“Don’t mention it you damned fool. I’ve already forgiven you,” Jess chuckled. “Glad to see you came to your senses so quickly. I thought you might hole yourself up in your little stadium and play football for a week before anyone saw you again.”
“I might still take a couple more hours,” I smiled.
She laughed down the line.
“So come out with it. I know you didn’t just call me to say thanks.”
“Did you find the number I’m looking for?” I asked.
“You pay me for a reason, don’t you?” Jess laughed. “Of course I have the damn number.”
“In that case, put me through to Gloria Van Lark…”
15
Riley
When I came back down to the Pulliam Gallery, I had no idea what awaited me. It wasn’t every day the head curator summoned me down to speak with a possible buyer, and some of my largest and most expensive works were housed in the Pulliam… I was completely taken aback by whom my mystery admirer was.
“Oh, it’s you again,” I smiled at the lithe, old woman. She was dressed in a long, oversized coat and loafers, carefully regarding one of my biggest paintings. This one carried a price tag higher than most automobiles, and I never would have assumed she could have afforded it… “How are you doing?” I asked quietly.
“I’m a bit cold, but I think I’ll manage,” she responded warmly as I walked up. Her eyes remained on the artwork. “You know, most artists these days feel like they have to be so self-important… that they must reinvent the wheel… bring something completely new to the field. In some cases, it’s true. Most who try, fail. But you… I’ve given it some thought. I think you have some serious talent for your craft.”
I glanced nostalgically up at the painting.
“What do you think of it?” I asked.
“You’re asking for my opinion?”
“I am,” I nodded. “I have my personal thoughts on it, but I wonder what you think. You were so kind to me last time, after all.”
The old woman turned to the canvas and sighed to herself, contemplating the presentation. This wasn’t one of my usual landscapes – it was the painting of a small girl, holding a puppy upright in her arms as she stood along the beach, its legs dangling down. Her back was to the water, and her pet covered most of her smiling face. The tide was nipping at her ankles as she faced the viewer, and the sun was setting quietly in the background.
“Fear,” she finally spoke.
“Fear? What do you mean by that?”
The woman glanced over at me tenderly, and then back to the painting again. “See how the child faces away from the ocean? She has turned her back on the world, hiding behind the comfort of another living creature. She feels the cold of the tide, but refuses to venture into its embrace. This child is one who is trapped between worlds – unable to join that of the spectator, and unwilling to exist joyously within her own.”
“That’s an interesting conclusion,” I remarked, pressing a pair of fingers to my chin as I studied the artwork alongside her. “I’d always thought it more of the opposite – refusing the comfort of the sea to confront the audience, offering up the sight of the dog as a gift, maybe.”
The woman smiled. “Such is the wonder of art. Such varied interpretations. You never know what the artist expects or the audience finds.”
“Do you like it?” I asked her curiously.
“Yes, I believe that I do. I’m somewhat fond of the artist herself, having been able to converse with her a few times.”
“I painted this one,” I responded, confused. “I’ve only seen you here twice now.”
“I know,” she winked. “But I’ve been here a little more often than that. You just haven’t seen me… but I’ve seen you. And I’ve spoken to you, through observing your artwork. You are an interesting young woman, Riley.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever gotten your name,” I recalled, reaching out my hand to her. “You obviously know who I am. Riley Ricketts. Who might you be?”
“Oh, you know who I am,” she smiled. “You’ve been waiting for me for a long time.”
The cogs in my brain snapped, trying to rectify this impossible scenario. It couldn’t be. But it was…
“You’re Gloria Van Lark,” I murmured.
She smiled triumphantly. “Indeed.”
My brain worked at a hundred miles an hour. “But… your reputation… you’re supposed to be tall, hawkish, with dark hair and spectacles… I’ve seen pictures of you! I’ve met you!”