Page 26 of Sawyer
“You will.” Although Brooke leaned over him and studied his face, her face a mask of concern. “Extreme moments produce extreme emotion.”
“I have an agent…” he breathed out in awe.
Axel had told him a quick decision by an acclaimed agent wasn’t unusual in these situations where there were multiple interested parties. Axel had scheduled the three best agents interested when his friend had called them personally on Monday, scheduling Beverly Merriweather as the last meeting the following day as she was Sawyer’s top pick. The call had only confirmed his feelings, so he hadn’t left it atLet me get back to youlike he had the others.
Dean did his best boogie move. “One of the best around too.”
“I wanted Beverly Merriweather, and I got her!”
Sawyer could still see the older woman’s severe one-length brown bob, oversized black glasses, and conservative black New York suit. Her explanation about how she worked had made his pulse hammer.Sawyer, my job is to shine a spotlight on you and your talent for the world to see. To do that, I’m very hands-on. My job is to set you up for success. All you need to do is paint and sit back and let me do the rest.
He was more than fine with that. What did he know about the ins and outs of the art world or marketing campaigns for his art shows?
She’d told Sawyer that Axel’s reference meant a lot, but what had impressed her most was the sensitivity with which he’d painted his subjects. While she wanted to see more of his paintings in person when she visited Paris in a few weeks, she was willing to sign him based on what she’d already seen.
Today.
He’d practically stammered, “That would be cool.” Nothing refined like, “Thank you, Beverly, I’m honored.”
He certainly hadn’t sounded like Dr. Sawyer Jackson. Then again, she hadn’t signed that guy. She’d signed a brand-new artist. Who cared about his PhD? Soon he would be resigning—God knew it was getting closer—and that post-nominal after his name would disappear from his existence. All that mattered now were his paintings. Not that he had many. He still couldn’t believe she’d taken him on with such a small body of work, but Axel said his paintings showed genius, and the great agents knew talent.
Talent.
He wished he could sneer at his inner art critic and text his mother. Of course she’d texted him after seeing him pop up in the Google Alert she’d had on since their inception. He hadn’t even opened her text that had begun withSawyer,I saw the article in Le Monde…
He knew what the rest of the message read. That she didn’t approve of him pursuing his art again in Paris. That he’d flopped ten years ago, and one article was nothing in the grand scheme of things. She certainly would remind him that he had a respected career as a professor. Etc. Etc. Etc. He might be without confidence, but he wasn’t stupid. A healthy, creative bubble was what he needed. His mother could pop that with her scary, gelled nails like Edward Scissorhands at a birthday party…
And he needed to paint and paint fast. Beverly was coming! She was going to contact some galleries and talk him up. See if they were interested in hosting his first show and what they were willing to bring to the table in terms of a marketing campaign and outreach to their patrons.
Phoebe’s face swam in front of his eyes. Would she be on Beverly’s list? He knew Axel had informed Beverly about all of the legitimate parties who had contacted the restaurant about Sawyer. It hadn’t seemed like the right moment to ask. Specifics were for down the road, after he’d finished enough paintings for a show. Beverly had told him they wouldn’tschedule his show until all the work was ready. There’d been an edge to her throaty chuckle when she’d said, “Once burned, twice shy.” Meaning someone hadn’t met a deadline. Shocking. Did painters do deadlines?
Once the paintings were ready, they would sit down and agree on the best location for the show, she’d assured him. Because galleries had different specialties. A landscape of Paris might be better suited to a New York gallery, for example, while a simple portrait like the one he’d done of Nanine would be perfect for a gallery in London or Paris. The Brits and the French, she’d told him, adored portraits.
He appreciated her insider’s knowledge on such matters—as much as hearing he would have the time and latitude he needed to create. But it didn’t completely erase the pressure in his chest. He knew he needed to capitalize on this momentum, and that meant painting. Daily.
“Here, Doc.” Madison was kneeling and putting one of those blue frozen gel packs in his hand. “Put it on the back of your neck. That always helps me.”
She was a little blurry when he tried to focus, but maybe that was because his glasses were fogged up from his hot head. “You’ve been like this?”
“Not on the floor, but sure, I got woozy whenLe Fleurwon its first Michelin star. I didn’t eat anything but homemade tortilla chips for two straight days. If you want, I can make you some.”
God, he felt a burn in his eyes. He had the best friends. Madison hadn’t gone to the restaurant yet, where she had a million things to do, and here she was…
“Oh my God!” Thea cried. “What happened to Sawyer?”
“He’s been poleaxed by fate,” Dean said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. We’ve been monitoring his stats.”
His heart rate pounding loudly in his ears incessantly couldn’t be good, right? He tried to sit up, but everything went dark again.
“Just stay down, Doc.” Dean sat cross-legged beside him. “You can join the champagne toast when you’re ready. Just close your eyes and visualize all of us standing around you at your first gallery show as people turn from your incredible paintings and applaud you. Visualizing people applauding you can lower the heart rate. I’ve used it myself.”
He decided to give it a try, and boy, he found himself starting to smile the longer he imagined it. In the scene, Dean was nudging him in the ribs with a dopey grin on his face, and even Madison had a dazzling smile.
A minute later, he was able to sit up and accept his glass gratefully.
“Nice trick,” he told Dean as the bubbles danced in time with the ongoing percussion of applause in his happy heart. The apple and pear notes played in time with the orchestral version ofOde to Joyracing through his bloodstream. His friends’ happiness for him, though…that was what put the warmth in his bursting chest.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to all this,” he confessed from his perch on the edge of Kyle’s desk, where Axel had guided him with a wide grin.
