant on the surface, is just that. Surface. It doesn’t go deeper. Every time I study it from a different angle, I become frustrated trying to make it something that it’s not.”

Like the painter.

“But this one.” He leads me to a perpendicular wall. “What do you think about it?”

In front of us hangs a painting created by one of the halfway house residents, Julia Keaton. All her angst, hope, and resolve wrapped up in the sweeping brushwork of her novice piece.

My throat tightens with pride. Again, I can’t separate my feelings about the work from the artist.

“It’s stunning,” I whisper to the painting.