Page 31 of Small City Heart
Chapter Nine
Patrick was shocked awake by a ringing phone. He answered it by saying, “Huh? Yes. Hello?”
“Patrick Pearl? This is Arnold Mikhailov. I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” Arnold owned the Chase Gallery, and his familiar Russian accent floated through Patrick’s cell phone.
Patrick ran a hand over his face and tried to shake himself into alertness. “No, I’m awake.”Now.“How are you?”
“Good. Putting out some small fires to start the day. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Okay.”
“There’s an auction tonight at the Alumni Weekend Dance. I heard you’re in town.”
“I am,” Patrick said, immediately apprehensive. He didn’t want to get volun-told to do something, but he would do almost anything Arnold asked of him. Arnold had supported him and championed his work from the get-go.
“One of the biggest auction items was withdrawn last night due to a tiff between the planning committee and the travel agency who was donating it. It’s a bunch of stupid small town politics, but regardless, the Alumni Weekend Committee called to see if I might have a piece from the gallery that could be auctioned. Since you’re going to be there, I was wondering if we could auction one of your photographs. It’d basically be a donation from you, so no pressure to sayyes. The money from the auction goes to the Small City Youth Center.”
“We have a Youth Center?” Patrick asked, kind of stunned. He was exactly the type of kid who would have benefited from a place like that back in the day.
Arnold chuckled. “Yes. Things change, Patrick.”
“Whatever you say. Did you have a print in mind? I’d be happy to donate a piece. You could choose whichever one has been in the gallery the longest without selling.”
“Always pragmatic, you are. That’sAflame,I believe. Is auctioning it okay with you?”
Aflamewas a very large print of a Flint Hills pasture on fire at dusk. He called it sofa-sized because he’d seen prints like that behind living room couches. He’d takenAflameduring a prescribed burn season several years ago. It was one of his more dramatic pieces.
“That’s fine.”
“You’re a good man. When will I be able to talk you into managing this shithole for me? I’m going to kick the bucket sooner rather than later. I want some time to RV with my wife before that day comes.”
This was a conversation they’d had many times, but in the past it had felt like a joke. Hell, itwasa joke. But the ache in Patrick’s heart didn’t find it funny this morning.
“There have to be a ton of locals chomping at the bit for a job like that.”
“Sure there are. None of them are you.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“No. Thank you for donating the piece. I’ll miss it picking up dust in the gallery.”
Patrick laughed, and they said their goodbyes. Someone knocked loudly on his bedroom door.
“Jesus,” he hissed, flinching. “Yes?”
“Wake up! The parade starts in forty-five minutes,” his mom shouted through the door.
“Okay. I’m up. I’m up.” He fell back into his pillow, not at all prepared to face his last full day in Small City.
An hour later, Patrick felt one overwhelming emotion: hate.
He officially hated parades. Crowds of people standing at least three deep in the noonday sun in freaking Kansas? It was a nightmare.
Mom appeared at his side holding two colorful snow cones with little umbrellas in them. He immediately lifted his camera up and snapped a picture of her. She laughed, so he took another. That was the best thing about the parade. He’d had plenty of opportunity to put his camera to work.
She handed one of the snow cones over, and he began devouring it before it had a chance to melt into syrupy soup.
A woman bumped into him, and he steadied her as she whipped around.
