Portrait of a Patron

A tower of loan reminders sits on the front counter. Thirty-year-old Violet’s weekly income is only ever enough to pay a sliver of the interest accumulating. Then the mailman strolls in on Monday at two o’clock without-a-doubt to drop off additional overdue bills and notices.

Two years ago, townspeople would flock to her art shop, which is comparable in size to a bird’s nest, and the cash flow was decent. Now she leans against the glass counter and fixes the eyeglasses sliding down her nose, so she can view the laptop screen in front of her clearly while she transfers money between bank accounts.

When the bell above the front door chimes, Violet welcomes the potential customer without actually glancing in his direction. Most passersby do a casual walkthrough, and she thanks them for looking as they leave emptyhandedly.

With the customer nearing the counter, she shuts her laptop softly and proposes a tour. The customer wears an expensive dark blue suit paired with a carmine red tie made of silk, and he holds a fine leather briefcase with both hands. The middle-aged gentleman with chestnut brown hair and almond-colored eyes welcomes Violet’s goodwill.

She looks down embarrassedly at her unwashed smock covered in yellow paint and loose-fitting outfit, as she had not expected anyone to visit this early.

Tucking shoulder-length black hair behind her ears, Violet leads the way to showcase the painting hung closest to her. As she begins to speak, the customer introduces himself as Mr. Sage. Lowering her hand, Violet greets him and smiles at the coincidence that his name too is a color.

He gestures for Violet to continue, and she presents a handful of longstanding paintings, many of which feature various iterations of clouds and vividly yellow sunlight.

Violet crosses the room, but Mr. Sage beckons her to wait.

“Did you paint all of these yourself?” he asks in a raspy voice.

Violet rests her hands on a mahogany wood table in the center of the gallery area. “Most of them. Two were painted by locals that I purchased from them.”

He walks over to a painting and hovers his finger above Violet’s signature on the canvas. “Do you still paint?”

“Not for a while,” she answers, her voice drifting.

“Why have you stopped?” he asks politely.

Violet’s mouth falls open, and she struggles to produce a response. Mr. Sage does not seem to notice. What he focuses on next is an empty space on the wall at the back of the gallery. A dozen paintings are spaced a foot apart, and they cover all four walls. The only vacancies are the gap where a painting appears to be missing and a door that leads to a private room in the back of the shop.

“Do you paint portraits?” Mr. Sage questions, leaning against the wall where a painting is absent.

Violet folds her hands. “Not anymore, but I would be delighted to discuss other art forms.”

Mr. Sage shakes his head and walks toward her, stopping when he reaches the wooden table where she stands. He places his briefcase on the table, opposite of her. “Would you paint a portrait of me for a large sum of money?”

Her money problems are steep. . .but Violet chose one year ago not to paint portraits anymore. They were her largest source of revenue, but she could not bring herself to paint another after his death. Losing her only child, Aiden, took away her sense of purpose, and while grieving his loss, her inspiration dwindled.

“Mr. Sage, I do not paint portraits,” Violet answers quietly.

He opens his briefcase and reveals that it is empty. Then he carries it to her counter and swipes all of the belated bills into his case. “I will pay them all for one portrait, a very small one. $10,000, maybe.”

Violet lowers her head and chuckles, unsure of the games Mr. Sage is playing. “Try $20,000.”

“Then it is $20,000,” he agrees. “I will write the check once the portrait is done.”

For a long moment, Violet stares at Mr. Sage, waiting for him to admit his scam or trickery. He waits patiently for an answer, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

“Why would you pay me $20,000 for a portrait?” Violet asks, knowing that she is a failing businesswoman and has been for quite some time. She is not unaware of the pitfalls in her career.

Mr. Sage shuts the briefcase containing the bills. “Will you accept my offer?”

Violet recognizes the strangeness of the situation. There is a reasonable chance that Mr. Sage will disappear with her bills, and she will have to phone every company for another copy. Still, there is a miniscule possibility that he is an honest man, a giver in her time of financial need.

Hesitantly, she agrees and walks to the door that leads to the back room, twisting the brass doorknob.

Mr. Sage follows her in, leaving behind his briefcase on the wooden table out front. Violet moves hastily to collect the scattered papers on the floor and tidy the dirty dishes and used brushes in a small sink. After, she hurries around the room to set up two stools and a canvas. Mr. Sage chooses oil paint, and she squirts the colors on a palette while sorting through her paintbrushes.

Out of breath, Violet slumps into a stool and peers past her easel to see Mr. Sage sitting with his hands clasped together and a small smile. She starts the portrait, beginning with a pencil sketch to outline his features. He opts for a plain white background instead of an imaginary office that Violet offers to add in.

Violet hums to herself, glancing between the budding artwork on a rectangular canvas six by nine inches and her unexpected muse. She retracts her pencil though when Mr. Sage rises and begins to explore the room.

“Mr. Sage,” she calls, forcing a respectful smile.

He runs his fingers along the edge of a short bookshelf gathering dust in the corner of the room. From the lineup of children’s books, he selects one and holds it up for Violet to see.

“Do you have children?” he asks.

Violet feels her patience thinning and deep down, she suspects Mr. Sage is a fraud merely toying with her. Yet, she cannot bring herself to chide him, not when he promises to pay her outstanding bills in exchange for a simple portrait.

She does not look at the kindergarten-aged book. “I had a son.”

Mr. Sage returns the book to its place and turns around to face her, leaning against the shelf. “What happened to him?”

If not for biweekly therapy that also eats up her income, Violet’s voice might not hold up to answer his question. She has become a professional at blanketing her loss with tolerance though and restrains her discomfort discussing personal matters with a stranger quite well.

“He was sick,” she says indifferently.

Mr. Sage apologizes for the loss, and Violet motions to his empty stool. Again, he disregards her polite urges and strides to her chaotic desk covered in small black notebooks.

He reaches for one, and she squeezes the paintbrush in her hands.

“Do not touch those,” she states firmly. “Please, they are private journals.”

Raising empty hands, he nods understandingly. “I apologize for my interruption.”

Violet catches her breath, and this time asks directly for Mr. Sage to take his seat. He does so without question, and Violet returns to drawing the outline. Once she has completed the early portion of the portrait, she searches for acrylic paint and mixes several basic colors to match Mr. Sage’s dark skin. The rest of his image will be reproduced with oil paint.

For most of the time, Mr. Sage is still and attentive. He asks a few questions about Violet’s life such as how she came to start her business. She responds with pintsized answers but manages to keep the atmosphere pleasant.

As Violet paints Mr. Sage, she remembers the last portrait she made. It was of Aiden two weeks before he fell sick. The thought makes her stomach churn, but she continues to paint.

When Violet has finished the portrait of Mr. Sage, she lifts it from the easel and presents the canvas to him.

He applauds graciously. “Thank you, Violet.”

She grins and suggests placing the canvas in a frame. “I will meet you up front.”

Mr. Sage heads to the front room, and Violet wonders if he can hear her heart skipping beats. If he makes good on their agreement, she might be debt free for the first time since college.

With the utmost precaution, Violet places the portrait in the nicest gold frame she can find. When she returns to the gallery, she lays the framed portrait on the mahogany table.

Violet hurries to the counter to print a receipt, but her shoulders sink once she hears the words she was dreading most.

“I’m horribly sorry. I seem to have misplaced my checkbook,” Mr. Sage explains.

Part of her wants to throw him out of her shop without another word. But her arms are exhausted from holding them upright and eyes weary from staring at a canvas for six hours after a year without practice.

“I will return in an hour with the check,” Mr. Sage promises.

Violet does not acknowledge him. Instead, she looks at the ticking clock behind her to count the business hours left in the day. Two hours remaining.

Mr. Sage leaves, and as the door shuts behind him, Violet notices he left without his briefcase. Frustrated, she flings open the door to the backroom and walks to her desk, collapsing into a chair. She reaches for a calculator and begins running the numbers on how much interest she will owe from unpaid bills and their accruing late fees.

In the middle of her calculations, she hears the entrance bell chime followed by gentle, speedy footsteps. Then a child’s voice that she could name without question calls out, “Mommy?”

Violet freezes, hands shaking. She drops the calculator, and her throat is too dry to speak. She rushes to the front room and loses her balance, gasping at the sight of a healthy Aiden. Tugging him toward her, she breathes in his scent.

Behind her son, Mr. Sage stands with a check for $20,000. Two more men, both wearing pricey suits and posh watches, stand at the door with him.

“Thank you for the portrait,” he says, stepping forward to retrieve the painting. Violet gazes past him at the other two men, but he steps in her line of vision.

With her focus on Mr. Sage, a tear streams down Violet’s cheek. She speaks in a hoarse voice, lips trembling. “Did you bring him back? How is this possible?”

Bowing his head, Mr. Sage motions to Aiden. “Do you accept him?”

“Of course,” she stammers, kissing her son’s cheek.

He half-smiles in return. “Congratulations, $20,000 and your son back in one day.”

Violet runs her fingers through Aiden’s hair, nestling her cheek into his tiny shoulder. “How could I ever thank you?”

Mr. Sage observes Aiden snuggled in his mother’s arms. “Someday, you will, and each time we return to collect on your loan, I expect not to run into any issues.”

The bell chimes on Mr. Sage’s way out, and he does not forget twice the briefcase filled with Violet’s bills.

Lifting Aiden in her arms, Violet leans against the mahogany table. She had not realized accepting the money and reuniting with Aiden were contractual.

Debt had become so much of her that the young woman no longer knew who she was, or who she could be, without it. For all the bills she had been trying to escape and the grief that once enshrouded her, Violet was a goodhearted person who was once more indebted to people masquerading as patrons.