Chapter 2: First Impressions
The Ashford Gallery sat on Michigan Avenue like a gleaming white temple dedicated to expensive taste. I stood across the street for ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to walk through those pristine glass doors.
Everything about the building screamed money and sophistication—from the perfectly manicured sidewalk to the elegant script on the windows. This was a world I'd only observed from the outside, and now I was supposed to walk in like I belonged.
"You can do this," I muttered, adjusting my least-wrinkled dress shirt. It was still wrinkled.
The gallery's interior was even more intimidating than the outside. White walls, polished concrete floors, and track lighting that made everything look like it belonged in a museum. A few well-dressed people wandered around, speaking in hushed tones as they examined paintings that probably cost more than my annual rent.
"Ms. Carter?"
I turned to find a woman in her fifties approaching me. She was elegant in that effortless way that comes from money—perfectly styled silver hair, expensive jewelry that looked casual, and a smile that seemed genuine.
"I'm Victoria Ashford. Thank you so much for coming."
Her handshake was firm and warm, and when she smiled, I caught a glimpse of something maternal that made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
"Thank you for the invitation. I'm still not sure how you found my work."
"Art has a way of finding its audience, don't you think? Come, let me show you around."
Victoria led me through the gallery, pointing out various pieces and explaining their significance. She talked about art the way other people talked about their children—with passion and pride and deep knowledge.
"This piece sold last week for eighty thousand," she said, gesturing to a canvas that looked like someone had thrown paint at it randomly. "The artist spent six months perfecting the color relationships."
I nodded like I understood, but mostly I was calculating how many years of rent eighty thousand dollars would cover.
"Now, tell me about your work. What drives you to create?"
The question caught me off guard. Most people asked technical questions. Nobody had ever asked why I painted.
"I guess... I paint because I have to. Like breathing."
Victoria's smile widened. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd say. True artists don't choose their calling—it chooses them."
We stopped in front of a stunning landscape that looked like it was painted with liquid light.
"This artist started on the streets, you know. Graffiti, illegal murals, the whole rebellious phase. Now his work hangs in the Metropolitan Museum."
My heart skipped. "Really?"
"Oh yes. Some of the most powerful art comes from pain, from struggle. The streets teach you authenticity in a way art school never could."
I stared at her, wondering if she somehow knew about my own illegal activities.
"Would you like to see where your pieces would be displayed?"
She led me to a smaller room off the main gallery—intimate but well-lit, with enough space for maybe a dozen paintings.
"The 'Emerging Voices' exhibition opens in three weeks. We typically feature five new artists, each showing three to four pieces. The opening reception draws serious collectors, critics, museum curators."
"Museum curators?" My voice cracked slightly.
"Art is a business, Lucy, but it's also a calling. The right piece in the right hands can change lives—the artist's and the viewer's."
I walked around the empty room, trying to imagine my paintings hanging on these perfect white walls. It felt like a dream, the kind that usually ended with me waking up disappointed.
"I should mention, there is a small exhibition fee. Five thousand dollars to cover insurance, framing, marketing materials."
My stomach dropped. "Five thousand dollars?"
"It's quite reasonable for a gallery of this caliber. Most of our artists recoup the investment with their first sale."
I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. Five thousand dollars might as well have been five million. I didn't even have five hundred in my bank account.
"Of course, if the fee is a concern, we do offer payment plans for exceptional artists."
"Payment plans?"
"You could start with a smaller amount—say, five hundred—and pay the rest after your first sale. We believe in investing in talent."
Hope fluttered in my chest like a caged bird. Five hundred I could maybe manage, especially if I sold a few more pieces to private collectors.
"That sounds... possible."
"Wonderful. Why don't you think about which pieces you'd like to display, and we can schedule a time for you to bring them in?"
Victoria walked me toward the exit, her hand resting lightly on my arm. The gesture felt protective, almost motherly.
"Ms. Ashford, can I ask how you really found my work?"
She paused at the door, studying my face with those sharp green eyes.
"A mutual acquaintance mentioned your talent. Someone who cares about your future very much."
"Who?"
"Does it matter? What matters is that you're here now, ready to take the next step in your career."
After I left the gallery, I called Tommy from a coffee shop around the corner.
"How did it go?"
"I think it went well. She seems really nice, really professional. But Tommy, there's a fee."
"How much?"
"Five thousand."
The silence stretched long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
"Tommy?"
"That's a lot of money, Lucy."
"She said I could pay five hundred up front and the rest after I sell something."
"And if you don't sell anything?"
I hadn't thought about that possibility, mostly because it was too terrifying to consider.
"I'll sell something. I have to."
"Lucy, I've been doing some research on gallery fees. Legitimate galleries don't usually charge artists to display their work. They make money from sales commissions."
My stomach clenched. "Are you saying it's a scam?"
"I'm saying be careful. If something seems too good to be true..."
"Maybe nothing good is ever going to happen to me if I keep assuming it's all a scam."
Tommy sighed. "I just don't want to see you get hurt. Or lose money you can't afford to lose."
"I can't afford not to take this chance."
When I got home, I spread all my finished paintings across my tiny apartment floor. Portraits of people I'd met on the streets, abstract pieces inspired by late-night city sounds, landscapes of urban decay and beauty existing side by side.
They were good. I knew they were good. But were they five-thousand-dollars good?
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Looking forward to working with you. -Victoria
I stared at the message, trying to ignore the little voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Tommy's warnings.
This was my chance. My one shot at something better than hiding in alleys and living paycheck to paycheck.
I picked up my three best paintings—the self-portrait, a piece called "City Dreams" that showed a homeless woman surrounded by swirling colors of hope and despair, and a landscape of the Chicago skyline at dawn.
"Okay," I said to the empty apartment. "Let's see what happens when Lucy Carter stops hiding."