The sound of my phone ripped me from the nightmare. The early morning sun filtered through my white curtains, and I let a few deep breaths of air cleanse the tendrils of the horrid dream from my lungs. My phone continued to ring, and I reached over to swipe it from the little nightstand that held a mess of books and dirty dishes.
I tapped the green button and held it to my ear with a shaky hand. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Avery Quinn, please?” a female voice responded.
I sat upright. “This is she.”
“Good morning, Avery,” they replied. “I’m calling on behalf of Gallery Danes regarding the temp position. Would six o’clock this evening work for you?”
Bewildered, I glanced around my room. Then flexed my hand in front of me, ensuring myself this was real. I wasn’t still in a dream. “I’m sorry… uh, what’s this about?”
A slight sigh came through the line. “The temp position available at Gallery Danes. We’re conducting interviews this evening. I called the number you provided on the application.”
“I… I didn’t apply–”
“Avery Quinn. Foundation year at NSCAD. I have your application right here. Sent in yesterday,” they said with a clip of annoyance.
I rubbed at my tired face. What was happening? Then it hit me. I flung the blankets off and stood from the bed. “Yes. Oh, yes. Sorry,” I feigned a laugh. “Mornings. Yes, six o’clock works perfectly. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent,” the woman replied evenly. “Bring your portfolio. Celadine will see you then.”
Celadine. Kell-ah-deen. I rolled the word over in my mind. Such a unique name.
I let her hang up first before I set the phone down and stormed out to the apartment. I grabbed a pillow from the couch as I stomped over to Julie’s bedroom and swung the door open. She was asleep, but her eyes peeked out from under drowsy lids as I hurled the pillow at her.
She bolted awake. “What the hell?”
“Guess who just called me for an interview?” I stood and crossed my arms.
Julie blinked the sleep away and yawned over a grin.
My eyes bulged. “You applied for me?”
“You wouldn’t have done it otherwise!” she countered. “And I know it would have killed you to see someone else get the job.”
I spun on my heel and stormed away with a groan.
“You’re welcome!” she called after me, her laugh trailing behind.
She was right. I just wished she’d told me. With everything that’s been happening… I didn’t need any more surprises in my life. I’d forgotten all about the job opening, but at least I had the whole day to prepare.
As six o’clock neared, I pulled into the gallery parking lot and turned off my bike. As I removed my helmet and stared up at the looming building with a smile, I couldn’t tuck away. I loved this gallery. Tess had brought me here so many times over the years, even dared to sign me up for a weekly kid’s art class when I was seven. It was the first time I’d been around so many kids my age in the same room. It had been the best six weeks of my young life. Even though it made her nervous to be in the city, she’d brought me in every Saturday, and I always walked away so sure of what I’d wanted in life.
This. I’d wanted this. And still did.
With a deep breath, I headed for the grand entrance, a set of black double doors nestled in the face of the massive alabaster building. Its old gothic design was just one of many sights to behold in the city. Halifax was well known for its boastful historic architecture. Gothic revival, Victorian, Georgian. Restored brick exteriors, mismatched yet cohesive, littered the streets as intricately carved gargoyles and other creatures watched over everything from ledges and pointed tips that cut the sky.
Gallery Danes was no exception. A stark white gem in the center of it all. The plaster exterior seemed to soak up the sunlight as two large columns held up a beautifully carved awning that shadowed the two black entrance doors. I gripped the brass handles and tugged them open, immediately met with the familiar scents of paints and ink and damp concrete.
I strolled over to the front desk, a semi-circle in the middle of the front space, topped with white marble to match the sprawling floors. A receptionist sat behind it. She spotted me and smiled as she clicked the Bluetooth device in her ear.
“Hi,” I greeted as I approached the desk. “Avery Quinn. I’m here for the temp interview?”
“Excellent,” she replied, and I immediately recognized her voice from the phone call earlier. She pointed to the left, where a small group of people waited in rows of black leather chairs. “Have a seat with the others, and I’ll let Mrs. Danes know you’re here.”
The phone rang, stealing her attention away, so I just nodded in thanks and strolled over to the waiting area. I spotted a few familiar faces. People from my school. Some from my class, others I’d just passed in the halls. Older, more experienced. Definitely more qualified for this job than I was.
There were only a few empty seats, all surrounding one person. A girl. And, as I made my way through the dozen or so applicants, I realized why these seats were empty.
They circled the angry chick from class.
Her silky black hair was done in a million tight braids she piled loosely atop her head, and her lips were coated in a matte black lipstick, only slightly darker than her skin, that added to her intimidating beauty.
I stopped in my tracks as her black eyes peered up at me with a look that said, Do it. Sit here. I dare you. I chewed at the inside of my lip as I contemplated my options. I could stand against a wall and wait. Or I could take a seat next to her and brace against whatever spite she threw my way.
Whispers rose from the others, undoubtedly gossiping about the scary bitch that sat off to the side by herself. And, at that moment, I realized something. She was just a girl. Like me. An art student. She wasn’t some terrifying monster. She wasn’t going to bite.
And I would not let her intimidate me.
I marched over to where she sat and took a seat right next to her with a brazen smile. I ignored the resounding gasps that piped up from the others and plucked a magazine from a little side table. I mindlessly flipped through the pages, unable to read any of the words. The weight of her stare pressed in on me. I could practically feel her discontent pulsing in the slight stretch of air that hovered between us.
Some time passed. Three applicants went into an office when called and emerged after only a few minutes each. Their faces alight and beaming, as if they’d just seen their favorite celebrity. I’d never actually met or even seen the gallerist, Mrs. Danes. I was curious now but couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything else aside from the tangible anger that radiated from the left.
I closed the magazine and turned toward her. “Look, I get it, but if you’re still angry about the coffee–”
“What the hell are you rambling about?” The whites of her eyes grew, contrasting beautifully against her dark skin. Almost hypnotizingly so.
I struggled to find words. “The, uh, the coffee I spilled on you during orientation.”
She just rolled her eyes and angled her legs away from me as she crossed one over the other. “That’s the least of my worries.”
What was her deal? “Well, regardless, I’m sorry.”
She pretended to pick at her perfectly manicured black nails. Matte, like her lips. “Just stay out of my way.”
A rush of embarrassment flooded my cheeks. “I… I didn’t know I was–”
The office door swung open again, and the woman called out a name. “Maxine Carmichael?”
The girl seething in unwarranted anger rose from her seat and smoothed out her silky black romper. Jeez, she was like a dark goddess. Everything about her was perfect, not a hair or pore out of place. She headed toward the woman in wait, not bothering to throw me a second glance as she disappeared behind the door with a leather portfolio tucked under her arm.
I let out a long, hot breath that I hadn’t realized was burning in my chest and glance
d around. My eyes caught the gaze of one of the other applicants, a girl I recognized from the halls at school. I tipped my chin, keeping her attention, and leaned closer.
“Who is that chick?” I asked her. “The one that just went in?”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?” I shook my head, and she sighed. “That explains a lot. That’s Maxine Carmichael. Local artist and a total bitch. Fucking talented as hell, though. I’m not even sure what she’s doing at NSCAD. She doesn’t need it.”
I wanted to ask more, but the guy next to her began speaking, and the girl turned to engage with her friends. I sat back and pulled out my phone. I punched Maxine Carmichael into Google. Her website was the first in the search results, followed by endless local news articles featuring her art. I scanned unblinking at the dark wonder of Maxine’s work. While mine could be considered magical, colorful, and whimsical, Maxine’s was dark, tortured, and… violent. Blood and charred footprints, broken bones, and blackened forests. A quick look around her website proved she had preferred mediums–charcoal and sculpting.
The office door swung open and ripped me from the obsessive haze. Maxine strutted out, no sign of a smile, but she wore a sense of smugness as she stomped right by me, her chin held high. As she passed, she glanced down and flashed me a look that said good luck. But not the wishful kind, more of a… good luck doing better than me.
“Avery Quinn?” the woman called as she checked the clipboard in her hands.
Suddenly wrought with nerves, I stood and made my way over to the door. She motioned with her arm and ushered me inside. The door closed behind me, and I turned to find an office so unlike the pristine neatness of the gallery.
Heaps of books laid about, threatening to topple over at the slightest touch. The walls were littered with frames showcasing beautiful sketches of landscapes–mountains, meadows, the sea. Shelves sagged under the weight of more books, broken up by haphazardly placed trinkets. And, in the center of it all, a desk.
A woman sat behind it, waiting patiently for me to acknowledge her. But I had no words to offer, only the look of utter surprise. Mrs. Danes was unlike anything I was expecting. All day, I’d dreamed up the image of a sweet older woman, dressed in beige pantsuits with hair neatly tucked back in a bun, maybe a pair of glasses balancing on her nose.
But I stood and stared back at a stunning woman. I struggled to believe she was much older than Aunt Tess. Her exposed arms displayed tattoos that covered nearly every inch of the palest skin I’d ever seen. Dark eyeshadow rimmed violet eyes–no doubt contacts–behind a pair of oversized cat-eye glasses. Her hair was a heap and tangle of dreads and braids she kept swooshed atop her head, and I immediately knew why Maxine had changed her own hairstyle today.
“Avery Quinn, I presume?”
I shook away the daze. “Yes, yes, that’s me.” I lunged forward, a little too eager, and offered a hand to shake. She happily accepted it, and I marveled at the soft coolness of her skin. Like a doctor’s touch. “Thank you for seeing me today, Mrs. Danes.”
She let out a puff of air and waved me off. “Oh, god, please, call me Celadine. I’m not old enough to be a Mrs. yet.”
Words. Why couldn’t I find them? My mouth gaped soundlessly as I continued to stare at the eclectic beauty before me. My hands sweat, and I fumbled with the leather portfolio in my grip. Celadine grinned and motioned to the chair across from her desk.
“Please, have a seat.”
I plunked down in the plushy chair and waited for her prompt to start the interview, but she only eyed me curiously, her chin resting on her delicate and tattooed hands.
“Have we met before?” she asked.
“What?”
She leaned back in her chair. “You look familiar. Surely we’ve met somewhere. A showing?”
My cheeks warmed. “Uh, no. I would definitely remember meeting someone like you.”
I regretted the words immediately, but Celadine only chuckled under her breath as she shifted in her seat and picked up a piece of paper. She pushed her glasses further up her nose and read.
“Avery Quinn. Foundation year at NSCAD.” She set the paper down and eyed me. “Are you enjoying your classes?”
“Yes, very much so,” I told her. My clammy fingers gripped my portfolio tightly. Why was I so nervous?
“Have you chosen your preferred field to focus on yet?”
Finally, a topic I could talk about for days. Somewhere, deep down in my gut, stirred a bit of confidence. “I want to experiment with as many mediums as I can while doing my first year, but I have been focusing on watercolors, oil paints, and sketching for most of my life.” I swallowed dryly. “But I hope to move into Fine Arts, eventually. Get my Bachelor’s.”
One of her dark eyebrows arched. “And where do you see yourself in, say, ten years?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat and avoided her direct gaze. “One day, I’d like to be where you’re sitting, actually. I want to run my own gallery.”
She stared at me for a moment, a little too long for comfort. What was she thinking? Did I look like a little fool to her? This was an interview for a temp job to clean the gallery, and here I was spewing off dreams of grandeur.
Celadine held out her hand, palm up. “Let’s see your work.”
I stomped down the self-consciousness that bubbled up and leaned forward to place my portfolio in her hands. She flipped through its laminated pages, examining each one with an unreadable expression behind those cat-eye glasses. Finally, she handed it back to me.
“Avery, tell me why you think you deserve this position over the many others who applied.”
Her statement caught me off-guard. She didn’t even comment on my work. My mind raced for a reply, but all that came out was, “I don’t.” Celadine tilted her head. “Any of those applicants would be a great choice, I’m sure. There’s a lot of talent out there, people who would love to work here.”
Again, she let a long and empty pause hold the space between us as she eyed me curiously.
“The job is a paid temp position,” she finally spoke and began ruffling through the mess of papers on her desk. “It’s just minimum wage, but you’ll learn a lot here, even though it’s just one day a week. Saturdays. But I might get you to come in on the occasional Sunday, too.” She stopped and glanced at me from over the rim of her glasses. “Are you cool with that?”
My entire body hummed with excitement and disbelief. “Yes, I can definitely do that.”
“Excellent,” Celadine replied and nodded at a particular piece of paper she’d been looking for. She handed it to me. “Fill this out with your tax and payment info and give it to Helen at the front desk. You can start tomorrow if you like. Just for an hour. Pop in and learn the ropes.”
I shook my head. “Wait. I have the job?”
“Yes,” Celadine assured. “That is if you want it.”
My cheeks went tight with a smile. “I do. Yes, I absolutely do. Thank you so much.” I chewed at my lip. “But, what about the others?”
She chuckled. “I’ll let them down easily.”
Celadine stood and came around the desk to open the door for me. I stood from my seat and tucked my portfolio under one arm while I shook her chilly hand with the other.
“Thank you,” I told her, and she just nodded once. Just as I passed through the doorway, I turned. “Oh, I just wanted to say how much I loved the Mitchell Showcase you did last year. The nighttime theme, it was breathtaking.”
Celadine gave me a satisfied look. One that spoke more than a thankful response. “I think you’re going to like it here, Avery.”
I knew I would. This was my dream job. But I left the gallery with my stomach in knots because I also knew that Maxine Carmichael was my competition, and she didn’t strike me as the type to lie down easily. Or at all.
Chapter Five
I slowly fell into a comfortable routine. My nerves seemed to settle, and the nightmares kept at bay. The days turned into a couple of weeks, and I
woke each day eager and ready. I learned my way around the labyrinth that was my school. Classes were something I looked forward to; being immersed in a world of everything I loved.
However, sitting in the same room with Maxine each day was no picnic. I’d said nothing about my new job except to Julie, Tomas, and Tess. And I knew the exact day Maxine figured out she didn’t get it. The class had ended. Everyone began filing out of the room and dispersed into the halls outside. Maxine’s phone rang, and she stopped to answer it as I’d bent to tie my sneaker, and I’d overheard her already angry tone drop to a low bellow of annoyance.
“Then who got it?” she’d seethed into the phone. “That’s fucking bullshit. Do I need to get my mother–Just tell me.” Her wide eyes flashed to me from across the hall, and a shiver ran down my spine. She’d said nothing, just tossed her phone in her bag and spun on her heel before leaving the building. I’d heard the front entrance door slam from where I stood, frozen on the second floor.
She hadn’t said a word to me since. Didn’t stop her from giving me a death stare every chance she could, though. Or a hip check in the hall. Or slamming doors in my face as we moved from studio to studio for different classes.
But, as much as I’d wanted the gallery job, the wrath of Maxine was making me question it. Especially after I realized that being a weekend temp at an art gallery literally meant janitor. Two weekends in a row now, I’d hopped on my bike and drove to work, where I spent my time cleaning up after the kids’ art classes, mopping floors, dusting displays, and refilling the stock room. I’d yet to even cross paths with Celadine, let alone learn anything of value about my chosen career.
On the third Saturday, at the end of my shift, the sun tucked itself behind the horizon and a deep orange hue filtered in through the windows that lined the front of the gallery. I meandered in the space near the front where the kids had finished their art class, taking my time cleaning up the mess as Helen packed up her things for the day. I wanted to wait around, wanted to see if I could at least catch a quick exchange with my boss. Remind her that I worked here, and I could do much more than grunt work.
A Kingdom of Iron & Wine : New Adult Fantasy Romance (The Ironworld Series Book 1) Page 6
