Chapter 24
“Okay.” He gritted his teeth. “What’s your point?”
She lifted a hand. “Hear me out. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
Nolan straightened his legs abruptly under the table; his shins smacked the railing and he pulled them back, trying not to grimace. He definitely did not want to spend his morning being told what to do with his family’s money. Attempted seduction, no, he wasn’t in the mood, but at least that would have been exciting and flattering. His big old male ego was bruised already, and now Annie turned out to be Dad Part Two. “I’ll listen. But I’m not planning to take—”
“Just hear me.”
He drew his hand impatiently down his face. “Yeah, okay.”
“As I told you at the party, I work in insurance, but I’m also an artist, a painter. There are a lot of really talented people in this city.”
“Right. I’ve been to some of the open gallery nights.”
“Yes.” She smiled, her eyes assessing him. “Those are great events. But I’m talking specifically about artists who show a lot of promise but might not have gotten to the gallery stage yet.”
“What about them?” Nolan resisted looking at his watch.
“I want the Foundation to buy me a building.”
He laughed bitterly, took a sip of his coffee. “Good luck with that.”
“There’s one for sale in the Fifth Ward, the old Franklin Seed Company warehouse.”
“Okay.” He was both annoyed and impressed that she ignored his jabs and continued calmly. “What will you do with this building?”
“Turn it into studio space for young artists. Most can’t afford to rent a place separate from where they live.”
He thought of the guy Michelle had been babbling about over dinner, his tiny apartment crammed full of work that no one ever saw.
“Why would they be able to afford this space?”
“We give it to them for next to nothing. A token amount and a share of the utilities. Then open it to the public at certain hours for a small fee so people can watch talent being shaped, watch works in progress.
Periodically, I’m thinking four to six times a year, we invite Quinley's art-loving community for a dinner event and show, so wealthy investors can meet the artists, see their work and buy or commission new pieces, talk them up to their rich friends, their companies, etc. Essentially they’d become patrons.”
“This isn’t the type of thing the foundation invests in. It's owned by a security firm.”
“You could change that. Let me tell you the story of one kid…” She told him about a young talented man catering a party for extra cash, who met an art-loving couple and struck up a friendship. The couple hosted a party for him at their lakeside mansion, and one of their friends loved his work so much, he had his company buy paintings for its lobbies throughout the country. “We want to make it possible for this to happen on a regular basis, instead of leaving it to fate.”
Nolan nodded, interested after all, at least somewhat. “Go on.”
Another story, another artist’s path to success through chance. Kids who didn’t want to sell out by getting a corporate job, who deserved a chance doing what they loved; a student whose parents were so furious he wanted to paint for a living, they kicked him out of the house. Another woman who could only afford studio space in a bad neighborhood was mugged and raped.
Nolan cringed, already feeling partly responsible. Annie continued her well-planned pitch by painting her own picture—of a city young artists would be proud to call home, building on the success of the art museum’s new addition, broadcasting Quinley to the country as more than sausage, beer, cheese…“And the Green Bay Packers.”
He grinned. “Lest we forget.”
She went on, Nolan paying serious attention now, caught up in her glowing description of the ornate stone building, her vision of its renovation —skylights installed, large windows to look over the river and let in the light, different directions and intensities at different times of day. Green heating and cooling systems, making use of steam already piped under the city streets for heating, plants on the roof for natural cooling. Studios on each of the six floors, partitioned but open, so artists could communicate if they wanted, so visitors could see finished works displayed, as well as works in progress. “Introducing the public to affordable original artwork, and giving young people a chance to see some financial rewards for their talent and hard work.”
To reel him in, since she’d already hooked him, she listed the other powerful local companies who had already pledged to invest. She and her partners had nearly reached their dollar goal before they announced the project publicly. The Foundation would be able to put them over the top if it agreed to be the largest donor so far.
“And not just painters, sculptors, photographers…” Her gaze turned sly.
“Cabinetmakers, too.”
He laughed. “You’ve definitely been talking to my brother.”
“I’d never come to a meeting unprepared.”
“Okay.” He sipped his coffee, definitely interested, excited even, he admitted it, and certainly impressed. The project seemed to promise something personal to him, though he had no intention of working in a drafty old building next to twenty-year-olds throwing paint at canvas to express their angst. But to be in charge of the foundation as a way to help kids not have to sell their souls—at least not until they gave what they loved a real shot—that would be a job he could get behind. “No promises, but send me a proposal and I’ll look it over.”
He’d do more than that, he’d do what his father wanted, for once gladly, and think seriously about taking the job, as long as he could give their grant-giving a different emphasis, away from security alone, important as that was, and also toward this, making sure people who needed to keep creativity in their lives would be able to do so.
He and Annie finished their coffee, chatting about other topics. As he suspected, they had a lot in common. In any other circumstance he’d find out if she was involved, and if not, ask for her number to see what they could start. Today he had no desire to. Maybe that drug Phil gave him scrambled his brain permanently.
Because as he waved goodbye to Annie and headed back to his car, a crazy thought hit him. If he bought the building for Annie, the building would need a manager. And if he could find some way to get Candace the job, maybe she wouldn’t leave Quinley.