Story Excerpts
In Harlem, even the shadows have secrets. Beneath the glitz and the glamor, souls grapple with jealousy and greed. Loyalties shift like sand, and alliances shatter like glass.
This is my beat, where dreams crash and lives crumble. Where trusting hearts are betrayed, truth is pitted against passion, and morality against ambition. The lines between good and evil are often blurred by fear and desperation. Only fools think otherwise.
The wind whispered through the barren trees on that rainy October night, their branches swaying like skeletal fingers reaching for the stars. As I hurried to the Bennett Art Gallery on West 123rd Street, I had no idea I was stepping into a portrait where every face hid a lie.
Vibrant artwork adorned the gallery walls. The chandeliers set the room aglow. Jazz mingled with the babble of excited voices and murmurs of appreciation. A sophisticated uptown–downtown crowd of Harlem’s elite and Fifth Avenue patrons had gathered to celebrate the opening of Amelia Foster’s debut exhibition. It was a society columnist’s dream—and I was here to capture it.
The frames around Amelia’s canvases were dark, grounding their vivid colors, containing them. A contradiction—life brimming within tight borders. The evening’s centerpiece was an evocative portrait of an ebony-skinned woman, bold and unflinching. Her gaze was confident, her purple and gold dress vibrant against an abstract background. A small crowd stood before it, transfixed, murmuring in hushed appreciation.
Only one person held himself apart—Henry Thompson, an older artist whose star had faded while Amelia’s was on the rise. Once her mentor, he was now her shadow. He stood with his arms folded, glaring at the portrait as if it had personally betrayed him. I would speak with him later. For now, there were others to see.
I found Sophia Bennett, the gallery owner, across the room. Regal and poised, she charmed potential buyers with her knowledge and passion. She caught my eye and smiled as I approached. Her fingers grazed the gold pendant at her throat—an elegant rendering of Nefertiti, a subtle declaration of her place here.
“Ah, Lanie!” Her voice was as smooth as honey. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be. Looks like a great showing.” I gestured toward Amelia’s centerpiece. “That one over there—it’s stunning.”
“Yes. The buzz has been building for weeks. I already have several buyers lined up, itching to start a bidding war.”
Just then, one of those potential buyers came up and tapped her on the arm. She gave a delighted little cry and excused herself with a smile, leaving me to wander.
I made my way over to Henry. He stood rigidly, hands jammed into his pockets, eyes cold as he took in the portrait.
I decided to provoke him, just a bit. “Quite the turnout for our girl.”
He scowled. “Our girl? She was nobody’s girl yesterday, and she’d still be that today if it weren’t for me.”
“Is that so? From what I hear, you haven’t exactly been cheering her on.”
“Why would I? I schooled her in the fine dance of composition, the delicate play of light and shadow. And this is what she produces? This crazed riot of color?”
His lip curled. “Restraint is power. But she threw that out the moment she slapped every color on a canvas. This isn’t mastery—it’s desperation.” His face tightened with contempt. “I went through an entire year where I worked only in deep browns. Another with greens. But look at her.” He glanced back at the painting. “It’s as if she’s never understood subtlety.”
Perhaps it would be better to change the subject. “And what are you working on?”
The moment I uttered the question, I knew I’d made a mistake. He was insulted. Of course, he was. A great painter like him. As far as he was concerned, I should’ve known the answer. The fact that I didn’t . . .
“Red,” he bit out. “I’ve been exploring the complexities of red. Every shade, every nuance. But she,” he gestured sharply to Amelia’s painting, “thinks more is better. Look at that. It’s chaotic, loud. No discipline.”
To each his own, I supposed. To me, the portrait was engaging, the colors enlivening. The woman gazed outward, determined and hopeful. And the title? Aspiration. It wasn’t just the portrait of a face. But of a soul, reaching, dreaming.
“She’s found her own style, Henry. You should be proud. She’s on a pedestal—”
“For now.”
“And she’s earned it. That takes grit.”
His eyes darkened. “I don’t give a damn about her pedestal. I do care that she’s forgotten who put her there. After all the doors I opened for her, she shuts me out. No gratitude. No loyalty.” He oozed bitterness, a scent as sour as old cologne. “All this talk of her talent,” he spat. “What talent? She’s all sizzle, no steak.”