Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

lunch was nearly over and they’d not yet talked turkey.
    “Some people have more natural talent than others,” she said kindly.
    “Like you do for painting, for instance,” he said, turning the conversation in what Gwen hoped would be the right direction.
    “I appreciate you thinking so,” she said, feeling her heart warm. “I really enjoy what I do. The thought that it might also bring happiness to someone else is just wonderful.”
    “When did you start painting again?”
    “Oh, I did it off and on. Just for me, you know. Could never entirely let it go over the years. Then on my thirtieth birthday, my little sister, Marian, gave me the most beautiful gift, a completely new set of oils and brushes. I’d been getting by with old things, mostly cast-offs from the school art teacher who’d been sympathetic to my cause.”
    “Marian must know you very well.”
    “We’re super close,” Gwen said, feeling the burn in her throat. “The gift was extra special because oils are expensive, and Marian… Well, she…she doesn’t have a lot of money.”
    “So that’s when it really started? When you began painting more regularly?”
    Gwen nodded, willing away the unpleasant memory of Robert coming in and upending her very first seascape. “Ridiculous,” he’d said. “Where do you think you’ll get with that? You sure as hell can’t sing. What makes you think you can paint?”
    Gwen blinked, briefly turning away. When she turned back to Dan, she found herself caught up in his sky-blue gaze. The way he looked at her was soothing, as if he had all the time in the world to listen to what she had to say, and like none of it was ridiculous.
    “I did start painting more then, yes. It was easier without the resistance.”
    “Resistance?”
    “That doesn’t really matter anymore,” she said, forcing a smile. “I found a way to move beyond it.”
    “And the clients at Holbrook and Holstein will be glad. I assure you.”
    “I’m glad you brought that up so I didn’t have to.”
    He looked at her earnestly. “Gwen, I’ve had a great time at lunch with you, really I have. But I have no illusions about why a beautiful young woman like you would spend time with a washed-up old bachelor like me.”
    Gwen blushed at the compliment but wasn’t about to let herself get derailed by his manly attentions. As long as he’d started the ball rolling, she needed to push it along. “You underestimate yourself, Dan. But it’s good to know you’ve reconsidered underestimating my work.”
    His gaze filled with admiration. She was being a little saucy, and he apparently liked it. “I spoke with Nancy like I promised. Holbrook and Holstein is prepared to set a fair price for your art. We can’t quite go up to four thousand, but if you’re willing to agree to three-five, we think we can cut a deal.”
    The way he’d said that made it almost seem real, as if this was actually going to happen for her. Gwen tried to contain her excitement. “Excellent,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a warm, even smile. “I’m open to discussing that.”
    “Of course, I’m sure you’re familiar with how things work,” he continued. “Gallery sales are commission based, so whatever price we arrive at is provisional.”
    The corners of Gwen’s mouth took a downturn. The fact was, she didn’t know this at all. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
    Dan set his empty coffee cup aside and laced his fingers together in a sincere fashion. “I’m saying the gallery takes a commission. That’s how it stays in business. Your work for sale there is basically on consignment.”
    The shock and horror hit her in the stomach like a sucker punch. “Consignment? But nothing in Ms. Holstein’s email said anything about—”
    His gaze softened, genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, Gwen. She probably thought you knew. Most of the artists we deal with are…experienced.”
    Gwen felt a flash of anger, but she quelled it, realizing nobody had intentionally tried to mislead her. “Are you saying I won’t be getting any money now?” she asked, trying to mask the desperation in her voice.
    “Now?” he asked, as if he’d never considered the possibility. “You mean, like during your ten-day trip to Santa Fe?
    “Gwen, we’re dealing with a process, here. We agree on what we think a reasonable buyer might pay in this market. That is the sale price. The two of us sign a contract, and then you ship the