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Authors: Desiree Holt
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entry and willingly paid the fee to have this work exhibited. When they had chosen her favorite for the competition, she’d screamed with joy and done a little happy dance, glad Killian hadn’t been in the house to hear or see her.
She had actually wrapped it in brown paper herself before Killian drove her to the city to get it shipped. She wasn’t taking any chances he’d catch a glimpse of it and refuse to let her show it. She classified her work as prairie art, leaning toward the Western of Frederick Remington and Charles M. Russell. Except, where they’d concentrated on the West of the late nineteenth century, Lexie had focused on the contemporary scenes of today.
She’d asked the committee contact how the paintings were being staged, especially since this was in a private gallery. She’d breathed a sigh of relief when she was told the gallery would be closed for two days prior to the show with brown paper taped over the windows so no one got a preemptive look.
Standing before the locked front doors, she pulled out the special identification tag she’d been given and knocked.
“Yes?” The door cracked open, and a woman peered out at her. “We’re closed. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” She held up her identification. “But I am one of the entrants and I wanted to check on my painting. Is that possible?” She wet her lips. “Please? I just want a peek.”
The woman glanced at the badge and at Lexie and her features softened. “Of course. But be quick about it. The judges will be here this afternoon and will come back to view again tomorrow. That’s when they make their decisions. We’re expected to be ready for them.”
“Of course, of course. Thank you.”
She slid into the gallery, heard the door click shut and lock behind her. She paused, drew in a deep breath to steady herself, and looked around. The huge gallery took up two floors connected by a winding staircase. The entries were everywhere, some hanging on walls, some on easels. Volunteers ran around with checklists in their hands, making sure each one was in its proper place.
“This way.”
The woman nudged her and led her toward the right. And there it was, safely arrived. It hung against a curved wall, with a spotlight arranged just so to bring out the vibrant colors and the careful brush strokes. It was even more striking against the stark white of the wall. She’d known when she finished this it was the piece she would enter. She’d already had it in her mind to apply this year, even as nervous about it as she was.
For one brief moment, the present disappeared and it was three years ago. She was in Savannah, waiting breathlessly for the judges to make their announcements. Rick had stood next to her, his arm around her, whispering encouraging words to her. Words that meant nothing when first place and the solo showing went to him.
Oh, he’d been so self-effacing and so sympathetic. Telling her third place was just a stepping stone and to think of all the other entrants who came away with nothing. That later they’d have a quiet dinner in their room and he’d show her just how wonderful she was. Third, for heaven’s sake, when everyone else said first should have been hers. She’d figured at the time the judges had to give her something, hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss if and when she found out what happened. Not even the praise the critics had given her or the consoling words of other students eased the pain.
She’d actually thought she might get past this and keep trying until she heard two women in the luxurious restroom make sniping remarks about Rick and how his money had bought him the prize. One of the women was a judge who’d laughed about the obscene amount of money he’d offered her and how she knew she’d have been a fool to turn it down.
She’d fled from the restroom as soon as it emptied, raced to their hotel room, thrown her things into a suitcase, and gotten the hell out of there.
She had actually wrapped it in brown paper herself before Killian drove her to the city to get it shipped. She wasn’t taking any chances he’d catch a glimpse of it and refuse to let her show it. She classified her work as prairie art, leaning toward the Western of Frederick Remington and Charles M. Russell. Except, where they’d concentrated on the West of the late nineteenth century, Lexie had focused on the contemporary scenes of today.
She’d asked the committee contact how the paintings were being staged, especially since this was in a private gallery. She’d breathed a sigh of relief when she was told the gallery would be closed for two days prior to the show with brown paper taped over the windows so no one got a preemptive look.
Standing before the locked front doors, she pulled out the special identification tag she’d been given and knocked.
“Yes?” The door cracked open, and a woman peered out at her. “We’re closed. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” She held up her identification. “But I am one of the entrants and I wanted to check on my painting. Is that possible?” She wet her lips. “Please? I just want a peek.”
The woman glanced at the badge and at Lexie and her features softened. “Of course. But be quick about it. The judges will be here this afternoon and will come back to view again tomorrow. That’s when they make their decisions. We’re expected to be ready for them.”
“Of course, of course. Thank you.”
She slid into the gallery, heard the door click shut and lock behind her. She paused, drew in a deep breath to steady herself, and looked around. The huge gallery took up two floors connected by a winding staircase. The entries were everywhere, some hanging on walls, some on easels. Volunteers ran around with checklists in their hands, making sure each one was in its proper place.
“This way.”
The woman nudged her and led her toward the right. And there it was, safely arrived. It hung against a curved wall, with a spotlight arranged just so to bring out the vibrant colors and the careful brush strokes. It was even more striking against the stark white of the wall. She’d known when she finished this it was the piece she would enter. She’d already had it in her mind to apply this year, even as nervous about it as she was.
For one brief moment, the present disappeared and it was three years ago. She was in Savannah, waiting breathlessly for the judges to make their announcements. Rick had stood next to her, his arm around her, whispering encouraging words to her. Words that meant nothing when first place and the solo showing went to him.
Oh, he’d been so self-effacing and so sympathetic. Telling her third place was just a stepping stone and to think of all the other entrants who came away with nothing. That later they’d have a quiet dinner in their room and he’d show her just how wonderful she was. Third, for heaven’s sake, when everyone else said first should have been hers. She’d figured at the time the judges had to give her something, hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss if and when she found out what happened. Not even the praise the critics had given her or the consoling words of other students eased the pain.
She’d actually thought she might get past this and keep trying until she heard two women in the luxurious restroom make sniping remarks about Rick and how his money had bought him the prize. One of the women was a judge who’d laughed about the obscene amount of money he’d offered her and how she knew she’d have been a fool to turn it down.
She’d fled from the restroom as soon as it emptied, raced to their hotel room, thrown her things into a suitcase, and gotten the hell out of there.
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