Jackpot Summer, page 21
Sophie made a slow 360 turn in her studio. South-facing, double-height windows bathed the room in sunlight all morning long. On the opposite wall, floating metal shelves held tubes and cans of premium paints lined up in rainbow order. There was a slop sink with neat dividers and space to soak even her largest rollers. Her other supplies—scissors of all sizes, paint thinners, sketchbooks, synthetic and natural hair brushes, sponges, scrapers and pencils—were organized with neat labels on three matching rolling carts.
And she had plants. So many plants. A five-foot Ficus with verdant leaves stood next to a lush maple with leaves like stars. Scattered around the studio were four stable, top-quality easels that didn’t fall over when too much pressure was applied to the canvas. And yet.
The canvases, her new ones, were blank. Bare to the bone. Pure duck canvas, triple-primed, archival quality, purchased from an art supply store based in Florence that shipped internationally. Sophie used to loiter around her local Blick until the drool got to be too much, wishing she could buy the professional-grade supplies but settling for the lower-quality substitutes. Now she had a one-pound container of ultramarine pigment that cost more than fifty dollars and was still sealed shut.
Only one canvas was alive with color, her work-in-progress, Look at this Stuff. The one that was half-sold to the suited man who made her promise to contact him the minute she finished it. What had she done since that day? Added some detail to the steel office towers in the background. Layered a glaze over the bronze paint to make the Vessel more reflective. She’d done both of those things before the Powerball. Ariel’s T-shirt was still blank. Her pose needed adjusting. But each time Sophie lifted a brush, a paralysis crept from her elbow to her wrists to her fingers.
Maybe it had been a mistake to rent this studio when there was plenty of room to work alongside Ravi. Shortly after the Powerball, Sophie had moved in with him. When there was no financial stress clouding her judgment, she felt better about the decision to live together. But both living and working together didn’t seem like a good idea—not to mention that she had money to burn—so she rented the downtown studio to give herself the work-life and Ravi-Sophie separation she thought would benefit them all around.
She intended to complete the Little Mermaid work, deliver it to Suit, then tackle Belle on the steps of the New York Public Library. She’d render the princess’s yellow gown torn and stained and pose Belle as though she were blowing a kiss to one of the famed lions who sat sentry at the library’s entrance. It was almost too perfect—Beauty and the Beast, set in New York City, with a grunge slant. Maybe Suit would buy that one too. Then she would move on to an idea that had been percolating for ages.
When left alone to free draw, her elementary school students returned to the same subjects over and over. Rainbows. Puppies. Trees. Beaches. What she loved about the kids’ drawings was how out of proportion everything was. The apples on the trees were twice the size of the branches. The eyes took up almost an entire face. She wanted to play with that mistaken sense of proportion. She would paint more mature subjects, but with wildly outsized or downsized features. It had been so clear in her mind last spring—she could remember staring at fifth-grader Olive Cantor’s self-portrait and cracking up at the size of the freckles, each one practically a penny. But now all her attempts at translating this concept to her own work looked cartoonish and amateur. The wastebasket in her studio overflowed with crumpled paper.
Did she mention her workplace was also too quiet?
It was impossible to be creative when the dominant sound was the clomping of her clogs against the wood plank flooring. Every tap of her eraser against the drafting paper made her antsy. The sound of paintbrushes clanking around the metal sink basin was infuriating.
It was time to let the outside world rejigger her brain chemistry. She wrestled open a stubborn window and let Manhattan trickle in. The traffic horns and a one-sided phone conversation in a language she didn’t understand helped settle her. She was overthinking things. Worrying unnecessarily that she didn’t deserve the gorgeous artist’s loft when her compatriots were still toiling at SHART, inhaling paint fumes and the stench of take-out food left out overnight thanks to a less-than-reliable maintenance crew. That’s assuming her SHART friends hadn’t been priced out altogether by now. The guilt was cramping her creativity. Who was she, Sophie Jacobson, to decide who deserved what? Did Ravi stay up at night guilt-ridden that he worked on his ceramics rent-free at his parents’ place? No, sir. He conked out the minute his head hit the pillow.
Peals of laughter wafted through the open window and Sophie ducked her head outside. Uniformed schoolchildren were spilling onto the street from the red double doors of a schoolhouse. She eyed her watch. It must be recess. She was filled with a cavernous longing that drew her out of her studio and onto the street, into the cold December air.
She flagged down a taxi, lacking the patience to fiddle with Uber. “Please hurry,” she said to the cab driver. If there wasn’t too much traffic, she could catch the kids playing in the yard. She gave her notice to Principal Garcia in August and was no longer receiving school emails, but Sophie imagined the recess schedule hadn’t changed.
Luckily, the cab sailed from Tribeca through the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel and deposited her in Park Slope in a record twenty minutes. She felt alive at the sight of the familiar building.
“Senorita Jacobson, as I live and breathe. Dios mio, I’ve missed you,” Ronaldo called from inside the yard, holding a litter picker-upper in one hand and a black garbage bag in the other. She rushed over, surprising both of them when she wrapped the man in a bear hug.
“You do know I’m holding a bag full of dirty tissues and half-chewed apples, right?” Ronaldo said. “A millionaire like you has no business near these things.”
Sophie waved him off. “Nonsense. Let me help.” Ronaldo resisted, but Sophie pried the stick from his hands and soon they were walking side-by-side, cleaning the yard in a brisk rhythm. It was a bright day and the sun bounced off the asphalt in a way that made it look like crushed diamonds.
“Where are the kids? I thought B recess goes until one. I’d expect a P.E. class out here on a sunny day like this.”
“Holiday concert practice. Garcia is losing her mente because the superintendent is coming to watch. It’s practice all day, every day. I’ve been cleaning backstage until eight every night. The missus is ready to kill me.” Ronaldo stopped walking. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Let’s talk about what you are doing with all that dinero. What brings you back here? You weren’t missing making me clean up your messes, were you?”
They were in a shaded part of the yard now, the brick three-story schoolhouse casting a gigantic shadow over them. Sophie’s fingers were frozen and she couldn’t grasp a discarded kombucha juice box lying under the basketball hoop.
“Just leave it,” Ronaldo said. “Maybe they’ll hire me an assistant if things don’t look too good.”
“Ha. And, yes, of course I missed you. Guessing you weren’t missing me as much though?” Sophie gave him a knowing smile. She’d most definitely left a trail of glitter in her wake. “I wanted to say hi to Nora-Ann and the rest of the crew. See the kids. I have this great studio space where I paint, but it can get lonely.”
Ronaldo nodded. “How’s your man? Still no ring I see?”
Sophie sighed, her breath escaping in a white cotton puff. “Don’t you worry about me. Let’s go inside. I’m freezing my nips off.” She started walking to the double doors that led from the yard to the cafeteria but stopped when she noticed Ronaldo wasn’t in step with her.
“Come on,” she said, beckoning him. “The yard looks spick-and-span. I’ll kick the juice box under the fence.”
He frowned and thumbed the identification card hanging from a lanyard around his neck. “Sophie, we have to go in through the main entrance. You don’t work here anymore. I can’t let you in unless you sign the visitor log.”
She put a numb hand on her hip. Now that she took Ubers and cabs everywhere, she was accustomed to door-to-door transportation, which meant she’d left without a scarf, hat and gloves. The tips of her ears felt like they might snap off. Surely, Ronaldo had to be joking. She needed to warm up pronto with a cup of crappy coffee in the teacher’s lounge. “Everyone recognizes me, Naldo. Besides, what will they think? That I’m here to rob the PTA fund? I’m a millionaire, remember?”
Ronaldo looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I could lose my job.”
Then I’ll hire you, she wanted to say. I just really miss those damn kids, even Owen, who always made a mess. I want to hear one of Jayden’s knock-knock jokes and check in with Ella, even if she was some other teacher’s pet now. I want to see how the new art teacher is doing—is she up to the print-making unit? How did she explain the concept of the horizon line?
Ronaldo spoke. “I have to go inside now. Garcia is having the kids practice the confetti scene so I gotta get the super-vac ready. It was good seeing you, kid. Next time give some notice and I’ll let everyone know our big-shot celebrity is coming.” He walked past her, pushing his utility cart toward the door. He seemed embarrassed. Not for himself, but for her.
* * *
—
A few days after her failed visit to P.S. 282, Ravi surprised Sophie at her studio with Magnolia Bakery cupcakes.
“Cupcakes? What are we celebrating?” Sophie asked from her perch on a stool, where she had been aimlessly staring at her still incomplete Vessel painting for north of an hour. Her potential buyer, Tom, had contacted her the day before. His wife’s birthday had come and gone but their anniversary was in January. If she wasn’t ready to sell, he needed to look for an alternative gift. She assured him she would have it done by the end of the month. Tom seemed to know nothing of her lottery win and was clearly surprised she wasn’t more desperate for the sale. Talking to someone who only knew before-Sophie was a rush, and she found herself trying to prolong their conversation with idle chatter. The weather was pretty mild for December, wasn’t it? Did Tom know one of the curators at the Whitney Museum was under investigation? When she brought up the E. coli outbreak in Pennsylvania, Tom said his other line was ringing.
“I sold Chalchiuhtlicue!” Ravi tore open the bakery box and plucked a chocolate-frosted cupcake and tried to stuff it in Sophie’s mouth.
“Huh?” It sounded like Ravi had said he sold Chipotle. Sophie wiped the frosting from her cheek with a sheet of expensive tracing paper.
Ravi’s chin quivered. He returned his own cupcake to the box without a bite.
“My water jug. I named it Chalchiuhtlicue after the Aztec goddess of the river, remember? It’s the largest sculpture I’ve ever made. I had to restart it six times because it kept collapsing. Is this ringing a bell?”
“Oh my God, yes!” Sophie hopped off her stool and swallowed Ravi in a hearty hug. From his limp response, she could tell it was too late. She didn’t blame him. He had told her about the jug many times. Now that she had a studio of her own, she spent fewer daylight hours at Ravi’s, which meant his artwork was less visible in her mind’s eye. But that was no excuse.
“Ravi, I’m sorry. I’ve been so self-absorbed lately with all my family drama.” Not only had cutting in Matthew not been the panacea Sophie had hoped for, it had also proven super complicated tax-wise. To think there was something called a gift tax? More like a Trojan horse. “I think maybe we were too stupid to win the lottery.”
Ravi tugged Sophie over to the low-slung Barcelona chair and pulled her onto his lap. She picked at the dry clay around his fingernails as she wrapped his hands around her waist, realizing how much she’d missed the smell of his coriander shampoo.
“I get it,” he said. “You’ve had a major life-changing experience and I can’t even begin to understand what must be going through your head on any given day.”
“Neither can I,” Sophie said. She would have thought all the confusion, stress and shock would propel creativity and add depth to her work. Weren’t most great artists tortured souls? But her scrambled egg brain did nothing but keep her up at night with a racing heart. All she knew was that she didn’t deserve this man and, if she didn’t get her act in gear soon, she would lose him. She had planned to meet up with his family for dessert in the city after her family’s Thanksgiving feast, but instead high-tailed it to the airport to chase down Leo, dropping Ravi only a cursory text to explain. He’d emailed her sketches for a collection of candlesticks he was thinking about making and she’d written back “They look great” without noticing he’d asked for specific feedback. She’d forgotten to bring Iris a special bone and new chew toy for her birthday, which should’ve alerted her to how scatterbrained she was becoming, considering a month later she forgot to acknowledge her own mother’s birthday. Ravi seemed content to accept this was a temporary fugue state. Thoughtful, attentive Sophie would return soon enough. She was just temporarily missing, like the winning ticket had been.
“You’re not too stupid to win the lottery. Far stupider people have won. You should google it sometime,” Ravi said. “Have a cupcake. We always have Magnolia when something good happens to one of us.”
Sophie’s sweet tooth normally crowded out other thoughts, but looking at the gooey frosting was making her nauseated. “Do you think it’s a bad sign that we didn’t get Magnolia after the Powerball?”
“What? No, of course not. Magnolia is our professional treat. That’s what we have on your last day of school. And when we sell a work of art.” Ravi’s we was generous. “Besides, we were in shock after you won. You forgot to shower for three days, remember? I kissed the top of your head and it smelled like skunk.”
Sophie jabbed Ravi’s waist but her attempt at playfulness failed when she went in too hard and he clutched his ribs. She forced herself to take a bite of a vanilla-vanilla and say, “Yummmmm.”
“Soph, I know you’re still upset about Thanksgiving. You’re worried about the rift with Matthew. That your dad thinks you’ve made a mess of everything. That Laura is spending money instead of dealing with her shit. That Noah’s slipping and doesn’t know who to trust.”
“I don’t think Noah has great judgment when it comes to people. He once said that the world could be divided into two groups. Those who pee in the pool and those who don’t.”
Ravi laughed. “Sounds like he’s an excellent judge of character.”
Sophie scoffed. “He’s in the pee-in-the-pool group.”
“Oh boy. Remind me not to swim with him.”
“Tell me about your sale. I’m sick of talking about myself and the Powerball. Who’s the lucky owner of your water jug?”
Ravi opened Instagram on his phone.
“This guy,” he said, showing Sophie the profile of a well-known interior designer with more than a hundred thousand followers. “He bought it on behalf of a client, so I don’t know where it’s actually going. Harriet made it happen through her London gallery. The jug is going to be displayed at Art Basel next week even though it’s already sold.” Ravi had reposted it to his own account, which had an impressive five thousand followers. Sophie still kept her profile private.
“That is extremely cool,” she said. Suddenly, she had an idea. “Let’s go. To Basel. We need to see your work on display at the biggest art fair in America. I’d love to meet the famous Harriett anyway.”
Ravi appeared taken aback by the suggestion.
“Really? Tickets to Miami are crazy expensive because it’s holiday season and Basel and—” Ravi lived and worked rent-free, but that didn’t mean he had unlimited funds for travel.
“Yes. I’m paying. It’s for me as much as you. I’ve got to spend some time with my father. Find out what the hell the story is with that stack of paintings I found.”
Ravi’s dark eyes shone, as though he’d had the flash of inspiration she desperately needed. “I’ll start looking at tickets.”
* * *
—
A week later, Ravi and Sophie landed at Miami International Airport, where the crowd was divided into the plastic surgery set rolling monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage, the artsy types trying to one up each other in sartorial weirdness and the elderly rolling through the terminal in airport wheelchairs.
“Some melting pot,” Sophie muttered. She could hardly blame her mother for resisting the southern migration.
“There she is,” Ravi said, pointing to a chic woman in a white linen dress standing next to the baggage carousel. “That’s Harriett.”
Sophie was instantly intimidated as they drew closer. Harriett was everything Sophie was not. Her frame was tiny and lithe. She wore virtually no makeup, yet managed to have well-defined features and a dewy glow. Sophie instantly wanted to chop off her side braid when she saw Harriet’s fringe of curtain bangs. Sophie casually removed her just-for-show plastic-framed glasses and slipped them into her bag, a tote that said “Art Is Free.”
“My star,” Harriett purred in an English accent, drawing Ravi in. “And you must be the famous Sophie.”
Famous? As in the Powerball win? Or famous as in Ravi talks about you so much? Or famous in the way people just say that without really meaning it?
“That’s me,” Sophie said, instantly regretting her razzle-dazzle jazz hands. Harriett had definitely never jazzed-hands in her life. “I thought we were just going to take an Uber.”
“I insisted,” Harriett said. “The wait for an Uber in this zoo could be endless and I imagine you two want to freshen up before the party.”
Party? Sophie looked at Ravi.
“Harriett’s gallery is having a little shindig. I said we’d swing by,” Ravi explained. Sophie had wanted to drop her bags at the hotel and go straight to her father, but she didn’t love the idea of Ravi and Harriett gallivanting at a party together.
