Evie's career trajectory had changed in the way so many things did, purely by chance. She'd only been back from England for a few months and was having a stay-in girl's night with Grace at her loft, when her friend swore out loud, nearly spilling her wine as she jerked up from her relaxed position on the sofa.
"Shit!"
Startled, Evie set her own wine glass down. "What is it?"
"I completely forgot! I told Trey I would pick up the housewarming gift for the party tomorrow." She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall across from her. "Shit!"
"They're Trey's bougie-ass friends, why do you have to buy the gift?"
"I don't have to, I just told him I would." Grace shook her head, frustrated. "He's been working so much lately, when he mentioned he hadn't had the chance to shop yet, I offered to do it for him. And now it's too late." Her face morphed into a look of pain.
"Can't you do it in the morning?"
"No, I cannot do it in the morning because it's a housewarming brunch."
"So?"
"So I have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn to drive to Connecticut with Trey to be on time for mimosas and poached eggs in some designer breakfast nook in an oversized colonial that probably has a goddamned white picket fence around it."
"I'm sure Trey will understand, Grace."
"You're right, he would, but the guilt might kill me."
Cocking an eyebrow, Evie laughed. "Seriously?"
"Trey James is a good man. The best man I've ever dated. He's considerate. He's intelligent. He's responsible. And he is fine. I want to him to feel the same about me. I'm trying not to screw this up. I want…" She sighed. "I want to deserve him."
"You do, G. Of course you do!"
Grace leaned forward, looking Evie in the eye. "He already thanked me for helping him. Thoroughly thanked me. Have you ever been thanked by a man with a well-groomed goatee?"
Evie snorted. "I thought you said not to trust men with goatees!"
"Englishmen with goatees. A brother with a goatee is a whole different story. Especially one who knows how to use it like Trey."
"I suppose the way he fills out his bespoke suits doesn't hurt, either."
"No, it does not," Grace chuckled, then she sighed. "I have a decent sauvignon blanc at home. I'll just tie a ribbon to the neck and call it a day."
"I have a better idea." Evie stood and walked over to a shelf in her workspace, inspecting what was displayed there. Finally, she plucked a bowl from among the pieces and brought it to her friend. "Take this. The colors are subtle, so it shouldn't be too bohemian for Biff and Miffy."
"Bill and Misty."
"Whatever. They can use it as a fruit bowl or put some potpourri in it. Do suburban trophy wives still like potpourri?"
"Perish the thought." Grace admired the bowel. It was white on white, with subtle blends of the various shades filling in the impressions and carved relief images. "Girl, I can't take this. It's one of your best pieces. Way too nice for a housewarming brunch in Connecticut."
Evie shrugged. "I've been really productive lately. I'm running out of shelf space. You'll be doing me a favor."
Her friend glanced at all the new work lining the shelves of the loft. "I see that. Are you snorting Adderall?"
"What? No," she laughed. "You know I don't do drugs. I've just been… inspired."
Grace studied Evie's expression skeptically. "Uh huh. Well, at least let me pay you." She reached into her purse, pulling out a handful of bills and pressing them into Evie's hand. "I know it's worth so much more than this, but this is what I have on me."
"Grace, no. Just take it. I don't want your money."
They'd had a friendly argument over it, with Evie finally agreeing to take enough to cover the costs of the materials (later, she found three more twenties stuffed halfway under her potter's wheel, though Grace denied leaving them there. "Must've been the art fairy," she'd said, batting her eyelashes innocently over Facetime).
As it turned out, even though Grace had insisted Evie had saved her, it was Evie who ended up reaping the rewards of Grace and Trey's thoughtful gift giving. Though Bill and Misty had reportedly fawned over the present, it was one of the other party attendees who was most taken with it. Bill, having been promoted recently to senior analyst at the hedge fund where he worked with Trey (hence the pay raise leading to the new American dream home), had invited not just friends and colleagues, but also a handful of important clients to his wife's housewarming brunch. One of those clients was impressed enough with Evie's fruit bowl that he talked her contact information out of her friends.
"Be expecting a call," Grace was telling her over the phone as she and Trey drove back into the city. "He probably wants to buy pieces to give his wife and his mistress. And don't undercharge him! He's that kind of rich where you go by your first initial and your middle name."
P. Norton Powell.
As in P. Norton Powell Jewelers. He was a designer and a business owner (more CEO than artist lately, according to Forbes). His exclusive boutique jewelry stores graced the most elite shopping districts in the most cosmopolitan places in the world. Beverly Hills. Milan. The French Quarter of New Orleans. Tokyo. And, of course, the flagship store in Manhattan.
Call her he did. What he proposed left her astounded.
"We're redesigning our local store. When I saw your work, I understood immediately how I wanted to finish the space."
"I'm… flattered, Mr. Powell. This is not at all what I was expecting."
"Oh? What were you expecting?"
"I thought maybe you needed a unique wedding gift, or a vase to give your wife for your anniversary."
He chuckled. "Ms. Alexander…"
"It's… uh… Jackson, actually."
"Is it? I could've sworn you etched 'E. Alexander' onto the bottom of Bill and Misty's piece."
Had she? In her fervor, late at night, or early in the morning, perhaps she had, absently.
"Alexander is a family name. I sometimes use it professionally," she lied to save face.
"I see. Well, Ms. Jackson, while I'm certain your work would make a lovely wedding or anniversary gift, if the piece I saw is reflective of what you do, I suggest you start thinking bigger."
"I appreciate that. And please, call me Evie."
"And you must call me Phillip." So that was what the "P" stood for.
"Alright. Phillip." She gave a crisp nod of acceptance, even though he couldn't see her.
"Can I arrange a time to come to your studio? I'd like to bring my designer so we can select a few pieces for the store."
"My studio is actually in my apartment," she said. "I don't have a separate space."
"If you're comfortable with that, so am I."
"Um, sure. Yes."
"My assistant will call you tomorrow to get the address and arrange a time, if that suits you."
"It does, Mr. Powell. Thank you."
"Phillip," he reminded her. "I'll see you soon."
The assistant had called as promised, and a meeting was set for later that week. Some particularly intense nightmares had ensured Evie continued her productive streak right up until P. Norton Powell and his designer, Lola LaGrange, walked into her loft.
"So nice to meet you," Evie said, shaking Lola's hand as Phillip introduced them.
"Likewise," the chic woman replied. "I'm anxious to see what Phillip has been raving about all week. The photo was intriguing."
Evie's forehead wrinkled and her nose scrunched, illustrating her confusion. "Photo?" Her eyes bounced back and forth between the man and his designer.
"Yes," he admitted. "I snapped a picture of the bowl with my phone while I was at the brunch. I hope you don't mind."
"Oh, no. Of course not."
"Do you have more like that to show us?" Lola inquired, her eyes moving past Evie to scan the shelves on the other side of the loft.
"There are several pieces, um, born from that same inspiration," Evie replied, stepping aside, and holding her arm out to indicate that her guests should feel free to cross the space and inspect her work.
"It this your latest collection?" Phillip asked, bending to admire a row of vases, bowls, and statuettes with the same color scheme and relief designs as the piece she'd given Grace for the housewarming. She thought she was helping a friend in a pinch, not realizing what that gesture would mean for her. The fact that P. Norton Powell and his interior designer were in her apartment now, looking to purchase her work, had her a little thrown.
Evie nodded. "Yes. I'm still adding to it."
"It's absolutely primal," Lola remarked in an admiring tone as she moved alongside Phillip. She glanced over her shoulder at Evie as she reached her hand out toward a tall, cylindrical vase. "May I?"
"Absolutely. Feel free to handle anything you like."
With a look of fascination, the designer pulled the vase from the shelf, turning it in her hands then lifting it to eye level to inspect it closer. She ran her thumb around the ridged lip.
Phillip gazed intently at the piece as his designer inspected it. "I agree with Lola," he finally said, turning to face Evie. "Primal. But it's more than that. It's almost savage." He turned back to the vase, running a finger along the impressions at the top edge as the designer had done only a moment before. "Are those… teeth?"
Evie smiled, delighted he was picking up on the subtle shapes she carved into the piece. "Very good. That's why I've named the series Tasting Life."
Lola hummed her approval as her boss looked more closely at the details of the vase.
"They look sharp," he remarked.
"Yes. They do."
"More like fangs, really. Like something I'd imagine in a tiger's mouth. Or some other ferocious beast."
She gave the piece a thoughtful glance, brow furrowing. "I can see that. I'd almost say more like a dragon, but that's the wonder of art, isn't it? It's subjective. Everyone interprets it through their own unique lens."
"And your unique lens makes those dragon teeth to you?" he chuckled, but she only shrugged, her expression becoming enigmatic. "And that one there," He continued, pointing toward a bowl. The color and shape marked it as part of the same collection. "Fingernails? Or… claws? They look rather sharp, too."
Evie swallowed. "Ah." She walked closer to the display. "You, uh, might be detecting a bit of my own history of anxiety here. Teeth and fingernails go together like rice and gravy for an anxious kid." At his confused expression, she clarified. "I was a nail biter when I was younger."
He grinned. "Maybe you should've named the series Tooth and Nail instead."
"If only I'd met you sooner," she teased, "though I'm not sure how marketable that name is."
"You have a point. I suppose that's why I pay a top-notch marketing team for my own business." Phillip chuckled and Evie laughed along with him. "But in all seriousness, you could've named it anything. The art speaks for itself."
Art. Her head nearly swam at the word. It still thrilled her to hear others refer to her work this way. Not a hobby. Not a craft. "Thank you."
He glanced down at her hands. Her nails were short, and neatly trimmed. "Seems like you've kicked the habit," he noted.
"I manage my stress differently now." She nodded toward the display, one side of her mouth curling up sardonically. She did not say that her definition of what was stressful had changed suddenly, and drastically. And all it had taken was a few days across the pond, sharing a roof with fiends and monsters.
"Art can be a profitable coping mechanism."
"That's very true. I never got paid to chew my nails."
He nodded. "The vases and bowls are sealed? I mean, are they watertight?"
"These aren't just display pieces. Everything I make is fully functional," she assured him, "and toxin free. If you want to put fruit in one of my bowls, it will remain edible. If you want to bring your wife a bouquet of flowers, you can put them in one of my vases without worrying the water will leak."
As Phillip chatted with Evie, Lola busied herself snapping photos of several pieces with her tablet. She then began tapping the screen furiously. After a few minutes of this, she raised her head, grinning at the CEO.
"I think I've got it," she told him.
He nodded. "Well, let's show the artist, shall we?"
Lola strolled over, moving next to Evie and holding the tablet up to show her what she'd been working on. The screen displayed a mockup of the interior of P. Norton Powell Jewelers' newly renovated Manhattan location. Set about the space were pedestals, recessed wall niches, and display tables. Gracing each was one of the pieces from the Tasting Life collection.
"Oh," Evie said, eyes widening, "I see." She nodded, bending her head for a closer look at the screen. "I get what you're going for. But here…" She pointed to a prominent table with the largest of her bowls set in the center. "It wants… something bigger. Something grander."
"I agree," Phillip said. "Do you have anything bigger?"
"I don't. But now that I see what you're after, I can create something. Here, like this." She was already moving to her desk and grabbing a sketch pad and pencil. She worked for a few moments, her wrist flicking as the lead dragged across the paper in sure, rapid strokes. She turned the pad, showing Lola and Phillip what she'd envisioned.
"Perfect!" the designer declared. "You can do this?"
"I don't usually work with this size," Evie admitted, "but only because there's not the demand for it." She grinned, adding, "Well, that, and I lack the space in my apartment to store too many like it, as I'm sure you can see. But if this is what you want, I can do it."
Both Lola and Phillip agreed it was what they wanted, and so, true to her word, Evie created it. A tall vase, narrow at the top and widening with graceful curves to the base. With such a large area to work with, Evie was able to marry all the motifs of the collection in the one piece. Suggestions of tooth and claw, in a cascading ombre of whites, from bone, to cream, to alabaster. When she attended to the re-opening of the store (Phillip had insisted on sending a car for her, so she arrived in style), she saw that the smaller vases and bowls boasted bouquets of white calla lilies, but the large center piece was filled with the deepest red hibiscus flowers whose throats were so richly dark that they appeared almost black. The contrast was shocking. It drew the eye, and held it.
Phillip greeted Evie, pecking her cheek and saying, "Ah, the brilliant artist." Smiling, he gestured to the woman at his side. Evie thought he might say she was his wife, but he surprised her by introducing her as Joanna Altman, director at the Fincher Gallery of Contemporary Art.
"I love what I've seen of your work," Joanna said as she shook Evie's hand. She would learn over time that the woman's manner was nearly always so direct. "It's…"
"Let me guess," the artist replied, glancing at P. Norton Powell with a smirk. "Primal?"
Joanna grinned in a way that made it obvious she'd heard Phillip and Lola's descriptions as well. "I was going to say beautiful," she corrected. "And frightening."
Beautiful and frightening. Just like the man who had inspired the work.
Evie bit her tongue to keep from saying it out loud.
Joanna Altman's critique convinced Evie that the woman understood her, and that they would work together very well. It seemed the gallery director was of the same opinion. She pressed her card into Evie's hand and instructed her to come to the Fincher Gallery Monday at ten.
Later, Evie would marvel at the notion that the most random of chances could cascade, one atop another, to equal good fortune in some cases, and near-disaster in others. A friend forgetting to purchase a housewarming gift for people she barely knew could result in an opportunity so fortuitous that it still seemed surreal many months later. And that same friend swiping a swag bag from a genetics company event could result in the discovery of long-lost family, a whirlwind courtship, and an occult wedding ritual fit for a Stephen King novel.
Followed by a year of nightmares. And dreams, too; ones she found even more frightening.
Lying in her bed, staring into the dark, she wondered if having that occult wedding and then killing her monstrous husband with fire made her a widow or a murderer.
Perhaps it was both.
With that thought, Evie closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep and dreaming of Walt's fingertips ghosting over her shoulder and down her arm as he called her, "My love."
