In fact, Hasan Sadik SoHo was the gallery where I’d tried to explain to Noah why my skyscape paintings were touristy drivel and not true art.

And now the owner—Hasan Sadik himself—was desperately hoping I was free to show at his place. Just like that, a chance came out of the clear blue sky.

This could make my career. Every dream I’d ever had about art reared up and hugged me tight.

All I had to do was bang out some more Georgia O’Keeffe–type work, using the same kinds of touches I’d used on the vagina painting to make it clear that it wasn’t just a knockoff and . . . and . . .

Shit. I’d be established. I’d be that New York artist, discovered after teaching Catholic school for years and years and making paintings that matched upholstery. It was a great story!

I needed to get to work. Mom had Dad at Gaylord today, so my schedule was clear.

I took a few deep breaths and, hands shaking, wrote back to Hasan Sadik, saying I’d love to meet with him and was a great admirer of his gallery. Kept it short and sweet, and nearly fainted when he wrote back immediately, offering to send a car to pick me up, and perhaps we could also have lunch? And did I have an agent he should be including in these e-mails?

I’ll be in touch in the next day or two, I wrote, too overwhelmed at the moment, and afraid I’d say something stupid. Thank you so much for your interest.

Thank God I’d taken down my website years ago so he couldn’t see all my previous attempts to be artistic and unique (or read my idiotic bio where I mentioned Robert Frost). I pulled up some images of Georgia O’Keeffe’s work and printed out a couple for inspiration. Somewhere in one of my unpacked boxes was a juicy coffee table book on her flower paintings. Which box was it, dang it?

Listen. All work was derivative. It wasn’t like I was doing anything that hadn’t been done a million times before. I found the book, flipped through it and settled on a white rose, the oriental poppies and an iris.

A chance like this did not come around very often. I’d be an idiot to turn it aside. “Mommy’s going to be a famous artist,” I told Pepper, who nuzzled my hand encouragingly. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” I set aside my sunset painting from yesterday, got a couple of canvases out of the closet, and started working, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that was telling me to slow down.