Page 18 of The Last Date

“That’s fantastic,” I said, leaning back in my chair in disbelief.

“As soon as you can ship them all over, we’ll hang them once the walls are finished.”

“Actually,” I said, “Drywall dust is not good for the artwork. We have an installation team we often work with who can hang everything for you perfectly as soon as the walls are finished and dry.”

“Even better,” Michael chuckled. “That should be Tuesday or Wednesday next week, but I’ll keep you posted. Send us an invoice, and we’ll run over a check on Monday.”

“Wonderful,” I said, trying to sound composed. “Thank you very much.”

“Thank you for saving the day and making me look like I knew what I was doing all along,” he laughed. “I’ll talk to you Monday.”

After we hung up, I stared at my phone on the glass desk. This was the sort of thing I would have loved to share with Oakley. I had no idea when I would hear from him. It was just so strange.

I quickly sent my boss a text with the approximate value of the thirty-two paintings I had just sold. As expected, he called me immediately.

“Is this some sort of joke so that I’ll send you home early on a Friday?” Collin laughed.

“Not in the slightest,” I said, waving to two ladies who were staring in the window. I gestured for them to come in and look around, and they tiptoed inside, remaining silent.

“I’ll be quick,” I said, which was our code for ‘there are customers around’.

“The Eastman Corporation had to decorate in a hurry, apparently, so their entire office is going to be full of our pieces next week.”

“Well done, Sasha,” he said. “Flip me a copy of whatever you sent them, just so I can take a peek.”

“Absolutely.”

“Eastman,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I read something about that corporation recently. “All sorts of local investments, like high-end restaurants. That sort of thing.”

The women looked like they had a question, so I cut him off. “Great, talk to you soon,” I said quickly, hanging up on him. Collin obviously understood that people in the gallery came first.

By the time I finished showing the two ladies all of our latest artwork, giving them some free brochures and postcards, it was time to lock up.

I went home practically bouncing with joy.

The second I walked into the house, Mom looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you so happy?” she asked.

My lips slid into a polite smile while holding my eyes back from rolling at her. “I sold thirty-two paintings today,” I said proudly. “I’m pretty sure it’s a gallery record.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, dear.”

My father came into the room already smiling and nodding. “That’s wonderful, Sasha.”

“That’s great that you could assist Collin with such a large order,” my mother said, walking into the kitchen.

I turned to my dad as my shoulders dropped. “I did the entire pitch myself. Research, plans, arranging the collection. But of course, she won’t believe that, will she?”

He came over to give me a hug. “For what it’s worth, I am ridiculously proud of you, honey.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe you’ll consider opening your own gallery someday,” he grinned, following Mom into the kitchen.

Only my mother could take joyous news and turn it into low-level seething irritation. Only my father could imply that doing a great job wasn’t enough unless you owned the place.

I spent the night curled up with a book, trying to shake off the dark mood.

Thankfully, Saturday passed quickly thanks to my endless art research, and I walked over to Sarah’s early to avoid the dinner conversation with my mother.

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