Two by Two(85)

"That doesn't seem fair."

"You're preaching to the choir," she teased.

"And what role do you play at the opening?"

"Well, it's kind of like a mixer, and I'm one of several hosts. There  will be wine and appetizers, and I'll hang around in the general  vicinity of my work, in case any of the guests have questions or want to  talk to me."

"What if they want to buy a piece?"

"Then the guest will talk to the gallery owner. It's not really my place  to discuss what a painting is worth. As much as I was joking about the  big bucks, I don't like to think of art in terms of money. People should  buy a piece because they love it. Because it speaks to them."

"Or because it looks good hanging on the wall?"

"Or that," she said, smiling.

"I'm excited to see what you've done. I'm sorry I didn't make it to the gallery before now … "

"Russ, you're a busy single dad," she said, giving my arm a reassuring  squeeze. "I'm just glad you agreed to come with me tonight. It'll give  me someone to talk to when no one is looking at my work. It's a little  dispiriting to stand next to your work and watch people ignore it, or  avert their gaze so you won't try to talk to them."

"Has that ever happened to you?"

"Every time," she said. "Not everyone who shows up will like my work. Art is subjective."

"I like your work. What I've seen on your walls, I mean."

She laughed. "That's because you like me."

I looked over at her. "True enough."





By the time we reached the gallery, any trace of nervousness had passed.  As ever, Emily made being around her easy, because she was so clearly  comfortable with me. I had forgotten how liberating that feeling of  acceptance was, and when we paused at the door, I found myself staring  at her and wondering how different my life would have been had I married  her rather than Vivian.

Emily caught me staring and tilted her head. "What are you thinking about?"

I hesitated. "I was thinking how glad I am that London and Bodhi are friends."

She squinted at me, a skeptical gleam in her eye. "I'm not sure you were thinking about the kids just then."

"No?"

"No," she said with a knowing smile, "I'm pretty sure you were thinking about me."

"It must be a wonderful thing to be able to read minds."

"It is," she said. "And for my next trick, watch this: I'm going to enter the gallery without even touching the door."

"How are you going to do that?"

She feigned disappointment. "You're not even going to open the door for me? I thought you were a gentleman."

I laughed and pulled open the door for her. The interior of the building  was brightly lit, with the look of an industrial loft; a large open  space, with several groups of wall partitions that rose partway to the  ceiling. Paintings were mounted on the partitions, and I could see about  twenty people clustered among the artwork, most holding glasses of wine  or champagne flutes. Waiters and waitresses circulated, bearing silver  trays of appetizers.         

     



 

"Lead the way," I said. "You're the star tonight."

Emily scanned the room and we started toward a patrician-looking,  gray-haired gentleman. This turned out to be Claude Barnes, the owner of  the gallery. With him were two couples, both of whom had driven in from  other cities to attend the show.

I snagged a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed  one to Emily while we engaged in small talk. I saw Emily point toward a  set of partitions in the rear of the gallery and after the conversation  came to an end, we ambled over.

I took a few minutes to examine her paintings, thinking to myself that  they were not only arrestingly beautiful, but mysterious. While the  paintings I'd seen in her home had been abstract, in these, I saw more  realistic elements. The colors practically exploded off the canvas, and  were coupled with stark brushwork. One painting in particular continued  to draw my eye.

"These are spectacular," I said, meaning it. "I can't imagine how much  work they required. Which is the one that was giving you fits?"

"This one," she said, pointing to the one that had caught my eye.

I studied it up close, then took a few steps back, examining it from various angles. "It's perfect," I said.

"I still don't think it's done," she said, shaking her head, "but thank you."

"I mean it," I said. "I want to buy it."

"Okaay … " she said, at once doubtful and flattered. "Are you sure? You don't even know how much it costs."

"I want to buy it," I repeated. "Really." When she saw I was sincere, she actually blushed.

"Wow. I'm honored, Russ. I'll see if I can get Claude to give you the ‘friends and family' discount."

I took a sip of my wine. "Now what?"

"We wait and see if anyone comes by." She winked. "And if they do, let  me do the talking, okay? I don't want be a modern-day Margaret Keane."

"Who?"

"Margaret Keane was an artist whose husband took credit for her work for  years. They made her life story into a movie called Big Eyes. You  should see it."

"Why don't we watch it together one evening?"

"Deal."

As the gallery continued to fill, I listened to Emily explain her work  to interested patrons. My role, if I had one, was to take photographs  using people's phones. It seemed like practically everyone who came by  wanted a picture with Emily, presumably because she was the artist, but  after a while I noticed that none of the other artists seemed nearly as  popular.

While Emily was chatting with various guests, I wandered among the  exhibits of the other artists. A few of the sculptures caught my  attention, but they were so large and abstract, I couldn't imagine how  they could possibly look good in someone's home. I also liked the work  of some of the other painters, though in my opinion Emily's work was  better.

Emily and I nibbled steadily on appetizers as the crowds ebbed and  flowed. The flow of visitors reached its peak around 8:00 p.m., and then  began to dwindle. While the show was supposed to be over at 9:00 p.m.,  Claude didn't lock the doors until the last guest left at 9:45 p.m. "I  think that went well," he said, as he approached. "A number of the  guests expressed interest in your work. It wouldn't surprise me if you  sold out in the next few days."

Emily turned to me. "Are you sure you still want to buy that painting?"

"I do," I said, conscious that it was a luxury I could ill afford right  now. But somehow, I didn't care. Claude frowned slightly, aware, no  doubt, that a steep discount request would be coming. The frown vanished  as quickly as it had come.

"Are there any other pieces you're interested in? From the other artists?"

"No," I said. "Just the one."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow, Claude?" Emily asked. "It's getting a little late, and I'm too tired to talk business."

"Of course," he said. "Thank you for everything you did tonight, Emily,"  he said. "You're always so good at these things. Your personality  endears you to others."

Standing close to Emily, I knew that Claude was right.





"What would you like to do now?" I asked on the way to the car. "If you're tired, I can bring you home."

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "I've got a babysitter, and I said I  wouldn't be home until midnight. I only told Claude that I was tired so  we could get out of there. Once Claude starts talking, it's sometimes  hard to get him to stop. I love the guy, but I only have a babysitter  once in a blue moon and I'm going to take advantage of it."         

     



 

"Do you feel like having dinner? We might be able to find something that's still open."

"I'm stuffed," she said, "But how about a cocktail?"

"Do you have a favorite watering hole?"

"Russ, I'm the mother of a five-year-old. I don't get out much. But I've  heard that Fahrenheit has stunning views and fire pits. And since it's  chilly tonight, sitting by a fire sounds perfect."

"I just took London there for date night."

"Great minds think alike."

Soon thereafter, we found ourselves at Fahrenheit's rooftop bar, warming  ourselves before a glowing fire pit and taking in the carpet of city  lights below. I ordered two glasses of wine from a passing cocktail  waitress.

Emily sat swaddled in her cashmere wrap, eyes half closed, her  expression serene. She looked extraordinarily beautiful in the rosy glow  of the firelight, and when she noticed me staring, she gave a lazy  smile.

"I remember that look," she said. "You used to stare at me like that way back when …  a million years ago."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes it gave me goose bumps."

"But not anymore, right?"