Determined

Part 1

"Is that level?"

I craned my neck toward Eve, the other gallery assistant. It was almost five o'clock and, of course, we were still hanging the last few canvases for the opening tonight. No matter how much you prepare, it seems like gallery shows always come down to the final moments.

She pushed a curly black lock away from her face. "Just a little higher on the right, Sam."

I moved the edge a minuscule amount. "Like this?" I craned my neck back toward my co-worker.

"Perfect!" She exhaled, her voice full of relief. "Thank you so much for coming over early, Samantha. There is no way I could have finished getting this show up by myself." She glanced down at her outfit and then back up at me. "Do you mind setting up the wine? I'm going to run to the restroom and change my shirt."

As she ran off, I made my way over to the desk we were using as a makeshift bar for the evening. After setting out paper napkins and clear plastic cups, I uncorked a few bottles and poured a celebratory glass for Eve and I, being careful to not spill on the new dress I was wearing. I liked my new dress a lot: it was white and sleeveless, with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt and cost more than I normally spent on clothes in a month. As I waited for Eve to return, I sipped my wine and examined the room. The show looked fantastic.

The Kinsler Gallery was a modest yet modern space, smack in the heart of the burgeoning gallery scene in Oakland, California. It wasn't huge, just three rooms, but the generous fifteen foot ceilings made it feel airy and light. The walls were, of course, stark white, and the wood floors were well-worn and warm colored. I surveyed the canvases in the room. Clean, modern pieces by three different artists lined the walls in neat rows. The gallery owner had done a great job of pulling the works together, but I was also proud to say I had actually recruited one of the artists, Leah, that was showing tonight. I was beyond in love with her large canvases of soft, creamy colors. I really hoped she'd sell something.

"Sammie?" a familiar, honeyed male voice boomed from the front door.

"Hey, Curtis!" I put my wine down and absentmindedly smoothed my dress. Curtis was the gallery owner ... as in Curtis Kinsler. He was one of the warmest people I'd ever met and I loved working for him. He was a consummate businessman and a real people person— and since I have shut-in tendencies, I tried to follow his lead whenever I could. He was super affable and even when he was being tough, there was a teddy bear quality to him.

"It looks great in here," he stated definitively as he walked around the room. He had on a brown fuzzy sweater that looked like it was made from a Muppet, yet he was pulling it off; it was a playful twist to his round tortoise-shell frames and tweed pants. But it did absolutely nothing to discourage the teddy bear analogy.

I'd come to work for Curtis as an intern during my final semester at UC Berkeley, but to be honest, I'd never set out to work in a gallery. I had actually been a very ambitious sociology major until I took an amazing art history class sophomore year and found out I had a knack for it. So I continued studying art history, and felt really thankful to have secured a paid internship with the Kinsler Gallery my senior year. I fell in love with our tiny space and gleefully accepted a part time job after graduation. The schedule allowed me time for myself and time to continue volunteering at a children's center once a week. It was a pretty sweet life, and I adored our little gallery family.

Curtis circled around the room. "This is going to be a great show. The curator must be a genius," he affirmed as he put his hands on his hips. The corners of his mouth twisted up in a smirk.