Page 39 of There Are No Saints

“Nice to meet you, Mara,” she says, shaking my hand. “I’ll show you the space.”

She leads me through the corridors of the Alta Plaza building, which is bright and modern, white paint and blond wood in the Scandinavian style.

“Here we are,” she says, throwing open the double doors of the last studio at the end of the corridor.

I gape around at a dazzling, sunlit loft. The exposed ductwork soars thirty feet over my head. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over Alta Plaza Park. The air is fresh and cool, lightly scented by the ornamental lemon trees potted along the far wall.

If this is a junior studio, I can hardly imagine what the rest of the rooms are like. It’s easily four times the size of Joanna’s space, bigger than the main floor of my house.

I’m stunned.

“What do you think?” Sonia asks, repressing her smile.

“When can I move in?” I stammer.

“It’s open now,” she says. “I can get you a keycard for the main door. The building is accessible twenty-four hours a day. There’s a mini-fridge in the corner as you can see, and the cafe on the main level makes an excellent iced latte.”

“Have I died? Is this heaven?”

She laughs. “Cole Blackwell is very generous.”

“Cole . . . what?” I say, trying to tear my eyes away from combing over every inch of this perfect space. The art I could make in here . . . I’m itching to get started.

“Mr. Blackwell owns this building. It was his idea to discount the junior studios. He may not have the most cuddly persona, but he supports his fellow artists.”

“Right, amazing,” I say, only partly following this. “Honestly, he could ask for my firstborn child and I’d gladly hand it over. This place is just . . . perfection.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sonia says, passing me her clipboard. “All I need is a signature. We can start with a six-month lease.”

“Any deposit?” I ask, thinking that will be the killing blow.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just bring me a check at the end of the month.”

“Cash okay?”

“As long as it’s not all ones and fives,” she says.

“I see I’m not the only waitress you know.”

“It’s almost a prerequisite in this industry,” Sonia replies, adding kindly, “I was a waitress, too, once upon a time.”

“Thank you,” I tell her again. “Really, I just can’t thank you enough.”

“Will you need moving services?” she says. “From your old studio?”

I do need that. Badly.

“How much is it?” I ask nervously.

“Complimentary,” she replies.

“Don’t pinch me, I don’t want to wake up.”

“Speak with Janice at the front desk on your way out and she’ll schedule you,” Sonia smiles.

She leaves me alone to soak in the warm sun, the scent of the clean wooden cabinets, the endless open space that I could run up and down like a bowling alley.

I’ve never been one to believe that when a bad thing happens, a good thing follows.

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