Page 13 of Various Intentions
“I didn’t get—” Juno sighed again. “The Canadian Council for the Arts rejected my grant proposal.”
“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. What grant proposal?”
Juno laughed but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was a self-deprecating, hopeless spasm.
“The proposal to receive money to support myself while I work on an ambitious project—a project that will now go into the trash as I try to figure out a way to make some money.”
I stared at them, confusion swirling through my brain. “I thought you had lots of money.” I gazed around us at the opulence of Juno’s large bedroom.
“Hadbeing the operative word.”
“Really? You’re serious?” I said. I’d been under the impression that Juno had a somewhat stable and substantial income.
“Oh, Nic, your naiveté as to the fragility of an artist’s lifestyle is charming.” They met my gaze with a patronizing calm.
“Yes, but…aren’t you still selling pieces?”
Juno shrugged. “Once in a while. Demand for my work has gone down.”
“Hmm-m. I assumed you were raking in piles of dough.” I smiled, but Juno didn’t return it.
“Everyone does. And it’s fucking embarrassing, to tell the truth.” They lowered their voice to a whisper. “Charles and I, we’re barely getting by. I hung all my hopes on that grant. And now I’m not getting it, and I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling Juno’s desperation as if it were my own. “Aw, Juno. I’m sorry.”
“Your pity isn’t going to pay my bills.”
“No, but…I can pay you for that portrait of Vincent and me. How much would you list it for?”
“Twenty-six thousand.”
“What? Actually?” I was sure they’d quoted me a few thousand when I’d offered to purchase it instead of accepting it as a gift—which they’d insisted upon, because they were my friend.
“No, but that’s how much money I need to pay the mortgage fees on this place for the next six months…and the condo fees.”
“Juno, I wish I had that money to give you…”
“Well, you don’t, Nic. And you can’t buy that painting because you can’t afford it, and also, it was a gift. It’s yours, and I’m not taking it back.” Their expression switched from angry to horrified. “Unless you don’t want it? Is it that bad? Do you hate it?”
“Juno. Juno, stop. Of course I don’t hate it. It’s a gorgeous painting and the absolute pride of my home.” It was.
“I doubt that’s true.”
“I don’t lie to my friends.”
Juno lifted their chin and gazed at me with the most frank and forlorn expression. “Are you my friend, Nic? I haven’t seen you in…ages. Not since the gallery show.”
Guilt soaked through me at their words, because they were right.
“Well, I—I’ve been a bit busy, I suppose.” Heat filled my cheeks.
“With your charming, beautiful Vincent and the Italian cook. I know. I heard all about it from Daphne,” Juno said. “Nothing from you, Nic.”
I nodded, unable to meet Juno’s honest gaze, feeling terrible for not having reached out over the past several months. I fiddled with a crease in my jeans. “We’re also raising a teenager. Did Daphne tell you that?”
“Sparky, you mean? Yes, I’ve met him. He was at Daphne’s one time when I’d gone over there. Delightful boy. Is he a handful?”
“What? No.”
