Ms. Calder, We Want to Paint!

I was halfway up a ladder when Avery Quinn shoved her phone in front of my face. "Tell me you didn't send this to them," she said. My left hand gripped the ladder rail. My right held a brush dripping blue paint onto the drop cloth. The mural covered the south wall of my studio, not yet finished: a line of dark water beneath the names of the women who had packed fish at the old cannery. On Avery's screen, the same water curled beneath a row of golden fish. The same three figures stood shoulder to shoulder in the foreground. The faces had been scrubbed blank. The website banner read: A NEW TIDELINE FOR SALTMERE. Below it, in smaller type, was the name of the redevelopment company and the credit: Original concept by Avery Quinn. I climbed down. "I didn't send them anything," I said. Avery lowered the phone. "They're launching the project at the pier tonight. They called the picture a community concept." "Did they pay you?" Her mouth tightened. "That's not the point." "It's the first point." The studio door opened behind her. Nell Park stepped inside with a cardboard tray of coffee cups balanced in both hands. Her gaze moved from Avery's phone to my face. One cup tipped, and coffee spilled across her thumb. "What happened?" she asked. I recognized the image from the proposal I'd built for Northline Renewal, the company turning the abandoned cannery lot into waterfront apartments and a hotel. I had submitted it three weeks earlier for a public mural commission. Northline wanted a "welcoming landmark" for the new promenade. I had promised the mural would honor the workers who had kept the town alive before the waterfront became valuable. The proposal included the fish, the water, and the women. It also included a page of interview notes and a design rationale written in my words. Avery's version had lost the names. I set my brush in a jar. "Did you give Northline my proposal?" "No." She answered too quickly for me to believe the answer, but not quickly enough to prove anything. Nell put the coffee tray on my worktable. "They're showing it tonight?" "Apparently," Avery said. "They offered me a paid position. They said the commission needs someone who can work with their schedule." "You told them this was my design," I said. "I told them we developed it here." "We didn't develop it together. I asked you to paint color studies." "You asked me to help with a proposal that could get all of us paid." I looked at the painting on the wall. Avery's blue-green water study was visible beneath my final layer of color. She had painted it under my direction, from my drawing, for the Northline submission. She had worked hard. I had praised her. Nell stood beside the table with her fingers wrapped around a cup. She had helped record interviews with retired cannery workers, asking permission before she turned on the recorder, then labeling every file in her careful block handwriting. She rarely argued. I'd mistaken that for agreement. "The image online isn't a color study," I said. "It's my composition." Avery held my gaze. "It's a proposal. You don't own an idea." "I own the drawing I submitted. And the design file." "Then prove it." There was no smile in her voice. That made it worse. I crossed the studio and woke my laptop. The Northline folder sat on the desktop, untouched since the submission. I opened the agreement. My proposal was protected as an original work; the company had permission to review it, not to reproduce or adapt it. The mural would be licensed only after a contract and payment. The webpage had gone up less than an hour ago. I took screenshots. Then I downloaded the page to preserve the credit line and the image. Avery watched me. "Don't turn this into a lawsuit." "I haven't done anything yet." "Northline has lawyers. You have a two-room studio and a paint-splattered laptop." "You're right." The words seemed to surprise her. I sent the screenshots to my attorney, who handled the studio's lease and the occasional licensing question. Then I emailed Northline's project director, requesting immediate removal and a written account of how the image had been obtained. Nell kept her eyes on the coffee. "Were you involved?" I asked her. She opened her mouth, then looked at Avery. That small movement answered one question and created three more. Avery grabbed her tote. "I'm going to the pier. If you want to talk like an adult, you can come." "I'll come," I said. Nell finally looked up. "I'll come too." I shut down the laptop and reached for my coat. My wall remained unfinished behind us, the painted workers waiting without faces of their own.