“And you’re one of them.”
“I’m one of the painters every year.”
“How many does he represent?”
“Thirty, maybe?”
“See? And you’re so humble, I never would have known.”
“I’m humble because my paintings don’t sell for much money. It’s not like anything I’ve done will ever see the inside of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Of course, most of the artists whose work sells for a gazillion dollars are dead.”
“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.”