Page 74 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

She makes small talk as I lead her toward the room where I had my studio, though right now it’s totally empty except for a single canvas, leaning against the wall.

Poppy gasps when she sees it, clutching my arm again.

“That’s it!” she exclaims.

“That’s what?”

“That’s the one I wanted! How’d you know?” she asks, rushing forward.

I pick it up from the floor — my easels are already packed and gone — and Poppy admires it, gently touching the dried paint with a single finger.

“I want to give it to you,” I say. “For the hotel. For hosting the artist retreat and giving me the time and space to really work on something like this.”

“Nonsense,” she says, her eyes still raking over the picture. “I won’t take it for free. If this were in a gallery, you’d get thousands of dollars for it, easily. You know, I have some friends in Boulder who have this little place…”

I put it back on the floor, and while she talks about her friends in the city, I look at the painting. It’s the same one that I was ready to burn a few weeks ago, but somewhere along the way, I finally figured out how to make it work.

Green. The mountains needed just a hint of green, and suddenly, everything looked right.

Wild, huh?

It’s a realistic landscape, something I almost never paint. I prefer the surreal, the impressionistic, but something about the mountains out here spoke to me.

The painting is of an alpine lake in early spring, the water bluish-green, the stark mountains behind it still snowcapped. There are wildflowers around the lake and the clouds are reflected in it.

It’s a pretty good painting, if I do say so myself.

“— Though, Larkin, honestly five thousand is still a steal for me, you should probably negotiate higher with me—”

I snap back to reality when I realize that Poppy is talking about my painting again.

“Five thousand?” I echo, disbelief in my voice.

That’s approximately ten times more than I’ve ever been paid for a painting.

“You’re right, six is a much fairer price,” Poppy admits, finally tearing her eyes away from the painting to look at me. “Six thousand for it?”

I shake my head.

“Poppy, I want it to be a gift—”

“No,” she says, simply, then reaches out and takes my hand. “Six thousand, then, and I can’t wait to hang it over the reception desk.”

* * *

An hour later,I’ve managed to say goodbye to Poppy — it only took forty-five minutes — and I’ve got a check for six thousand dollars in my pocket.

Six thousand. For one painting. I’m giddy over it, over everything this means.

If I can sell one painting for that much, maybe I can sell others.

Maybe I can even quit my day job and paint full-time, my lifelong dream.

“Earth to Larkin,” Gavin’s voice says, interrupting me. “You still fantasizing about diving into a swimming pool filled with gold coins?”

I just laugh.

“A little,” I say. “Is that so bad?”

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