Page 35 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Twenty
The Day I Witness Jess’s Groove Is Back
When That Spanish Bastard told me I’d smashed through the wall, he was right. I’ve got twenty-five pieces of evidence. These canvases, covered to completion, are stacked unframed in a corner of my ‘studio.’ I woke up at dawn with an urge to look at them. Something about the creation of these has been making me wake up early and go to bed late. Thumbing through them, it dawns on me that I might want to show these soon… to the public. My heart rate increases at the idea, and a smile spreads over my whole body. It is at this moment – I shit you not – that my phone rings.
I’m expecting a telemarketer to start their spiel, so I am neither patient nor friendly when I answer. “Hello?”
“Nicole Henry?” a male voice asks.
I sigh. Loudly. “Oh God. If you’re trying to sell me something, you have two choices: save your breath, or get a verbal beating. You pick.”
He laughs. “I’m not a telemarketer.”
I’m not amused, nor convinced. “Prove it, because who the hell calls at 7:30 in the freaking morning?”
“I appreciate you curbing your impulse to use the more vulgar term. I’m up early because I wake at 4:30 a.m. every morning for my jog. It helps me think. I’m callingbecause I’m Jack Fleming of JF Gallery in Greenwich and I’ve been told I need to meet you… that you’re quite the painter. You certainly have quite the temper, so that bodes well.” He chuckles.
I drop the phone. It hits the hardwood floor and bounces, with me in hot pursuit. Why didn’t I keep at least ONE rug???
“Sorry! Sorry. Mr. Fleming? Are you there?”
“Did you throw the phone?”
“No… my cat scared me and I dropped it. Like in those horror films… where the cat jumps out during a silent moment?”
He says earnestly, “I hate it when they do that.”
“Me too!” And I yell to my imaginary cat, “Bad kitty! Don’t scare mommy like that.” I hit my palm to my forehead and mutter, “He ran into the bedroom. We’re safe now.”
“What kind of cat do you have?”
“Let’s not talk about my cat. What can I do for you, Mr. Fleming?”
“I got a call from a friend about you. Are you free to come by this morning?”
“Who called?” My first guess is Jessica. She knows a lot of people because of the magazine.
“Ms. Henry? Ms. Henry, can you hear me?”
“I’m here!”
“Shit. I lost the signal. I’ve got full bars, too. I hate these things.”
I hear rustling.
“Mr. Fleming?”
The phone goes dead.
I set it down on the table and because my legs feel like they’re going to give out, I use a wall to prop myself. Vibrating rattles yank my attention back to the phone. I stare at it like it’s not real, because it can’t be. This can’t be happening. A reputable art dealer is calling? For me?
My heart pounding, I grab it just before it goes to voicemail. “Mr. Fleming?”
“There you are. I lost the signal somehow. Are you in a bad zone?”
“No. I don’t know what happened.”
He mumbles under his breath, “Stupid technology,” then says in a normal volume, “I have a very tight schedule, but I can fit you in if you can come here before nine o’clock. Work for you?”
Silently (thanks to fuzzy socks) I jump up and down twice. “Sure… yeah. I think I can do that. Sure.”
“Great. I assume this is a cell?”
“It is.”
“Great, I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”
“Yes. See you soon!” We hang up. I run into my bedroom, throw the phone on the bed, and attack the problem that is finding the perfect outfit in less than fifteen minutes.
Rapidly sifting through my closet, I whisper, “It’s happening, Momma!” and in my mind, I see her smiling down on me, so proud.