“Tell me about the lily painting, Sadie,” Hasan said. “What was in your heart when you painted it? How can we capture that mood again? Because that painting was special, and I think, if you can tap into that darkness, that fury and sexuality once again, we would be onto something here. Perhaps you know I consider myself not just a collector, but a mentor as well. Someone who nurtures the expression of passion and emotion.”

Jesus. Had this kind of talk always sounded so ridiculous?

“What was in your heart, Sadie Frost?” he asked again, putting his hand against his chin.

I nodded. “My heart. Yes. Well, Hasan, to be honest, money was in my heart, because I was getting six grand for that painting. Also, copying was in my heart, because anyone could see it was a Georgia O’Keeffe knockoff. I just played with some texture in the oils to make it a little different. Aside from that, I didn’t have much in my heart at all.”

“Oh. That’s . . . that’s disappointing.”

“Hasan. I’m a hack. I painted those lilies to match the owners’ comforter. These . . .” I gestured to the paintings in front of us. “These are me trying to please you. Maybe I should’ve used some fabric swatches as inspiration.”

He frowned. “You clearly have talent. Did you bring anything else?”

I hesitated. Why not? My dad would want me to. I wanted me to. At least I could show this guy something that was authentically mine. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

In the last pocket in my portfolio was the sunset picture, the one I’d painted the day of the storm. To me, it was the best thing I’d painted. Ever.

Except for Noah’s clouds.

I pulled it out and watched him take it in. And I took it in as well. I could almost feel the calm of that day, hear the birds, the distant shush of the ocean, feel the damp salt air of springtime.

“Eh,” he said. “Any art student could do that. That’s not the kind of thing my clients are looking for.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you for the opportunity.” I started gathering up my sexy-beast flowers.

“I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “I’ve wasted your day.”

“It’s okay. Really. These aren’t me, these flowers. That sunset is, and I understand SoHo is not the place for sunset pictures.”

“Would you still like to have lunch? Perhaps I could give you some guidance about where the market is these days.”

“I think I’ll get back to Connecticut. But thank you.” I shook his hand, and left.

It was official. I was never going to be that artist.