Chapter 3 - Thirty-Five Missed Calls
I almost laughed.
Not because Evelyn Grant had said anything funny.
Because the alternative was crying.
“My father doesn’t make expensive mistakes,” I said.
Evelyn raised one eyebrow.
“Everybody does.”
Connor remained beside the table while Evelyn continued turning the pages of my portfolio.
Unlike my parents, she did not rush.
She looked.
Really looked.
That alone felt unfamiliar.
She stopped on a graphite drawing of the old Crawford Theater, a building I had spent four winter evenings sketching before it was scheduled for renovation.
“Why is the street empty?” she asked.
“It wasn’t.”
“What?”
“There were cars. People. A bus stop. I removed them.”
“Why?”
“Because everybody kept walking past the building. I wanted to draw what it looked like when nobody was ignoring it.”
Evelyn glanced at me.
“That’s a better answer than most artists give me.”
I smiled nervously.
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
Then reality returned.
The check.
“I appreciate you looking, but I still have a problem.”
Connor nodded.
“I know.”
Evelyn looked at the bill.
“Twelve thousand four hundred fifty-nine?”
I wanted to disappear.
“My father ordered most of it.”
“And left you?”
“Yes.”
“To teach you a lesson?”
“Yes.”
Evelyn’s mouth tightened.
“I dislike lessons that require humiliating the student.”
She pulled one drawing free from its protective sleeve.
It showed the Wabash underpass after midnight, wet pavement reflecting the glow of traffic signals.
“What are you asking for this?”
“I’m not selling it.”
Her expression sharpened with interest.
“Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“You answered too quickly. That means it matters.”
“It does.”
“Then don’t sell it because you’re frightened.”
I looked toward Connor.
“That doesn’t help the restaurant.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “But perhaps I can.”
She asked Connor for a pen.
On the back of one of her business cards, she wrote a number.
Then she slid the card toward him.
“I will personally guarantee the account for seventy-two hours.”
Connor looked startled.
“Ms. Grant—”
“I’ve been coming here for fourteen years. You know where to find me.”
“I do.”
“If Amber fails to arrange payment, charge the card your office has on file.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
Both of them looked at me.
“I can’t let you pay twelve thousand dollars for someone you met five minutes ago.”
“I didn’t say I was paying it.”
“You just guaranteed it.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?”
The question came out harsher than I intended.
Evelyn did not appear offended.
“Good question.”
She sat across from me.
“I own Grant Contemporary.”
I knew the name.
Everyone who had worked around Chicago galleries knew it.
Grant Contemporary had started as one gallery and grown into several exhibition spaces, an art advisory company, and a private acquisition service.
I looked at Connor.
Then back at Evelyn.
“You’re Evelyn Grant?”
“I generally am.”
My face heated.
“I know your gallery.”
“That makes one of us. I did not know your work.”
She tapped the portfolio.
“I’d like to change that.”
I stared at her.
“This isn’t happening.”
“Why?”
“Because things like this don’t happen.”
“They happen every day. Usually after twenty years of rejection and several bad marriages, but occasionally over dinner.”
Connor almost smiled.
Evelyn continued.
“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Bring six finished pieces.”
“To your gallery?”
“Yes.”
“What happens then?”
“I decide whether I’m still interested.”
“And if you aren’t?”
“Then you have seventy-one hours to solve your restaurant problem.”
There was nothing sentimental in her voice.
That helped.
She was not rescuing me.
She was offering an opportunity.
There was a difference.
Connor agreed to document the account as temporarily guaranteed.
I signed three forms acknowledging the debt.
When everything was done, it was nearly midnight.
I stood outside Lucille holding my portfolio.
Cold air hit my face.
My parents had taken the car.
Of course they had.
I ordered the cheapest rideshare I could find.
During the trip to Highland Park, I kept staring at Evelyn’s business card.
At 12:42 a.m., my phone vibrated.
A message from Aunt Jennifer.
Your father says you needed to learn responsibility. I told him what I thought of that. Are you safe?
I typed:
Yes. Don’t tell them anything else.
Another message appeared.
This one from Riley.
You can stay with me. I mean it.
I looked out the window.
The city blurred into suburbs.
Then I made the first decision of my adult life without asking myself what my parents would think.
Can I come tonight?
Her answer came immediately.
Door’s open.
The rideshare stopped outside my parents’ house at 1:28 a.m.
Every downstairs light was off.
Dad’s Mercedes sat in the driveway.
They were home.
They had come home, gone to bed, and left me at a restaurant facing possible police involvement.
I entered quietly.
Two suitcases.
That was all I took.
Clothes.
Laptop.
Sketchbooks.
Paint supplies.
The ceramic mug my grandmother had given me.
When I came downstairs, Dad was standing in the kitchen.
He wore a robe and held a glass of water.
He looked at the suitcases.
“So you figured it out.”
I stopped.
“Was I supposed to?”
“The restaurant didn’t call the police, did they?”
“No.”
A smile almost appeared.
“See? You survived.”
Something inside me went quiet.
Not angry.
Not shattered.
Finished.
“You wanted them to call the police?”
“I wanted you to understand consequences.”
“Consequences for what?”
“For drifting.”
“I got laid off.”
“And instead of adapting, you came home.”
“You invited me home.”
“We gave you breathing room.”
“For six weeks.”
“Six weeks is plenty of time when you’re motivated.”
I looked at him.
“What would have happened if I had been arrested tonight?”
Dad sighed.
“Amber, stop dramatizing.”
That sentence.
I had heard it all my life.
Whenever he hurt me, my reaction became the crime.
Mom appeared behind him.
Her satin robe was tied perfectly.
“Where are you going?”
“Riley’s.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes.”
Mom looked at my bags.
“You’re being emotional.”
“No.”
I surprised myself with how calm my voice sounded.
“I think this is the least emotional decision I’ve ever made.”
Dad folded his arms.
“So you’re running away because dinner embarrassed you?”
“You left your unemployed daughter with a twelve-thousand-dollar bill and blocked her number.”
“You solved it.”
“That doesn’t make what you did acceptable.”
“I was trying to push you.”
“You did.”
Dad frowned.
I lifted my suitcase.
“You pushed me out.”
Mom’s face changed.
“Amber.”
“I won’t be coming back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
Dad actually laughed.
“You have two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred sixty-seven.”
“And where exactly do you think you’re going to live?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
His face hardened.
“With your drawings?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Those little sketches are not going to pay rent.”
“Maybe not.”
I opened the door.
“But if I fail, at least it’ll be my failure.”
Dad stared at me.
For once, he had nothing ready.
I left.
The next morning, after three hours of sleep on Riley’s couch, I went to Grant Contemporary.
Evelyn was waiting.
So were two other people.
One was her gallery director, Marcus Reed.
The other was an art consultant named Danielle Brooks.
Six of my drawings rested on a long white table.
For forty minutes, they examined them.
Nobody complimented me.
That made the silence terrifying.
Finally, Marcus pointed at the Crawford Theater piece.
“This one bothers me.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Because I keep looking at it.”
Danielle nodded.
“The perspective is slightly compressed.”
“I know.”
“Intentional?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the building is trapped between two newer structures. I wanted it to feel like it couldn’t breathe.”
Danielle looked at Evelyn.
Evelyn smiled.
Not at me.
At her.
That was when I began to understand.
An hour later, Evelyn made an offer.
Not a miracle.
Not a million dollars.
Something better.
Something believable.
Grant Contemporary would take four pieces on consignment for an upcoming emerging-artists exhibition.
They would advance me $15,000 against projected sales and commission work.
I nearly stopped breathing.
The first thing I did was call Connor.
“I can pay the restaurant.”
“You don’t have to do it today.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
That afternoon, I walked back into Lucille.
I paid $12,459.87.
Every penny.
Connor handed me the original receipt.
Then Dad’s note.
I stared at the handwriting.
Let’s see how failure finds her way out of this one.
Connor asked, “Do you want me to throw it away?”
I folded the note.
“No.”
I slipped it into my portfolio.
“I think I’m going to keep it.”
I did not know it yet, but that piece of paper would eventually hang somewhere my father could never have imagined.
And three days later, after I had stopped answering my parents entirely, I woke up to a phone screen filled with notifications.
35 missed calls.
5 messages.
Most were from Dad.
The final one said:
Amber, answer your phone. This is serious. You need to call me NOW.
For the first time in my life, my father sounded afraid.
May you like
And I had absolutely no idea why.
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