Two Against the Odds by Joan Kilby Page A

“Good, the gallery called.”
    She rang Samuel back and while she waited for him to pick up she glanced outside at the angle of the sunlight shining through the studio windows. Perfect.
    â€œHello, Manyung Gallery.”
    â€œHey, Samuel, Lexie here. You rang?”
    â€œI called about the paintings you have on display. Some of them have been here a couple of months and they’re not moving. With the economic downturn and the tourist season coming to an end, you might want to think about lowering the price.”
    â€œI can’t afford to take less,” Lexie said. “Give them a little longer.” She hid her worry, remaining calm but firm. “In fact, once the Archibald is over I might be raising the price.”
    â€œOkay,” Samuel said doubtfully. “I’ll give them another few weeks then we’ll rethink.”
    Lexie hung up. Tugging on her hair, she paced the living room. Those paintings were her bread and butter. If they didn’t sell…
    Rafe cleared his throat. “It’s none of my business but since you’re going to need money to pay taxesI’ll ask. What was that all about? Do I understand you’ve got paintings for sale at a gallery?”
    Lexie collapsed into a chair at the table and explained the situation. How she sold seascapes at the Manyung Gallery for two to three thousand dollars apiece. “I can usually count on selling at least one a month, sometimes more. But it’s been a bad year.”
    â€œYou don’t think you should have lowered the price?” Rafe asked. “A bird in the hand, and all that.”
    â€œI need the money to pay my taxes. It’s that simple.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I’m not charging enough. People value things when they’re expensive.” She picked up the phone and called Samuel back. “Forget about waiting until after the Archibald, I’m raising my price right now by ten percent.”
    â€œLexie, are you sure?” Samuel said alarmed. “I don’t think—”
    â€œYou’ll get a bigger cut, too, so don’t complain,” Lexie said. “I’ll bet you a bottle of pinot noir you sell something this weekend.”
    She clicked off the phone. Part of her enjoyed the buzz of holding her own in the business world. But getting aggressive wasn’t good for the creative process.
    â€œAren’t you worried?” Rafe asked. “You don’t have a steady income.”
    â€œI’m scraping by.” She didn’t want to think aboutthe money she owed in taxes. The Archibald Prize—if she won it—would cover that. If she didn’t win she would find the money, somehow. She would paint ten trillion watercolors of the colorful huts on Summerside Beach for the local galleries and cafés. She would paint portraits of pampered Pekinese pooches for rich old ladies. She would paint kids’ faces at birthday parties.
    Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly and deeply for three counts, allowing her hard edges to dissolve before she went out to paint. When she opened her eyes again, Rafe was watching her. “What?”
    He hesitated. “Those paintings you’ve already sold at the local gallery. I’m going to need the records for those going back five years.”
    Her and her big mouth.
    â€œThey’re all in the envelopes.” She twisted her fingers through the folds of her skirt.
    He scrolled through the pages of his computer spreadsheet, looking at those entries. “Then how come the most you’ve been paid for a painting is one thousand dollars?”
    â€œSamuel pays me the rest in cash,” she mumbled.
    His jaw dropped. Then he slammed a hand flat on the table, making her jump and the receipts flutter. “That is frickin’ tax evasion. Don’t you get it? It’s against the law.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” She shrugged unhappily. “It’s just, ifI