“We have a meeting with the hotel in an hour.”
“Cancel it.” He barely let me get the words out before he was wildly gesticulating in my direction. “I’m going dark, Obi. It’s been ages since I’ve had this feeling and I don’t want to lose it.”
“I can understand that. However, unless this is something you intend to turn over to Monsieur Le Mer for his hotel, jot down as many notes as you can, before taking this suit into the bathroom and getting cleaned up.
He stared at me for long moments. I made it all the way to ten Mississippi before he made any indication that he heard me. And by indication, I mean taking his welding helmet and flipping it over his face.
“We can’t cancel, Ry. Don’t be an asshole.”
The screech of metal being ground to a hot pulp answered me. Nine times out of ten, I’d let him pull the diva card. Art was fluid. It existed in droughts and waterfalls. But this waterfall needed to find an off switch. This wasn’t some chintzy commission for tens of thousands of dollars. It was theFree Willyof commissions. Outfitting an entire hotel, including restaurants, gathering spaces, banquet halls, bedrooms, and walking paths- it was millions of dollars. Enough that if he never wanted to be commissioned for art pieces again, he’d never have to.
“Don’t pull this shit today.” I shot over the din of violent scraping and hissing from his machines. “You need to focus on the work you’re being paid to do.”
“And you need to focus on sourcing me metal.”
“Is this for the hotel?” I asked, motioning toward the piece he worked on.
“I don’t know what it’s going to be. Well, no. That’s not right I knowwhatit is, but not who it belongs to.”
“Exactly. Soap. Cologne. Suit. You can play with your metals later. Right now, we can’t keep Le Mer and his people waiting.”
* * *
“We appreciate the last-minute meeting.”
Arnaut Le Mer approached with an extended hand in our direction. The bald man with the oversized, tortoise shell, square glasses and royal blue pressed velvet suit looked like he’d taken his design cues from the dude in theHunger Gamesmovies that interviewed all the kids before they went and fought to the death. His assistant, a mousy little thing in a black dress rushed behind him with an iPad clutched to her chest. Every syllable he spoke, she appeared to be transcribing it.
“The designer of the space thought it might be beneficial if we all met so that the vision for the space could be discussed. Perhaps it will help better visualize the type of art for each space,oui?”
I had to keep reminding myself that his name was on the signature line of the paychecks that rolled in every week. And despite his bourgeois French affectation grating my last nerve, he was the boss. Hopefully these meetings would be fewer and further between once Ryker finally got out of his own damn head and got some pieces installed.
“I think I’m finally gaining some clarity.” Ryker shook his hand, forcing his salesperson smile on his face. “But firm details always help.”
We followed him into a lavish ballroom. There were workmen installing metallic wallpaper up and down the towering walls, in a deep navy with some kind of metallic filigree on them. The tables, outfit in gold and cream, were quintessential old glamor New Orleans.
“I thought we’d have a littledous módewhile we wait.”
He waved toward the towering pastry tray that sat in the middle of the table along with coffee and tea. Sweet treat my foot, he’d had the chef prepare their full dessert menu for us.
“Ms. Lócheve will be along any moment. Something about digital artboards versus physical ones.”
We’d barely poured our coffee and taken our seats, when Arnaut looked up, his face lifting with the excitement of a kid finding a puppy underneath the Christmas tree.
“And there is my creative genius now!”
Arnaut twisted his hand in dramatic circles, as if by rotating his wrists he could get her to approach faster.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce to you Miele Lócheve, the brains behind this whole project. It was she who suggested we commission all local artists for the space; giving us the ability to both support the local culture while also highlighting the incredible homegrown art on our walls.”
It happened so quickly. One moment Arnaut was crooning at us with that dopey fake French accent, and the next, there she was. Her royal blue dress in compliment to Arnaut, so much so I wondered if she’d done it intentionally. Her gorgeous, burnished copper hair was gathered in a high ponytail that highlighted her proud cheekbones and distinguished profile. Today she wore glasses, rimless rectangles that didn’t distract from the smattering of freckles across the apples of her cheeks and bridge of her nose.
“Miele.”
The sound that rumbled from Ryker’s chest nearly sounded feline. A cross between a purr and the deep, territorial rumble of a jungle cat guarding its next meal. And, based on the wide eyed, panicked look that wiped away the professional smile that she’d affixed to her face moments before, I’d say she realized who, exactly, Ryker thought was the meal.
seven
Sure New Orleanssometimes felt small. As if the whole town were related. There was barely any anonymity when you existed in certain social circles. The type I unfortunately had to exist in, given they were curators of my art. Torturous but the price I had to pay to do what I loved.