Page 93 of Obsession

“Yes, Mrs. Stanwick.” The girl gave me a finger-wave and bolted.

“Thanks,” I called after her.

“No problem,” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh, Grace. When you said different, you weren’t kidding. This is gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” I wrapped one arm around my middle again, the other resting on my forearm so I could nibble on my thumb. We were well beyond butterflies in my belly at this point. I was pretty sure I was going to fly apart.

Phil slapped my hand away from my mouth. “Stop that. Yes. It’s stupendous.” She glanced down at my bright indigo dress. “You look better in color.”

“You like us in black.”

“Well, now you’re an artist, so I’m glad you went with color.”

I clasped my hands together or I was going to gnaw what was left of my thumbnail off. “I’m still working the show.”

“Of course you are,” she said absently. She walked around the column of marble. “You did this alone?”

I bristled. “I’d have given credit otherwise.”

“Relax.” She held up a hand. “It’s just really different from your usual work.”

I stared at the angel with her outspread wings. Instead of being in a pious stance as most were, she was suspended from a spire of copper with thin wires, and in a falling position. Her body was a mosaic of different glass from smoky to clear, but her wings were panels of the same smoke-tinged gold. Such unusual glass.

I’d had it forever, but I’d never had the right project to use it.

Until now.

Each of the panels were framed in copper. It gave the piece a fragile nature, even though it was one of the most intricate yet still sturdy pieces I’d ever done.

And it was my hail Mary play at this point. I was out of materials, out of money, out of options. This was my only chance to start over.

Phil stood next to me. “We’re going to end up with a bidding war.”

“You think?”

“I know.” She patted my arm. “It’s a good thing you got fired. You’re going to be busy.”

“Mrs. Stanwick?”

She turned to the tall, austere student in the doorway. “Yes, Stephen?”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“Right.” Philomena hooked her arm through mine. “You ready?”

“No.”

She bumped my shoulder. “Spoken like a true artist. Let’s get this party started.”

The next three hours were a whirlwind of patrons and locals that came for the gossip. Many knew me by name, so I was constantly being pulled in nineteen directions. Sales, schmoozing, gladhanding, and the all-important bits of gossip made the night fly by.

Each time I heard my piece mentioned, I had to talk my stomach into behaving.

Can’t throw up at the gallery.That’s not good form at all.

I had a hard time going into the Cove Room, though. I didn’t want to hear any reactions to my piece.

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