Art on Fire by Hilary Sloin

Author:Hilary Sloin [Sloin, Hilary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612940328
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 2013-04-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Francesca peeled the magnet from the refrigerator door and watched the list it held in place float and drift underneath the appliance and out of sight. She held her four canvases, two under each arm, and headed out into the bright day. The air seemed impossibly clean. No dust, no turpentine. The descent onto Commercial Street deposited her in the east end. From there, it was easy to find the gallery; its chimney spat smoke into the cold air. The other buildings were inert, hibernating through the long season.

Mrs. Wallace was seated in an office at the back of the room, talking on the telephone. Francesca put her paintings carefully on the damp ground, pulled open the heavy door, her pulse quickening, and, grabbing her canvases, stepped inside. Her sneakers hiccuped against the polished wood floor.

A series of uniform paintings hung on the white walls of the spacious room. A large card posted at the beginning boasted “Jack Wagner, longtime Truro resident” in careful calligraphy. The first canvas, centered on its own wall, was titled Triple Sail on a Foggy Day. Francesca stared at the gruesome expressions on three fishermen—wet hair stuck to their gray skin, rain needling their faces as they struggled to gain control of the bloated sail. She continued through the room, skimming the twenty canvases. They were all concerned with the sea: men, boats, various afflictions of natural violence. They reminded Francesca of the covers of saltwater taffy boxes sold in souvenir shops along Route 6.

She walked slowly toward the office, clutching her paintings, trying to silence her rubber soles against the polished floor. This had been a bad idea, she decided, the result of too much loneliness, a swollen head, too many toxic chemicals, too much fantasy. Just as she put her paintings down outside the office, hard little wheels backed up over the warped, wooden floor. Mrs. Wallace hung up the phone and turned to her. “Are those original paintings?” she asked.

Francesca turned. “Yes,” she said.

“I’m Charlotte Wallace. Curator. And you are?”

“Hi, Mrs. Wallace. Remember me?” Francesca put the paintings down in case Charlotte wanted to shake.

“I’m sorry—” Charlotte stared at Francesca, but there was no connection to be made between the girl who had shoveled her walk and the one standing before her.

“I’m Francesca DeSilva. I shovel your path.” Francesca gestured, pretending to have-at a stubborn pile of snow.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t recognize you without all your gear!” She glanced out the window, expecting snow.

Francesca gestured. “I brought my paintings. But then I realized I’d made a mistake.”

“Oh.” Charlotte looked disappointed. “You mean because of Jack?” She nodded at the walls. “Don’t pay him any attention. He’s my ex-husband’s lover and, as part of my divorce agreement, I have to give Jack his own little show every year. Frankly, it’s becoming a nuisance. It gives people the wrong impression. That’s why I stick him in December, when no one is likely to come around.” She glanced at the canvases. “As long as you’re here, give us a look.

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