“My new hammer.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and a water-fed polisher.”
“Do I even wanna ask how much it cost?”
“The polisher?”
“No, the whole setup.”
“Probably not.”
She wasn’t done yet. The new tools required a lot more safety gear, although I was a hundred percent in favor of that, no matter the cost. She wore a thick jumpsuit and leather gloves to protect herself from flying chips when she was carving. The gloves had padded palms to absorb vibrations and were fingerless so she could feel her work. She also wore safety goggles, hearing protection, and a fairly serious respirator.
For my part, I paid the bills and let her buy whatever she wanted (well, except the forklift). After all, she’d spent three years in a tiny apartment with no studio, and she’d done it mostly without complaint. I figured I owed her. That meant several eye-popping credit card bills and the occasional bounced check, but I could live with it.
Happy wife, happy life, right?
* * *
Christy started working in earnest after the older girls returned to school in January 1997. She’d been creating things for several months already, but they were little statues or models of things she’d sketched in Boston. Most of them were flexing creative muscles she hadn’t used in a while.
Still, she’d finished nearly a dozen pieces, and she began selling them in local galleries. She only sold one or two a month, but it didn’t matter. She was making the kind of art she wanted, and that was enough.
Her first big break came in April, about a month after Erin’s wedding. A gallery in Midtown called and asked her to bring in some of her work. One of the owners, Lance, was also an interior decorator, and he thought her pieces would be perfect for several of his clients.
He sold the first batch in less than a week, and his partner immediately recognized an opportunity. Fred asked Christy to bring in some of her larger pieces, which found new homes almost immediately.
“Oh my gosh, Paul, they want me to start casting limited editions. And I can take commissions for larger work. Lance knows, like, everyone. Lenox Square wants a Degas-style ballerina in bronze, and a law firm downtown wants a stylized version of Lady Justice. Only, I don’t know how much to charge.”
Fred offered to be her agent. I thought it was a good idea but wanted to meet him first.
“Why?” Christy protested. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course, but I don’t know this Fred guy. Or Lance. What if they’re ripping you off?”
“Oh, all right.”
Lance was about what I expected: a trendy guy with an art history degree and a talent for design. (These days, we’ve been friends for years, and he’s the only person I’ve ever met whose house is perfectly decorated. I literally wouldn’t change a thing about it. He’s also the only person besides Christy whose opinion I trust completely. If he tells me something doesn’t look right, I change it, end of discussion. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)
Fred was a bit of a surprise when I met him. I’d expected a boring business type or an art nerd who understood numbers, but he was athletic and well-built, a former college football player. He had common sense and a degree in finance. Even better, he was charming and earnest, and he agreed completely when I said I wanted to review his contract before Christy signed.
I took it home and pored over it without spotting any major red flags. Still, I wasn’t an attorney, so I faxed it to Erin.
“It’s fine,” she said the next day. “I ran it past a friend in Miami who’s an entertainment attorney. It’s a basic artist-agent agreement.”
“See? I told you,” Christy said.
“Let’s call Sara,” I said, “just to be sure.”
“Why’re you being so paranoid?”
“I just don’t want you to get burned.”
“Is this about you-know-who?”
“Scumbag. Yeah, I guess it is. Sorry. Still, I wanna call Sara and ask her.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
“It’s also a good excuse to catch up,” I said hopefully.
“I suppose.”
* * *
Sara called back and said that the contract was fine, so we met Lance and Fred for dinner.
“I’m looking forward to working with you,” he said to Christy after she signed. “You’re incredibly talented.”
“Thank you.”
“And you have great potential.”
She beamed.
“So, let’s talk about what you’re working on…”
Her next big break came about six months later, in December 1997. We’d spent Thanksgiving in San Diego and then flown up to San Francisco on Sunday. Then Christy and Sara spent three days touring galleries, meeting owners, and talking to other artists.
The girls and I had fun being tourists. We rode the cable cars and explored Chinatown. We visited Fisherman’s Wharf and Golden Gate Park. And then we snacked and shopped our way through the Mission District.
My calves were sore from three days of hiking and pushing Susie’s stroller up the hills, but the girls had loved every minute. They were so worn out by the last evening that they went to bed immediately after their baths. Even Emily crawled under the covers and fell asleep without a fuss. Their mother, on the other hand, was full of energy.
“Do you think it’d be okay if we go up to the bar?”
“Let’s make sure they’re good and asleep first,” I said.
They were, so we left Christy’s cell phone on the nightstand with a note. Laurie knew how to call my cell phone if she needed us. Then we took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor.
The restaurant was practically empty, and we chose a table by the window. We enjoyed the spectacular view of the city skyline until a server arrived to take our order, a vodka martini for me and a double bourbon for my chirpy wife.
“Oh my gosh, this is the first drink I’ve had all day.” She drained the glass and then sat back with a sigh. “Much better.” She took a couple of deep breaths and relaxed as her metabolism did its thing.
I caught the server’s eye.
“Can we get a menu, please? And another bourbon. Maybe on the rocks?” I suggested.
“I don’t care,” Christy said, “as long as it’s alcohol.”
“Just a single this time,” I said to the server, “and two glasses of water, please.”
We ordered a couple of appetizers when she returned with our drinks.
“You know me so well,” Christy said.
“Mmm. So, tell me about your day.”
“Oh my gosh, this place is amazing. Sara was right. Today was the best day of all. So many galleries to choose from! I think I need an agent here too. Or maybe Los Angeles.”
“What about Fred?”
“He’s the one who suggested it.” Christy took a drink and nodded toward the city. “He doesn’t know the market out here, so he can’t advise me.”
We’d become good friends with Fred and Lance since Christy had started working with them, and I wasn’t surprised that Fred was looking out for her best interests. He treated her like a kid sister, even though he was actually a couple of years younger than us.
“Makes sense,” I agreed. “And what’s this about LA?”
“Oh my gosh, I met the most amazing couple! Didn’t I tell you? No, I suppose not. I only met them today. He’s full Japanese and she’s half. Well, she’s actually American, but you know what I mean. Her mother’s Japanese.” She drained her bourbon and signaled the waitress for another.
Our food arrived at the same time as her new drink, and Christy began devouring slices of ahi tuna.
“This is amazing,” she said between bites. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
I cut a piece of the baked brie.
“Anyway, where was I? Oh, right! Toshiro and May. Her name’s actually Mei, but she goes by May.”
I couldn’t hear the difference, but it was obvious to Christy.
“They own a small gallery here, but they have two big ones in LA.” She paused for a moment to replay the conversation in her head. “One’s in the Arts District and the other’s in Torrance. I don’t know LA very well, but—”