Page 62 of Can We Fake It?

“That’s the reality of it, ma’am.” I lean on my desk, itching to strike the final deal. “Now, will you take my initial offer, or will you leave and look for another museum to take it in?”

“But… But Ineedthe money,” she mutters, her eyes swelling with tears.

“Mrs. Dupont, for whatever price you settle for, you still get the money,” I tell her. “Please make the decision now.”

“Alright. I’ll sell it for your initial offer,” Mrs. Dupont says hesitantly.

Delighted, I present her the contract, read her the terms, and watch as she signs it. I go back to my desk and write the check, smiling as I send her off. As she leaves, I hear a bit of sniffling from the other side, and I sigh.

What can I say. I have that killer instinct. I got it from my papa. When most other Black men back in the day who managed to get into college were going into accounting or law or engineering, my Papa graduated from an HBCU, made his way to France, and put his Art History degree to good use.

He used American gumption and bootstraps and built a Black owned art museum in the heart of the lily white art world. And people flocked to him for it.

He taught me that if you work hard, no one will be able to pull you down.

“Such is the life of a person married to an individual in the arts,” I tell myself. As I begin packing up the papers, my phone rings. I pick it up, greeting, “Allair here.”

“Jenny! Wonderful timing! Is the sale finished?”

“Yes, Papa. Just finished.”

“Excellent! Let’s talk about it over dinner. Fancy eating at Chez Diane?” At my hum of agreement, he continues, “For now, hurry over to the other branch to meet me. I have something big to discuss with you.”

“Right now? I still have two clients left for the day.”

“I already asked Ainsley to take over for you. Please hurry as this is something that can greatly affect the museum.”

Interested, I pause in my task and reply, “I understand. I’ll be there in ten or fifteen, depending on the traffic.”

I place the last stack of papers on the side of my desk, pack up my stuff, and exit my office in record time.

REN

Igroan as I put my alarm to snooze, stuffing my head under the covers and shying away from the sunlight. Painting until three in the morning is never a good idea, but it also never stopped me from doing so.

I turn my alarm off completely after it goes off the second time, and I make a move to sit up. I run my fingers through my long hair, yawning despite the late hour.

“How long was I out?” I murmur, checking the time on my phone as I scratch my head. The screen flashes 12:13, and I sigh at the thought of losing half a day to sleep.

I get up and stretch languidly, allowing my muscles to relax. Walking to the middle of my room, aka my art studio, I observe my surroundings and laugh at the mess I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks.

It’s about time I tidy up, I guess.

I make quick work of the brushes, storing them away carefully in my brush jar, and placing them on the table beside the easel. I then move to my balcony doors and open them, letting the cool breeze in and pull the pungent smell of oil paints and linseed oil out.

The streets at this time of day are quiet, save for the kids playing downstairs and the occasional gathering from the neighbors across my apartment complex.

“Today’s a good day,” I muse to myself before returning to my task. I begin organizing my materials and equipment. At the same time, I take out scraps of paper and tissues and dump them in the trash bin by the door.

Once I’ve made my room look decent, I step out of my sleep clothes and head for the shower to wash off yesterday’s grime. My hands are spotted with oil paint, their colors mixing on my skin. I turn on the faucet and do my best to get the paint off, taking a small bit of glycerin and dabbing them on the painted areas before scrubbing them clean.

After most of the dried paint has come off, I strip off my clothes and take a proper shower. I take my time, stepping out thirty minutes later and drying myself off as I walk to my closet.

I throw on a simple oversized shirt and some denim shorts. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I take out the hairdryer and begin to dry my hair, brushing it as soon as I’m done.

I head to the living room, sighing as I weave through the countless paintings around me. Despite my luck of getting an apartment with a balcony, the space is still too cramped inside, especially with the number of paintings displayed everywhere.

But I keep this place even though I can afford something bigger because Dad got this for me when I decided to move out. Nothing can ever easily replace emotions and memories. This place is my home.

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