Setting his crayon down, he grinned. “Just because your parents don’t realize that an art career is an actual possibility for you now, doesn’t mean they won’t come around eventually. Maybe you have to prove how serious you are. Show them all the steps you’re taking.”

“I feel like the only way they’re ever going to believe Art is a valid career choice is if I show them the mansion I bought with my as-of-yet unearned art earnings, and a hefty art-funded retirement portfolio.”

Christos smirked. “I get it. It’s just not real to them. So put a piece in the Contemporary Artists show at Charboneau Gallery. When you sell it, you can show the check to your parents. Take a photo of you standing in front of your painting during the show.”

“Wait, you’re talking like I’ve already sold the painting! I haven’t even painted a painting! Aren’t you jumping ahead?”

“Not in my book. You’ve got to set the intention.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to buy my painting? You?”

“I could,” he smiled, “if you wanted.”

“Thank you, Christos,” I said, picking up a tangerine crayon to draw some squiggly lines. “I totally appreciate the offer, but if this crazy idea of yours is going to make any kind of sense, some stranger would actually have to buy it. And that’s never going to happen.” I glanced at the older couple, who were still sitting next to us. They looked like they were eavesdropping. For some reason, I felt like they were going to report everything I was saying to my parents. Whatever.

Christos said, “Don’t start doubting everyone else in the world. You already doubt yourself, and that’s more than enough of a struggle. Your job is to put your work out there, and hope for the best.” He winked at me, flashing his sexy dimples.

“Thanks, Christos,” I sighed, doubt dragging me down. I completely appreciated his confidence in me, but it all seemed like a distant fantasy.

“Excuse me,” the eavesdropping man sitting next to us said. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore reading glasses. The woman with him wore her hair in a short silver bob. She set down her eReader and smiled at me warmly.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man continued, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with your friend here.”

I was right. Eavesdroppers! And there weren’t any eaves for miles around. At least this guy was with his wife, so he probably wasn’t a creepy stalker.

The man continued, “My wife and I have been watching both of you drawing this whole time, and we were wondering, are you Christos Manos?”

“That I am,” Christos nodded at the man and they shook hands. “How do you know my name?” Christos asked casually.

“We’re both fans of your grandfather’s work,” the man said.

“You know my grandfather?” Christos smiled.

“No,” the woman grinned, “but we’ve met him.”

“Really,” Christos smiled.

“Yeah,” the man said, “my wife and I used to go to the gallery openings here in town quite a bit. We’ve chatted with Spiridon more than once. In fact, I seem to recall seeing you as a young man at one of the openings. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Oh yes,” his wife beamed, then said to Christos. “But you wouldn’t remember us boring old farts—”

I giggled when she said “farts”.

“—but you must’ve been twelve or so at the time.”

“That’s great,” Christos smiled. “So, are you guys collectors?”

“We are,” the man said. “We bought several of Spiridon’s smaller seascapes back in the day.”

“That’s terrific,” Christos said smoothly. I could tell he was used to conversations like this. I was in awe of how comfortable he was.

“Speaking of which,” the man said, “my wife and I were looking at the work you two were doing, and thought we’d like to buy it.”

“Oh,” Christos said, somewhat surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever sold one of these crayon paintings before. I usually just sell my oils at Charboneau Gallery in La Jolla.”

Wow. Christos wasn’t even trying and people were approaching him to buy his work. I was both amazed at the power of his family’s reputation and bummed that I was at least a decade or ten behind him in my own embryonic art career. Oh well. Maybe when I turned sixty it would be like this for me too. Assuming I didn’t throw in the towel and carry the torch of my family’s legacy. I could imagine forty years from now, silver-haired couples in coffee shops asking me if I was Sam Smith, CPA, and would I be willing to do their taxes this year? Sigh.

“Actually,” the man said sheepishly, “we were hoping to buy your friend’s piece.”

Christos’ eyes lit up and he grinned. “You mean Samantha’s?”

“Yes,” the man smiled. He offered his hand to me to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Samantha.”

His wife shook my hand and said, “We heard you two talking about trying to sell Samantha’s work. We’ve always tried to support the arts any way we can.”

I was blown away. “Are you guys serious?”

“Yes, we’re serious,” the man smiled. “And we’re not just doing you a favor, young lady. I can tell from here your work is good.”

“Oh, Ted,” his wife said, “Stop. You’re embarrassing the poor girl.”

“I’m serious, Victoria. I think her work is excellent.”

I blushed from head to toe and smiled wide. I think my teeth were blushing too.

“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” Ted asked, reaching toward my crayon painting.

“Sure,” I smiled.

He picked it up and held it so his wife could get a better look.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” Victoria said to her husband, then turned to me. “You have a terrific sense of color. And I can’t believe you did this with kids’ crayons!”

Ted peered through his reading glasses at my art. “It really is good. Excellent composition.” He looked at me over his reading glasses. “How much do you want for it?”

“Uhhh,” I was stunned. “I don’t know?”

Christos chuckled. “Samantha’s new at this, as you may have guessed. Why don’t you guys make an offer.”

I was glad Christos stepped in. I was going to say they could have it for free.

“How about a hundred bucks?” the man said, pulling out his wallet.

“A hundred bucks!” I clapped my hand over my mouth.

Victoria smiled at me and giggled.

“Okay, how about one fifty?” Ted said.

“Oh my god!” I slapped my other hand over my mouth, totally surprised and slightly embarrassed, like I was manipulating them somehow.

Ted looked at Christos shrewdly. “I think your lady friend is an expert negotiator. One fifty it is. But she has to sign it.” Ted winked at me.

“I, no! I mean, I didn’t—” I looked at Christos for help. He merely smiled. “I can’t take your money! You guys can have it. I can’t believe you actually want it.”

Ted and Victoria exchanged a laugh while Ted counted the money out of his wallet and laid it on the table.

"Go ahead and sign it, Samantha” Christos encouraged.

“What? How?”

“You know how to sign your name, don’t you? Pick a color and sign the thing on the front or the back.”

“Oh, on the front, please,” Ted said. “We want people who come to our house to know who the artist is.”

I selected a gold crayon from the box. It seemed appropriate for the occasion. I signed my name on the front corner. When I was finished, I handed my crayon drawing to Ted. “I’ve never sold a painting before,” I squeaked.

He read my signature. “Now we can tell people that we have Samantha Smith’s first sold work in our collection.” He turned to his wife. “This oughta be worth something in a few years.” He handed me the money.

“Thank you so much!” I said to Ted, then reached over the table and hugged Christos. “I sold my first painting!”

Ted and Victoria chuckled.

“Here’s my business card,” Ted said, pulling one from his wallet. “Be sure to let us know if you have any work in the Contemporary Artists show you guys were talking about.”