The music blasting from the speakers is nothing like my last show: it’s boisterous, confident, triumphant.
Because that’s how I feel.
I’m on top of the fucking world right now. I don’t need to wait to hear what everyone thinks of my show. I fucking love these paintings. I loved every minute of making them. I put them out with overflowing pride, with confidence that everyone who saw them would feel something: they’d feel what I felt painting them.
Every woman who walks the galleries is laughing and pointing out their favorite images to their friends.
I’ve deliberately invited every woman in this city that I admire. I want them all here, celebrating who we are and what we can accomplish.
It’s not about wishing we were JFK. It’s about planning how we WILL be, in the not-too-distant future. The next person who stands behind the presidential pulpit and gives a speech that enlivens the heart of the nation won’t be an old white man.
I put Sonia in charge of the whole thing, from the guest list to lighting to marketing materials. This is Sonia’s gallery, a new space she’s rented on a 12-month lease, primo real estate in the heart of the east end. The palatial galleries are already filling with her favorite female artists, some local, some international.
This is her debut as much as mine. She is slaying, holding court in a stunning black gown, closing deals faster than her newly-trained assistant can keep up.
I hold my glass up to her across the room in a silent toast to her future success. She grins back at me, letting Allen Wren believe that he’s getting some kind of deal on the hottest new artist out of Mumbai as he signs the purchase agreement.
Cole is just as busy, arguing with Marcus York at top volume. Marcus is trying to rope him into another sculpture, this time for Golden Gate Park.
“No fucking way! The last one almost killed me.”
“What, from a little snow? Come now, we’ll build this one in the summer!”
“We won’t build it at all, ‘cause I ain’t doin’ it.”
“You need time to think.”
“I need time to drink,” Cole says, seizing another glass of champagne off a passing tray. “I don’t know if I’m going to work at all this year.”
“You don’t mean that,” I say, slipping between him and Marcus York and stealing a quick kiss. “You love working.”
“I used to love working,” he says, grabbing a handful of my ass, not giving a fuck if York is still watching. “Now I’m distracted by more interesting things …”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear you say that,” I pretend to pout. “Because I heard about an opportunity opening up in Venice …”
I pull the plane tickets out of my purse, fanning them open dramatically in front of him.
“I need a hot young artist to accompany me … I could write you a letter of recommendation if you’re interested?”
“What’s gotten into you?” Cole says, pulling me into the adjoining gallery so he can kiss me deeper and harder. “Whatever it is, I like it …”
I tilt my head up, running my tongue along the side of his neck, all the way to his ear. Then I murmur, “I took a little drive this morning. Stopped in Bakersfield.”
Cole goes still, his hand resting on my lower back.
“Oh, really?” he says, no hint of play in his voice now. “Did it satisfy?”
I hesitate, really considering how I feel.
“It feels right,” I say, at last. “It feels good.”
I can feel him smiling, his face pressed close to mine.
“Because it is,” he growls.
Epilogue
Cole
Venice
1 Week Later
Bust Your Knee Caps – Pomplamoose
Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple
Mara and I stroll along Salizada San Moise in the heart of Venice. It’s the middle of Carnevale, and everyone around us wears full costume. A grinning Arlecchino in a colorful diamond-print suit dances in the doorway of a glassworks shop, and a white-coated Pulcinella serenades us from the balcony of the Bauer Hotel. Even the gondoliers punting the famous canal boats have dressed as characters from the Commedia dell’Arte.
Mara wears a black velvet jacket and breeches, brocaded in gold. A magnificent scarlet ostrich feather adorns her tricorn hat, and her pale white mask stops above brilliant scarlet lips.
She looks like a pirate queen. I’ve never been more enthralled by her.
Carnevale is the perfect environment for my pleasure kitten. She’s soaking in the wild sea breeze, the scent of fresh fried moleche, and the chaotic color and music of the street fairs bursting out of the narrow alleyways between the opulent old buildings.