Page 37 of The Wrong Husband

"Any other artists you admire?" she asked me as she continued to look at my work.

"I'm a big fan of Leonora Carrington. I find her paintings mystical and fantastical, very dream-like with strong, symbolic imagery."

Marcela moved to another canvas.

"What's this called?"

"What do you think?" I challenged.

The painting showed the iconic San Francisco skyline, but the buildings were bending and warping as if made of liquid, with windows turning into eyes and rooftops sprouting whimsical, oversized flowers.

"City in Bloom?" she offered.

"Urban Mirage."

"I like that much better."

She walked past a couple of canvases and then paused at the one I called The Endless Streetcar. It was my favorite. In the painting, a streetcar floated above a winding road, its tracks dissolving into a series of cascading staircases that led to nowhere. Passengers inside the streetcar had random, elongated faces, reminiscent of characters from a fantastical dream I'd had.

"Well now. This is…," I waited with bated breath and when she said, "magical," I was all but ready to go down on my knees and weep.

"Really?" I couldn't believe it. Marcela Archer came to my loft and said a painting of mine was magical.

"Why on earth are you working as a buyer for a salon company?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "I'm not now. My mother and sister said they needed me. I couldn't turn them down."

"You couldn't turn them down? I thought they were doing you a favor."

"Mama called me and said she needed the position filled desperately. I turned down a job at Sotheby's to work for them."

Marcela's eyes flashed anger. "Why on earth would you do that, considering your talent?"

I looked at my feet, feeling sheepish. She had that impact—very teacher to errant student. "They needed me and if family needs you…well, you show up. Right?"

Marcela put her hands on her hips and stared at me so hard that I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. "You're nothing like I thought you'd be."

I raised my eyes. "What did you think I'd be like?"

Marcela smiled then and waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. Emilia, you have a distinctive style. Your use of color and form—it's both playful and thought-provoking. It's rare to see such a unique perspective from someone as young as you."

I watched her nervously, unsure of her verdict. Marcela Archer could make or break an artist's career with a wave of her hand.

"Could you say that again so I can record it?" I managed to joke through a throat constricted with emotion. "And can you say your name so everyone will know you said it and it's not AI generated."

My eyes filled with tears and Marcela groaned. "I haven't said one mean thing to you. You cannot cry."

I brushed the first tear that came barreling down my cheek. "I'm just so happy. No one has said anything nice about…well, anything to do with me and that you do it about my work. You can't imagine—"

"Enough." She waved a hand to silence me. "Are you looking for a job?"

"I'm hoping I can work at the museum. I've worked for Dr. Joachim De Jong on a freelance basis."

Marcela arched an eyebrow. "You restore paintings?"

"Yes." I told her about the paintings I'd recently worked on.

"Fuck Joachim, he's a jerk who's probably always staring at your tits when he talks to you."