Acrylic Bond

Acrylic Bond
Dani Cullen stared down at the still figure on the bed, willing her to turn her head and, if not to speak, to at least look at her. Kricia Culpepper neither spoke nor moved to look at Dani despite her pleas. Dani stroked Kricia’s unkempt brown curls away from her face and back onto the pillow, straightened the sheet, and moved around to face her friend who promptly turned away. In the quiet of the room, Dani’s thoughts drifted back to twenty-five years ago, when she had first befriended Kricia.
They had been friends since Kricia’s family had moved to Cooper City from Boston, both girls third graders at Cooper City Elementary at the time. They had stayed fast friends all the way through school, graduating from Cooper High together, sharing an apartment after high school while Dani went to BCC and Kricia worked as a waitress at the upscale King’s Table restaurant. They had always shared- toys, clothes (Dani gave Kricia her old clothes when she got replacements; some of those hadn’t even been worn if Dani didn’t like them), homework, and, once, even a boyfriend. They had dealt with that a whole lot better than the boyfriend had; he hadn’t found it very funny when Dani told him she gave him to Kricia. Well, he had asked for it, always eyeing Kricia every time they went anywhere together.
Even after Kricia had moved back north with her boyfriend they had remained friends, but the bond softened, harder to sustain with the distance, and finally dissolved to one of annual Christmas cards and, then, even less frequent phone calls after a few years. For the last three years, there had been nothing. But, back then they had called themselves sisters, and they were in everything but blood, although they looked nothing alike. Dani was blonde, green-eyed, and fair and Kricia was brown-haired, brown-eyed and sported an eternal tan thanks to her native American heritage.
Kricia’s father, Gregory, had brought Kricia’s mother to Florida for the sunshine. The doctor said it would be good for her- keep her from moping about and being depressed. Mr. Greg had worked six days a week at VerdiGreen Lawn Care, and just barely made enough for groceries and rent for the family. Mrs. Culpepper- Dani could never remember calling her anything but that- never went out to enjoy the sunshine. Instead, she stayed inside all day, shades drawn, smoking one Salem Menthol after another, drinking her special tea to calm her nerves. Dani had never quite understood what good the sunshine did since Mrs. Culpepper never went out in it, and the one time she had asked, everyone had pretended she hadn’t said anything so she never broached the subject again. Mrs. Culpepper had died at the age of forty-five, suffering the ill effects of both the cigarettes and the iced tea laced with Admiral Nelson’s spiced rum, both of which she had consumed relentlessly. Kricia, then twenty-five, had come home for the funeral, but didn’t stay afterwards, claiming work obligations. Mr. Greg had bought out a retiring partner in the lawn care LLC, and Dani occasionally saw their trucks around, and experienced the occasional bump in her conscious that said, “Call them. See how they are, especially Kricia.” But, she never did it; it was only a passing thought, and although she did still miss her, she had a busy life with the husband, the kids, and the gallery and not much time to think about it.
Under normal circumstances, they probably would have never met. Dani’s parents were both respiratory therapists at Hollywood Memorial, and they lived in a nice neighborhood, not like the rundown area where Kricia’s family lived. Back then, it was a lot easier to cross school boundaries so Kricia’s dad took her to school at Cooper City Elementary every day on his way to work. Because they followed each other alphabetically, they often were next to each other in lines, at the library or on field trips and in classes and, after a few false and snippy starts, grew into an inseparable pair. Sometimes Kricia even came home with Dani after school, especially on the days that Kricia’s dad was doing their lawn; it saved him having to drive back to the school to pick her up.
At twenty-four, Dani, armed with a degree in Art Administration and a year of painting in Paris, opened Cullen Gallery and Framing and now made a reasonable living doing what she loved. Thankfully, her parents had given her the money for startup, which made life a lot easier until the business began to stand on its own. She was married, but chose not to use her husband’s name, sticking instead with her maiden name; after all, that was the name on the store and all of her artwork, a fairly well known name now. Stanley Smythe, her husband, seemed not to mind the stares and lifted eyebrows when people noted that she had a different last name from him and the two children. She found it amusing, never bothering to explain, preferring instead to laugh secretly as people discreetly probed, trying valiantly to ferret out the relationship, nosey to the end. It made for great entertainment at those boring hospital parties she was expected to attend once or twice a year.
When Dani’s phone rang at closing time that Wednesday, she was almost out the door. It was ten minutes after six and she was late getting to the sitter’s to pick up the six-year old twins, Mark and Marian. She hesitated, hand on the doorknob, then decided to turn back since she was expecting a call from her framing supplier for a special order that was six weeks overdue. Well, she really needed to find out where that order was; then, a quick call to Debbie that she would be late, then she really would have to fly.
She grabbed the phone before the answering machine could. “Cullen Gallery and Framing.”
“Dani? Is this Dani Cullen?” Dani recognized the gravelly voice immediately, even though it had been several years. Her surprise waffled to a mild concern when Mr. Greg remained silent.
“Can I help you, Mr. Greg?” she asked. “Is everything all right?” Dani clicked her thumbnail against the nail of her middle finger, a nervous habit that she had developed as a preschooler, and had never given up, even though it drove her mother and her husband quite crazy. Truth be known about it, she even annoyed herself with it sometimes, but she just couldn’t help it!
Mr. Greg stumbled over his words. “I, uh… Can you, ah… , Well… Kricia needs you,” he finally blurted. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh! What happened, Mr. Greg?” Embarrassed, she hastily apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. How is she? And where is she?”
Mr. Greg sighed. “She’s at Hollywood Memorial. They’re trying to get her settled.”
He hadn’t said stabilized. It was “settled.” Huh. That seemed an odd word, as if she were checking into a hotel for a lengthy stay. “OK,” she said. “What room is she in?”
“Uh, she’s on the fifth floor, room 532. She can’t have visitors right now. But, maybe we can have a cup of coffee at the Waffle House across from the hospital and I can explain everything to you. About 7 o’clock OK?” He let remain unspoken that it was the floor for mentally ill patients. She hung up the phone, brushed her fingers through her short, dark hair, and thought about the call. What was that all about?
Stan. She needed to call Stan to pick up Mark and Marian at Debbie’s. He would just have to leave work on time tonight! His partner, Tom, could pick up the slack on hospital rounds. He had done it plenty of times for Tom; time to call in a chip. She rang Stan’s number. He argued the point briefly, but, recognizing the rising tautness in her voice, that tone that told him the ice was just about to crack beneath his feet, gave up, and agreed to do daddy duty. She also reminded him to call Debbie and let her know he was coming and would be a bit late. He swore she treated him like a child but she knew all to well that if she didn’t remind him, he was apt to overlook the minute details that would precipitate another round of calls, those from a frantic Debbie.
The errant shipment forgotten, Dani placed the phone back on its cradle, wondering what this was all about, anxious to find out about her friend. Suddenly, she felt guilty for having neglected Kricia, their friendship, and things in general, although she supposed that went both ways. Oh, well; enough pondering. She had better hurry. Traffic was always bad this time of day and she didn’t want to be late. She climbed in the Expedition, her mobile gallery, and headed for downtown Hollywood. The smell of turpentine and oil reminded her she needed to take her car to the detailer; a can of linseed oil had not had the top on tight when she bought it and had leaked on the carpet. She tried to clean that up with some turpentine, and, although, it cleaned up fairly well, the fumes still lingered. Good thing she didn’t smoke, she thought!
Thirty minutes later she slid across the yellow vinyl booth and settled in to wait for Mr. Greg. He wouldn’t be long, she was sure. She remembered him as always being punctual, something she hadn’t quite mastered yet, much to the sitter’s annoyance. It even used to drive Kricia bonkers, but Dani didn’t care; if she was late, she was late and that was that. That was why she had a private sitter. The daycare centers would charge out the wazoo, starting at 6:01 PM if you weren’t there, and traffic would make you not there, more often than not. Dani ordered a cup of decaf and a glass of water, neither of which she wanted. She was a Starbucks and a bottled water fan, didn’t care at all for the stuff that had been in the pot for an hour or tap water tasting of chlorine.
“Hi, Dani. Thanks for coming.”
Dani looked up at Mr. Greg, shock at how old he seemed stealing her tongue. Recovering, she spoke. “Hi, Mr. Greg. Thanks for calling me. How is she doing?” She reached up to him, meeting his hug with one of her own.
“She’s, umm, resting right now. I just left there. She had a shot to make her sleep.” The waitress moved in with her order pad, and left disappointed at only another request for coffee; wouldn’t be much of a tip here, likely. Mr. Greg cleared his throat.
Dani wondered what to say, what she could ask without sounding nosey or callous. She finally settled on asking how long Kricia had been there. That felt like a good place to start.
“Two days,” he said. “But they just called me today; they didn’t know who she was, she had no ID and couldn’t tell them her name. She was just sitting on the corner of Hollywood and South Park. Just sitting. The police picked her up, took her to Hollywood Memorial.” He looked up at her, eyes moist. “Thank goodness, one of the girls she worked with at King’s Table is now a doctor there. She thought she recognized her and called me. It’s just like with her mother…” His voice trailed off as the waitress placed his coffee on the table, sloshing a bit on the saucer without apology.
“What’s the plan?” she asked, as much to break the silence as to find out what the plan might be. “When can I go see her?” she added.
“Dr. Williams said they need to evaluate her, get a good diagnosis, before they can decide which medication to put her on. She doesn’t answer when you talk to her, doesn’t even look up. Like she’s in another world.” He paused. “Maybe she is. Her mother always was in her own world. I never thought Kricia would be like that, though. She was always the happy one.”
Dani felt uncomfortable, tried to decide what she could ask and how. Taking the plunge, she asked, “What exactly was Mrs. Culpepper’s illness?” No one had ever said, just that she was “sick.”
“She was bipolar. Mildly, anyway. Well, maybe more than mildly. Mostly she was just depressed, not too much of the mania stuff. They changed her medications a lot; they always seemed to stop working after awhile, and it didn’t help that she drank.” He sighed. “It was hard. She just seemed to…just be there, not really functioning. She used to leave sometimes, in Boston. Wander off, until someone would find her and bring her back, especially after she would stop taking her lithium. Said it made her mouth dry, made her feel out of it, and made her hands shake. She did finally quit doing that. Wandering off, I mean. After they changed her pills.” He seemed ill at ease discussing her condition. They simply hadn’t talked about it when she and Kricia had been kids. It was there, but not.
She thought about the possibility that Kricia might be the same, bipolar. It ran in families, she knew. Other than that, she didn’t know much about it except, oddly enough, there seemed to be some connection between creativity and depressive disorders. Or not, depending on which study was at the forefront. They had argued it back and forth in Art Psychology, one of the required courses, although it only marginally held her interest; she just wanted to paint. Dani finally asked, “What does Dr. Williams say? Did you tell her about Mrs. Culpepper?”
“Yes,” he replied. “She says it’s a good possibility that Kricia’s bipolar, but they have better meds now. And therapy might help, especially if there was something that triggered this- set her off. But, that it might be a few weeks in the hospital, to get her back to…to where she can go home. She says that she’ll need support from family and friends. You will visit her, won’t you?” He looked as if the idea of living with that again was not something he was looking forward to, and she couldn’t blame him.
“Of course! When can I start?” She tried to sound upbeat, positive. She was just as positive that she had failed.
“I’ll call you when she can have visitors.” He motioned for the check. “Thanks, Dani. Thanks for coming.”
“Sure, Mr. Greg,” she said, snatching the check from the startled waitress. “I’ll get the bill. You know that.”
Now, two weeks later, she finally had permission to visit. Kricia was listless, wouldn’t talk and seemed disinterested in Dani, or in anything, for that matter. Dani held Kricia’s hand, squeezed, and said, “I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t keep up with you.”
Kricia gave no indication of hearing, much less of caring. Dani wouldn’t give up. She walked around the bed and sat down on the hard plastic chair. If that wouldn’t discourage visiting, she didn’t know what would. Kricia blinked, made as if to turn again. Dani placed a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from turning away, watching as her friend’s eyes filled with tears. Well, any response was better than no response! Dani sat by the bed another thirty minutes, idly saying whatever came to mind, telling Kricia all about the last ten years- finishing school, painting in Paris, the kids, her husband, the gallery, the shows. Kricia said nothing.
Finally, she stood to leave. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. This is the first visit, but it won’t be the last. I won’t give up, you know.” As she rose, she felt a slight squeeze, saw the small nod, and felt some hope.
Almost every day brought a few small improvements, sometimes a smile, and even some small answers, simple yeses, or nos. Not much had been said about Tom, the boyfriend Kricia had moved to Boston with. Maybe she would talk about that later. Dani really wanted to know what happened and why he wasn’t there but didn’t want to push it. Leaving the shop in Brandy’s care, Dani visited daily, willing her friend to improve, to respond to the medication and the therapy sessions. Progress was slow but steady, with some occasional backsliding. Four weeks later, Kricia went home. Well, home to her dad’s.
A few more weeks at home, and Kricia finally seemed to be getting back to her old self, the Kricia that Dani remembered. They talked, laughed, and carried on almost the way they had in school. Kricia would even go out for a few hours now, to dinner or visit at Dani’s home. Frequently, she came to visit Dani at the gallery where she would help out a bit, running the register, gathering prints and even cutting mats for pictures, although Dani didn’t push it. Dani was happy to have her friend back, even happier to be able to help her. Kricia seemed to enjoy the twins, playing with them sometimes for hours. There were no signs of the bipolar swings that marked the disease, but then Kricia’s mother hadn’t done wide swings either.
The announcement came at closing. Her only employee, Brandy, dropped the grand news that she was moving. Tomorrow. Wonderful; just before the Spring Fling in Hollywood, one of the biggest art shows in south Florida. Dani slumped in her chair, drumming her fingernails on the desk, frantic for a solution. The store would have to be open tomorrow. She sold almost as many prints and frames on that day as she did at Christmas. Her usual secondary, Betty, had just had a baby and was unavailable for a few more weeks. She needed someone who could cut mats, frame, and collect money. Now! Absently she picked up the ringing phone that intruded on her thoughts, annoyed her, actually. “Hi. It’s me. What are you doing?” Kricia asked.
“Oh, I’m in a mess. Brandy announced this afternoon that she won’t be back tomorrow. Or ever. I don’t know what to do! I have to have the gallery open. This weekend pays for half a year’s rent!”
“Why don’t I do it? I know how to cut mats and frame. I can run the register. It’ll be fine.”
“Oh, would you?” Dani breathed a sigh of relief. “Uh,” she added, “it won’t be too much for you, will it? I’ll pay you, of course.”
“No. I can do it. Everything’s fine. If I have any problems, I can call you.”
Kricia showed up promptly at eight the next morning, bringing her lunch and a book. “Just in case it’s slow,” she said. “Go do your show. Break a leg!”
Dani laughed. “I think they say that in show business, not art. Call me if you need me. And, thanks a million. You’re a life saver!”
Dani scrambled out the door, anxious to get to the show, where she hopefully would sell enough to cover the gallery’s next six months of monster utility bills. South Florida seemed to require air conditioning eleven months out of the year, six of them yielding brutally high electric bills. This weekend’s sales would make it easier to face the lean months between the few peak sales times, Mother’s Day, Christmas, and one more art show in the fall. She called the gallery several times to check on things, but Kricia had it under control, not even a whimper of needing help. Kricia did so well that Dani offered her the job that Brandy had so suddenly abandoned.
“Yes,” Kricia said, mulling it over. “I think I’m ready to go back to work. Maybe I’ll even take some lessons.”
Dani was ecstatic. “Wonderful! I’ll teach you whatever you want to learn. Watercolor? Oils? Acrylics? All three?” She supplemented her sales with private art lessons, in all three media. This would be great therapy for Kricia; she had offered several times to give her lessons, but Kricia had always refused, saying she had no artistic talent.
Most of Dani’s students went through a series of structured lessons. First, some lessons on perspective, then pencil and charcoal drawings, on to soft pastels, then acrylics, oils and, finally, watercolor if they made it that far. It didn’t have to be like that, but she liked to step them through, easiest and most basic first, then on to the more difficult and less forgiving media. Some students stuck with it, picking it up quickly. Others decided it wasn’t for them and dropped out just as rapidly. Mostly those were the ones whose parents decided they would take art, the battle of wills leading to a lot of wasted time and money and a lot of disruption. She didn’t put up with those long. She would let Kricia pick whatever she wanted to do, though, and provide the supplies and lessons free of charge, grateful for her help and friendship.
The lessons began in earnest a week after Spring Fling. Kricia worked the shop while Dani moved her students through their paces. After the students had cleaned up- Dani insisted on that; have to take the work with the fun- Kricia came for her lesson. She selected acrylics to try, not the most difficult medium, but not the easiest to work either. Dani laid out the basics of the synthetic medium and they went to work, but not until they had argued about who was providing what.
It hadn’t been a long argument, but argue they did. “I insist on paying,” Kricia said.
“I think not,” had been Dani’s reply. “I can afford to do this for you, you know. And, you help out at the shop. You don’t need to buy anything.”
“But, I want to pay my own way! I’m not a charity case, ya know. I can pay for own lessons and supplies. You don’t have to give me stuff any more.”
Dani glared at her, hands on her hips, brushes sticking out from clinched fists. “I don’t think so!” she snapped. “I’ll not let you pay for anything and that’s that.”
Kricia had finally backed down from Dani’s unyielding insistence, muttering about paying her share under her breath. It always ended the same way, with Dani’s happy provision and Kricia’s scowling acceptance over the unending battle.
Dani always started with a blank canvas, same as her students, that way they could watch the mixing, brush strokes, and layering that took place in creating a painting. Kricia was faithful, never missing a lesson, even popping in for some painting on her own from time to time. She learned quickly, imitating Dani’s style quite well. They would sit for several hours at a time when business was slow, getting up only to wait on the occasional mid-week customer. Business was heaviest on Fridays and Saturdays, and Tuesdays through Thursdays were much slower, giving them time to work on new pieces. Their friendship had resumed as if it had never ended, and Dani thought it was actually much richer than it had ever been, although they still argued about who would pay for what, Kricia always losing that battle.
Kricia paused an hour into a comfortable silence one day, laid down her brush, and suddenly blurted, “Do you want to know what happened?” Her eyes were wide, her hands shaking, obviously nervous and upset.
Dani held her breath for a second. “If you want to talk about it.” She certainly didn’t want Kricia to feel uncomfortable or feel she had to do this.
“Yes. I do want to talk about it. Dr. Williams says if I don’t confront it, I’ll never get better. Never get past where I am.”
“Wouldn’t you rather tell Dr. Williams?”
“No. You’re my best friend.”
Kricia drew in a deep breath. “You never knew Tom.”
Dani looked puzzled. “We double-dated some. Before you moved with him.”
“You never knew him. Not really. He could be the sweetest person on Earth. When he wasn’t being the sweetest person on Earth, he was…like someone possessed.”
Kricia picked up her brush and pushed paint around on her palette, watching the bristles splay out, the paint turn to a muddy gray. She cleaned her brush, scooped up the muddy glob from the glass with her razor, and wiped it on a paper towel, still saying nothing. She squeezed out some replacement paints and mixed some fresh colors. The silence stretched. She resumed painting, appearing intent on getting a wave in the ocean vista just right. Dissatisfied, she smoothed it out, did it again.
Dani resumed working on her ocean scene; she had her own waves to contend with, but hers seemed to flow out of the brushes she used. Kricia often joked that she needed to buy some of those special brushes, ones with waves in them and some with roses too. Her brushes didn’t have flowers of any kind in them, she claimed, laughing. Every artist has easy subjects that seem to flow effortlessly from the brushes. And then there are the thorns, the subjects that defy every attempt at being put on a canvas.
Abruptly, Kricia spoke. “I was pregnant.”
Dani looked up, surprised. Kricia had always vehemently denied wanting any kids of her own. “Really? Did you plan it?” Flushing with embarrassment at how that had come out, she tried again. “I mean, did you want a baby?”
Kricia shook her head no. “Not really, but I decided to keep it any way. I don’t really believe in abortion. I mean it’s not for me. Tom had different ideas, though.”
Dani waited. After a few minutes, there seemed to be nothing else forthcoming. She was trying to decide what to say, what to ask, if anything. Kricia spoke again. “We argued and fought about it for days. Then, one day he told me he would get rid of it himself. He punched me in the stomach. I fell, and then he kicked me there, several times. I lost the baby.” She looked at her friend. “I really don’t remember anything after that night. Until I woke up in the hospital. I’m not sure how long it took me to get back home. Or how I got here.” She seemed amazed at that blankness, at the missing time.
What do you say? How do you comfort a friend who has a whole block of missing time? A missing baby? “I’m sorry,” was all she managed. She hoped fervently that it didn’t sound as feeble to Kricia as it did to her.
“Well. It’s done. I can’t undo it.” She smiled and added, “Thanks for listening to me. I hate the bastard, you know.”
Thinking of her own two children, Dani ached for Kricia. What would she do without her kids? Mark, who was the image of his father, and Marian, who looked and acted like her- a little Dani mimeograph- were her life. No wonder she had been in such a pit. She had bottomed out on that one. “Geez, Kricia. I really am sorry.”
Kricia suddenly changed the subject. “There’s a juried show coming up in October. Do you think I should enter? There’s a thirty-five dollar fee and I don’t want to waste my money if I’m not ready to compete yet.”
Dani thought about it. She never lied to her students about where she thought they were in their artistic endeavors, Kricia no exception. It was entirely too expensive to enter shows on a whim, just to lose to someone else because you weren’t ready yet. “Yeah, I think you can do it. Go for it! What are you going to enter?” Kricia had five or six very good paintings finished and framed. They were ready to do something with.
Kricia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out something. It’s still another month, so I have plenty of time.”
Both resumed painting, a comfortable silence between them now. Dani looked up, dismayed. “Oh, Lord. I almost forgot! Stan and I are going to New York for a week. He has an AMA convention the end of September and I wanted to tag along and get some Christmas shopping done. Will you be able to work that week?”
“Sure, you know I’ll be here. Not a problem.”
Dani heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I really appreciate it. You’re a jewel. I don’t know what I’d do without you!”
Packing. She hated it. She removed the black suit, replaced it with the blue one, and then swapped them again. Packed a carry-on bag with the same essentials that the checked luggage would hold- toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant- because they always lost her damned checked bag. She was utterly certain that what she needed was to just pack a bag and tell the airlines to keep it, that way they wouldn’t have to keep losing her luggage every trip. Finally ready, she banged down the steps to where Stan was waiting, none too patiently.
New York- not her favorite place to be but her favorite place to shop. While Stan attended his convention, she hit all her favorite stores, skipping the huge department stores in favor of the little stores in Nolita where she could find unique items for Christmas gifts. And, for herself. Of course, no trip was complete without her usual pilgrimage to the Soho district where she would spend hours gazing at others’ works, even buying one or two she felt she could afford. Unlike some artists, she had no problem owning other artists’ pieces and wished she could afford more of them. The week was up quickly but she was ready for it to be. She was always eager to go and just as eager to get back. New York was not home; south Florida was, even if it wasn’t as glamorous and exciting.
She returned to the gallery, rested and excited to share her new finds with Kricia. Walking into the private studio where she and Kricia usually painted, she stopped. It was…clean! Top to bottom. Kricia stood in the doorway, watching. “Like it?” she asked. “I took everything down and cleaned it top to bottom!”
“Sure! It’s great. Thanks. I didn’t expect you to do this- what a lot of work!” Looking around, she added, “Where are all the paintings?”
“I put them in the storage room. They’re all covered. All together. Want me to show you?”
“No, that’s OK. Oh, before I forget, here’s a little something I picked up for you in New York.”
Kricia unwrapped the tiny package excitedly, peeling back layers of tissue to reveal a gold hand-hammered pin in the shape of an artist’s palette. Sparkling in the place of paint were jewels- an emerald, an amethyst, a ruby, a topaz and a sapphire marched around the palette. Black and white diamonds completed the color scheme and a tiny gold palette knife and brush lay gracefully across the lapel pin. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” Her smile turned upside down, a frown appearing in its place. “I can’t take this. It must have cost a fortune.”
Dani brushed her protests aside. “Of course you can take it. It’s your coming out pin, to mark your first show! You did get entered, didn’t you? What did you decide to put in?”
Kricia pinned the palette to her shirt. It sparkled in the light, a tribute to what she had accomplished. “I’m entering the last one I did, the ocean scene. It seemed appropriate.” She hugged Dani. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Now, it was back to the drudge. There was a lot to do; Christmas was right around the corner, and she always had a big sale the day after Thanksgiving, one of her busiest days. She busied herself selecting the items for sale and clearance. Then, working later than usual, she selected which of her original paintings to display in the gallery’s window- they were always popular with her regulars. She wouldn’t put them there yet but needed them ready. She hated putting things off until the last minute. Satisfied that she could rest a minute, she sat down just as the phone rang. “Hello?” she said. It was too late at night to answer formally.
“Dani? This is Marci Benson. I’m chairing the judging for the fall show. Can you come to the gallery? I think there’s something you need to see.”
“Now? How about tomorrow?”
“Well, it’s really important. I think you should come now. Traffic’s light. It won’t take you long to get here. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee for us.”
She mulled over what could be so important on the fifteen-minute drive from her gallery to Marci’s. They were competitors but also colleagues, friendly but not close. They admired each other’s work, each owning one or two of the other’s paintings.
Dani pulled into the parking lot. Only two or three cars were there, other judges’ cars, probably. Marci opened the door, waved her inside, and motioned for Dani to follow her to the gallery to her left. “I think you need to see this,” she said.
She stopped in front of entry number four-oh-one, an ocean scene with vivid, tropical reds, greens, and yellows contrasting with an emerald green sea. It was quite good.
The signature that Kricia habitually used, K Culpepper, marched upwards across the bottom right of the canvas, claiming the painting with an intimate and bold caress.
Then she saw it- the tiny little “dc” she always worked into every one of her paintings, not unlike Delvaux, although she had no motive other than to mark them as hers, no statements to make. Maybe that was his purpose, too, but with all those painted newspapers, she doubted it. Undeniably, though, it was her mark. She closed her eyes and saw only Kricia’s smiling face.
“…you understand that, don’t you?” Marci’s voice punctured the dark thoughts swirling in Dani’s head.
“What? What did you say?” she stammered.
“You know the painting is disqualified if you claim it as yours? It is yours, isn’t it? I really thought it belong…”
“Yes. It’s mine.” She turned away, tears welling. Dani pictured the clean studio, hoping that the substitution was an accident, knowing it was impossible. She remained rooted to the spot, unspeaking, unmoving and unseeing. How could she do this, after all she had done for her? How? Why? Was she trying to ruin her?
Marci’s question intruded, forcing Dani to tear herself away from the chaos in her mind. “Do you want me to call the artist?”
Wiping her eyes, Dani turned slowly to face Marci. “No,” she said. “I’ll do it.”