Bratwurst and Bridges

by Baganz, Susan M. ;

  She looked in the mirror now. Much better. She added some lip gloss, grabbed her purse and jacket and headed down for breakfast before her new agent would pick her up to meet some art publishing people in town. Her big show was tonight. At least now, she looked more like herself.

  “Skye, I hope you slept well.” The tall, reed-thin woman reached out a hand and shook Skye’s firmly. Dressed in a conservative blue suit with three-inch heels, Skye wondered that the woman could stay upright.

  “I appreciate you helping me, Sally Ann.”

  They caught a cab and Skye held tight as her agent kept up a running monologue of all the places they passed. Arriving at the address, they exited and Sally Ann paid the driver.

  “Well, once you signed that contract, it was the least I could do. There was no time to waste in this competitive world.” They walked into an office building that was all marble, glass, and gold trim. Stark. Art was important to this company?

  Skye followed the woman to the elevator and up to the fifth floor where they got off at a Christian publishing house that specialized in mass marketing Christian art. Sally Ann Rogers led her to a large desk.

  “We’re here to see Ronald. Could you let him know?”

  “Yes, Ms. Rogers.”

  “You’ll like Mr. Weston. He’s one of the good guys.” The door opened, revealing a polished man whose dark hair was edged with gray.

  “Sally Ann, how wonderful to see you. And this must be our new artist.” He thrust a hand to Skye. “Ms. O’Connell, it is a pleasure.”

  Skye allowed his large hand to envelope hers and draw her into the lavish office decorated in rich woods and carpet, a large mirror on the wall, and no artwork anywhere. Skye sat across from a large mahogany desk, suddenly self-conscious, and terribly out of place in this fancy room with these posh people. She suspected that to them she smelled like the dairy State, and they probably expected her to chant “Go! Pack! Go!” at any moment. Midwest was her roots but trailer-trash was her heart.

  “Let’s talk business. We loved these pieces you’ve done and would like more of them.” He laid out several prints she had forwarded. “This doesn’t mean you still can’t sell these images in larger formats, but like Thomas Kincaide, you can do both. Cards, calendars, journals, and possibly other things. Thomas is no longer alive and we’ve been looking for someone to fill that space in our market.” He shoved a piece of paper toward Sally Ann. “This would be your contract.”

  Sally Ann picked up the paper and scanned it over. “This is standard. Go ahead and sign it, Skye.” He slid the paper to her side of the desk and slapped an expensive pen down on top of it. Both people looked at her expectantly.

  She picked up the paper and started to scan it. She couldn’t make much sense of it.

  “Skye, the point of having an agent is that I vet the contracts for you. This is a good one and, for a first time out, it’s fair. Once they see how your work sells, they might offer you more.”

  Skye sighed. She signed the paper and pushed it back to her agent who signed as well.

  “Wonderful. Keep sending stuff to your agent and keep painting such inspired pieces.” The man stood. Skye did as well and followed Sally Ann out of the office.

  “That was wonderful. One more publishing house to visit today and then I’m taking you shopping to find the perfect outfit for your show.” The woman looked at Skye, scanning her from head to toe. “And maybe have something done with that hair.”

  Skye frowned but followed her agent. The same scene played out at the next publishing house and after a fancy lunch and an exhausting trip, Skye was back in her room to prepare for the evening. What she really wanted was to take a nap. She picked up her phone to call Dan.

  “Hello?”

  “Dan, it’s Skye. How are things going?”

  “Well, we’re all still alive and no one has visited the emergency room—yet.”

  There was a teasing tone to his voice, as well as exhaustion. “Is this too hard for you?”

  “How do you do this day in and day out? The kids are great but they missed school today because they both got sick. Between washing all the bedding, scrubbing carpets, and empting their slop buckets I’ve not had a moment to breathe.”

  “They’re sick?”

  “A touch of the flu. They haven’t tossed their cookies for a few hours, so I’m hoping the worst is over. How is New York?”

  “Loud. Busy. Cold. Exhausting. I don’t fit in here.”

  “Not the adventure you hoped it would be?”

  “No. I’m signing contracts right and left and something feels wrong about it all. Most of the people I’ve met are nice but my agent…she’s a bit pushy. She insisted I wouldn’t fit in to the crowd with the outfit I brought for this evening…without even seeing it.”

  “Regrets?”

  “Maybe. My art is as close to me as my children. They are pieces of my heart and it seems callous to be selling them.”

  “You need to live. You don’t paint with your kind of talent only to hide it away. God’s given you a gift.”

  “Maybe so…still, it’s been weird. Listen, I’m sorry the kids got sick. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon and you can rest, and I hope you don’t catch what they have.”

  “You were with them before they got ill as well. If a bug is going around you might have been exposed. I hope you don’t get sick while you’re out there.”

  “Thanks for taking good care of them.”

  “Don’t worry. Your mom’s been checking in with us too. We’re going to survive this.”

  “I really do appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help. I’ll continue to pray for your show tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Skye hung up and looked at the slinky black dress. She at least managed to talk her agent out of four-inch heels. Sure, she was on the short side but she was comfortable with her height and didn’t want to risk a twisted ankle. There were classes to teach when she got back. She sighed and got dressed for the show.

  She surveyed herself in the mirror. Her hair had been braided and twisted into an intricate updo at the salon. Skye frowned. Her agent wanted her to forgo her glasses, not believing that she really did need them. The image looking back at her in the mirror with the heavy makeup and fancy hair wasn’t her.

  Skye went to wash off her face and applied her own minimal makeup. She looked at the mirror. Her head ached from how tight the braids pulled at her scalp and the bobby pins stuck in everywhere. She glanced at her watch. There was time.

  ~*~

  Skye walked into the art gallery and was pleased her work was displayed so beautifully. Wait staff dressed in tuxedos served wine and hors d’oeuvres. Skye saw Sally Ann before she was spied. The agent gasped when she caught a glimpse of her protégé.

  “What have you done?”

  “It is the dress and boots you purchased.”

  “But your hair. Your face. It’s all wrong.”

  Skye folded her arms. “For who? It’s right for me.” Her hair wasn’t stick straight after those braids, but she suspected by the end of the evening the waves would work their way out.

  Sally Ann shook her head. “It’s all wrong. You are presenting the wrong image.”

  “And what image is that? I’m the artist. I’m representing myself and no one else here.”

  “You represent my agency.”

  “Would you rather I leave?”

  Someone cleared their throat from behind Skye and came alongside her. “Sally Ann.”

  “Chet, this is Skye O’Connell, the artist you are displaying.”

  Chet turned a stunning smile to Skye. “Here I thought you were a patron, and instead I behold an artist as compelling as her work. Enchanté.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back.

  “Thank you for showing my paintings.”

  “How could I not after you’d been so gracious to let me sell a few of your previous pieces. You made me decent income and if we are lucky, tonight will be a hu
ge success.”

  “You sold with Chet before?” Sally Ann frowned at Skye.

  “Well, yes. Before I signed with you Chet sold a few pieces.”

  “I was thrilled to get a full collection to showcase. I’ve had people asking after you especially after a photo of your fabulous painting appeared in that national magazine this past week.”

  “Which one?”

  “That wonderful one of the man…”

  Oh, no! But Dan wasn’t a magazine reader from what she could tell. “Excuse me.” Skye strode down the room to the restroom and leaned against the sink. What were the chances that Dan would ever see that magazine? Especially if the painting was buried inside? She shook her hands at her side. Calm down. It’s going to be fine. Who doesn’t want a painting to be noticed? Am I nuts?

  She went back to the room as more people in fancy dress came to peruse her paintings. Most did not recognize her as the artist so she would hang around to look at a painting and listen to what people said.

  “Oh, darling. I love the colors in this one. It would look lovely in the back hallway,” an older matron said to her husband. Skye didn’t know whether to take it as an insult or compliment.

  At another painting, “Pietar, you’re the expert. What do you think of this one?”

  “Interesting composition and the brush strokes are flowing, which show a serenity of spirit as she painted this. I think this would be lovely in your studio.”

  Serenity? She painted that one when in dark despair, worried, and wondering about what the future held. She shook her head. That was the beauty of art. Every person looking at a piece could draw something different from it based on what his or her experiences were. She should be happy that at least the comments were positive.

  Well, at least until she got to the next one. The man’s nose was in the air and his glasses clouded any clear view of his eyes. He shook his head and whispered to her,

  “Who could this artist be? A nobody, I bet. Trying to fly in the big leagues. Well, she isn’t any Rembrandt or Monet that’s for sure.”

  Skye looked at the painting in front of them. “Who do you like in the art world?”

  “Moi.” He placed his hand on his chest with dramatic flair.

  “What do you paint?”

  “Everything. Landscapes, people, kittens.”

  “Kittens?”

  “They don’t sit still very well, I must admit. I take their picture and paint from that.”

  “Interesting method.”

  “Someday the world will notice my genius. This artist?” He motioned to her painting. “A blip on the scene. Here today and gone tomorrow.”

  “Skye?” Chet came up to her. “You’ve met Mr. Ambrose? He’s here to give a review of your art.”

  Skye cringed inside. Obviously, it wasn’t going to be a good one. “We’ve not been introduced. He was telling me how much he hated my style of painting and predicting the demise of my career.”

  Mr. Ambrose turned to look at her. His jaw dropped. A hand came to cover his mouth and he turned and took off helter skelter out of the room, nearly hitting people.

  “Did he really trash your work in front of you?”

  Skye frowned and swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

  Chet put a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry about him. He’s all hot air and puffed up consequence, but he generally gives artists a good review. I’ve heard him raving over some of the paintings.”

  “He’s not going to hold it against me that I didn’t introduce myself?”

  “There’s a photo of you in the brochure. He should have been able to recognize you.”

  “You printed my photo?”

  “Well, considering we were advertising that the artist would be present at the show, yes.”

  Now Skye wanted to run back to the bathroom and throw up. Maybe she had the flu like her kids did? Wouldn’t that be inconvenient…and messy?

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder with creepy familiarity. “Come, darling, let us meet societies’ elite.”

  The night flew by in a blur, but her paintings had sold and her agent was thrilled. She didn’t run into Mr. Ambrose again.

  Back at the hotel, she sat by the window taking in the view of the lights from the city that never sleeps. This whole trip felt like one big mistake. Did God even care? Sure she had contracts, but too much legalese and her street smarts started to make her second guess her every decision. Every signature seemed like a mistake. Had she signed all her dreams away?

  So, God? What is it You want for me? Am I another mistake? One after another? Am I ever going to feel like I fit in? That I’m worth even having a chance at something worthwhile? Even some security would be appreciated. She rose to change and paused as it hit her. The only person who ever made her feel OK with being her—was a certain pastor who was sleeping on her sofa and had spent a day cleaning up after her kids. The one person who she used, unintentionally, to get where she was. Not with the babysitting…but by being an inspiration for her very best piece of art.

  She fell into bed. Her feet hurt from wearing heels and standing the entire time. Snow was falling in the Big Apple and she longed to be home. Sick kids and all.

  And she wanted to see Dan. She had some explaining to do.

  TWELVE

  Every moment and every event of every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul.

  Thomas Merton

  Dan stretched out on the couch. Skye would be home today. He made all the beds, including Skye’s after the kids had thrown up there as well. They finally settled down in the afternoon and even after their naps, they were lethargic and wanted to watch television. He let them. He was beyond exhausted. Every cough during the night had him jumping up to make sure someone hadn’t vomited somewhere. He feared walking down the hall in his bare feet and finding something he didn’t want to step in, but thankfully, it never happened.

  The kids ate toast for breakfast and a banana each. Everything had stayed down so he was hoping macaroni and cheese for lunch would be a hit. The phone rang.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi, Dan. How are the kids?”

  “Much better today but still tired. Low energy but other than that, good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “How did the show go last night?”

  “Everything sold and some collector expressed a desire to purchase more.”

  “That’s amazing. Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks. But I have bad news.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a blizzard in New York. The airport shut down. I can’t get a flight out until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll survive. Maybe you can catch a Broadway show while you’re there?”

  “I doubt it. Those sell out way in advance and nothing right now interests me.”

  “You are going to come back from New York without doing anything touristy?”

  “I don’t have the money and I don’t want to be out in this city alone. And, in case you forgot, there is a blizzard going on. Not the day to visit Central Park.”

  “Good point.”

  “I’m exhausted after yesterday and how often does a single mom get an entire day to herself? I have my sketchpad so I might go people watch in the lobby, read a book, or take a nap.”

  “As wonderful as those all are and you definitely deserve them, I’m sad that you can’t pamper yourself more on this trip. Does the hotel even offer massages? That would be a wonderful treat.”

  “The price of that would be worth six months or more of macaroni and cheese for my kids. I can’t waste that kind of money.”

  “OK. Well, try to enjoy your day.”

  “I will. When I get home though, I do have something I need to share with you.”

  “I look forward to that conversation.”

  “You might not when I’m done.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No…but I have. Thanks, Dan. See y
a tomorrow.”

  “See ya.”

  Dan hung up the phone and stared at it for a minute. What had she done wrong and why did she need to tell him? He wasn’t a priest.

  When the kids were down for their nap, Dan ran next door to get a change of clothes for the next day. Church. He rolled his eyes. He’d be taking two kids, who were not his, to church. Wouldn’t that get the tongues wagging? Maybe he should skip? After all the kids had been sick. He shook his head. What kind of coward had he become? He was helping a friend. If that friend had been Tony, he wouldn’t be worried. But it was an attractive woman who happened to be his neighbor.

  You can’t control other people’s actions.

  True, but I can keep from feeding fires.

  Fire? There’s no fire and maybe he was shortchanging his congregation.

  And maybe it will be a non-issue. He’d never done anything to put his reputation at risk before. His integrity went before him. He needed to not worry about this. The kids needed Jesus just as much as their mom did.

  They’d go.

  ~*~

  The sofa three nights in a row for a man of his height, could definitely rate as cruel and unusual punishment when coupled with nightmares and a little girl missing her mommy. Dan didn’t even bother sleeping until his alarm, but did get a much-needed shower in before the kids found him for whatever it was that they needed next. Moms deserved sainthood.

  The weather was frigid, but at least they didn’t have a blizzard. He got the kids bundled up and into the car, but the car wouldn’t start. He hauled them back inside the hallway to wait where it was warmer. He practically froze his gloved fingers off transferring the car seats to his sedan. He finally got the kids in and buckled up, and they barely made it to church in time. He checked them into their classrooms, grateful that at least the lateness meant not as many people saw him with the children. Not that he was ashamed, but it meant fewer people to question him. He would not be so lucky after the service when he needed to go pick them up—along with every other parent there.