by Mara Purl
The phone rang. She stared at it, then, despite her usual custom, decided to answer. “Hello?”
“Darling! It’s me!”
Knowing the voice after the first syllable, Miranda said, “Hi, Zelda.”
“Well, it’s simply the most brilliant thing you’ve ever done. The postcard is sensational. I want you to send me a thousand immediately. You have more marketing sense than you’ve ever let on, Miranda. This is going to turn the tide.”
“A thousand? But I only printed a hundred. I’m not sure I have the budget to—”
“We’ll solve that in just a moment. By the way, what are you doing answering the phone?”
“What? Oh … I don’t know. I don’t seem to be able to paint anything today. I’m very distracted. I just have this feeling something is about to happen.” Though Miranda had always had strong intuitions, she was just beginning to trust them.
“Well, Miranda darling, it is! Now, I have some good news and some bad news.”
Miranda braced herself. “Bad news first.”
Zelda launched into one of her long and detailed stories about being unable to get the client to go for the “big” piece. Zelda’s never seemed clear on the actual titles of my paintings. But she must be talking about Elephant Seals Take the Sun, and I guess she wasn’t able to sell it. “So… the client’s decision is final?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, dear. I was counting on that income.”
“Didn’t I tell you there was good news?”
“So you did.”
“Well, darling I feel so dreadful about this, after promising I had this sale all sewn up, that I’ve decided I’ll buy it from you.”
Miranda had an immediate and automatic aversion to loans of any kind. “Zelda, that’s ridiculous. You can’t afford to float me for $10,000.”
“True. This is outside the scope of our official representation contract. But, since I know you need the money right away, I thought we could handle this as a private sale. The thing is, I can only afford to pay you half price. So I’m sending you $5,000. And who said anything about floating? This isn’t a loan, it’s a sale.”
It wasn’t like Miranda to worry about money—though there was never a surplus. There was, however, what her sister liked to call her “ordered chaos.” Miranda’s own bill-paying method didn’t seem chaotic to her. The bills stayed in a neat stack until she sold a painting—then she paid them all.
This money from Zelda … it wouldn’t be a loan. But it would be a mercy-sale, even at half price. “I can’t accept your charity, Zelda.” she said into the phone.
“I insist! I’ve already written the check, and I’m just about to put it in the mail. It will only take a day or two to reach you from Santa Barbara. And anyway, it’s high time I had my most significant artist on conspicuous display in my own home.”
Zelda seems very certain of herself, though something still feels wrong about it. But Miranda pushed her doubts aside. This was her manager, and it was an offer that would meet her immediate needs. She hesitated one more moment and then yielded. “Uh … thank you, Zelda. Listen, I’m going to go. I don’t want to run up your phone bill on top of everything you’re doing for me.”
“That’s my girl. We’ll talk soon. Ta-ta!”
Miranda hung up the phone and tried to return to the afternoon light, still feeling the events of the day weren’t through with her.
Zelda McIntyre pushed back from her black, gilt-edged Louis XV desk and stood, pausing for a moment to inhale the fresh citrus-touched aroma of the Sweet Bergamot potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl. She’d found the aromatic treasure at Marks and Spencer during a trip to London. She liked it all the more upon realizing it shared some undertones with Zibeline—her preferred evening fragrance.
Walking the few steps to her French windows, she looked down at the courtyard, where afternoon light gave a peach tinge to the white stucco walls. Just the right tonality for autumn. Even without the tiny, fragrant jasmine blossoms that’d finished for the year, glossy green leaves spilled exuberantly over the edges of their over-sized pots. And the tromp-l’oeil mural covering the courtyard walls extended the vines upward to the roofline, making the space exquisitely inviting. One of my better ideas… hiring Miranda to paint that three-part mural for me this past summer.
The young woman was something of an enigma. When Zelda had first heard about the artist from a little gallery up the coast, a few well-placed phone calls had revealed Miranda was of the well-known Jones family in San Francisco. Yet the girl is determined not to use the benefit of her name—or her presumed fortune—for her own advancement. Why in heaven’s name not?
Raw ambition was something Zelda understood. She had it herself. But while she and other people dreamed of success and all its trappings, Miranda apparently dreamed of other things: wildlife protection, environmental purity, peaceful coexistence. If the girl had an ambition, it seemed to be that her paintings would change the world. Well, in order for that to happen, the world has to know about her. Her paintings have to sell—and that’s where my own expertise is already making the critical difference.
The tasteful sign in her second-story window read Art Placements & Artists Representations. The business side of Zelda’s building faced Victoria Street in Santa Barbara’s downtown. On the floor below, she rented to an antiques emporium, and to a gallery, thus covering the building’s expenses with her tenants’ rent.
APAR was Zelda’s second art business, and was proving equally as successful as the first had been. Corporate Art Professionals—CAP—had placed appropriate art in business offices across the country. Now, Zelda preferred a far more individual approach, working as a personal art shopper for select clients, and that was the “placements” part of her work.
In addition, the smaller, quieter side of the business was “representations”—repping a short list of promising artists. She prided herself in having a superb eye for excellent work, and for true talent. She also knew a vast majority of artists were clueless about the business side of their own profession.
Turning away from the window, Zelda walked back toward her desk, where on its corner a spray of white orchids arced gracefully from a blue porcelain pot. I did buy myself the perfect birthday gift.
Zelda had just celebrated her fiftieth. She glanced along the mullioned windows—where long floral drapes were gathered between sections—and then around the suite she’d furnished with French antiques. I do love that desk. Though quite large, its veneer of inlaid flowers on the dark wood gave it a feminine touch.
She’d chosen the colors for her home as carefully as she had for her clothing. This office suite was neutrals with tasteful floral accents—nothing too fussy or elaborate, but clean, classic lines and good quality pieces of rich, gleaming wood.
The bedroom was a good deal more sensual—not that anyone other than herself had seen it lately. She’d had the primary wall painted in a rich shade of deep plum, had the four-poster bed layered in coverlets and pillows of amethyst and lavender, grape and violet.
Yes, quite perfect. Her home, her business, her wardrobe—all were in order. Yet something is missing. She’d already made her fortune once, but was ready to do it again, this time perhaps sharing a bit less of it with an “ex.”
Zelda never thought of herself as someone who’d been married. Her so-called marriage, such as it was, had only lasted for about ten minutes on the emotional clock. She’d never had the slightest inclination to risk repeating the fiasco—unless she could find a true equal.
She’d been a plain-looking girl who now just missed being a beauty, but had grown into a handsome woman, and one who’d taught herself how to make use of her appearance. She’d learned to dress expensively. Her wardrobe of Chanel and Dior suits encompassed a careful selection of fabrics—silk twill and crêpe de Chine seemed to work best in this climate. Some might call her color palette limited. But after sessions with fashion consultants and personal shoppers, she kne
w the reds, burgundies and purples she favored made the most of her black hair, pale skin and violet eyes. Her collection of softly draped pashminas and Hermes scarves was by now a signature.
The minute she’d graduated as an Art History major from Cincinnati University, Zelda—she wasn’t called that then—had changed her name and moved as far away as possible. Ohio is a good place to be from… but I wouldn’t want to admit it unless I must. Los Angeles had seemed fairly distant geographically, but it was light years away morally, and therein lay its appeal.
When she’d first arrived, she’d done museum collections acquisition work, but that had been laughable in the culturally deprived Los Angeles of the 1960s. There’d seemed no point in pursuing such a career unless one were at the Met or the Modern in New York. Instead she found a way to combine and exploit the best and the worst of L.A.: the extraordinary freedom of expression, which bred good artists, and the hunger for status and success, which corrupted artists and patrons alike. At first, becoming a corporate art consultant, she partnered with a fabulously intelligent and well-connected older man. Then, when she no longer needed her mentor, she competed with him by opening her own firm.
Like so many things in the fast-paced and materialistic lifestyle of which she was the perfect exemplification, life was mostly about acquisition. What had once been the dignified pastime of the highly cultured, was now the competitive bidding war of the upwardly mobile. What collectors of yesteryear had taken decades to amass, acquisitors now expected to gather in mere days. And that was where Zelda came in.
Corporate Art Professionals succeeded from day one, winning clients faster than Zelda could list them in her Rolodex. CAP was eventually successful enough to go public, but Zelda never wanted that, and kept the company tightly held. It placed over a million dollars in corporate art the second year, and continued up from there.
She’d gradually developed a stable of artists she liked working with regularly, and later branched into managing the careers of a few of the most promising—like Miranda Jones, whose success as an artist had been no surprise. Zelda knew and trusted both her own eye, and her own ability to market a good product. What she hadn’t counted on was liking the girl.
Zelda thought for a moment about their phone conversation a short while ago. Miranda’s concern that Zelda not sacrifice by sending her a large check had been almost touching. But Zelda didn’t let that worry her. This was strictly business. As she thought about her next call, she flipped open her amethyst leather Filofax address book and, with a short, polished nail, scanned down the page for the number.
“Hello, this is Russell Clarke.” The man’s voice sounded dignified, but clipped.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Clarke.” She spoke with deliberate warmth. “It’s Zelda McIntyre. I have wonderful news for you. I’ve been able to talk Miranda Jones down to $10,000 for the painting you liked, Elephant Seals Take the Sun.”
There was no reply.
Before the silence grew too awkward, Zelda continued. “Isn’t it marvelous? Of course, I know you’re in Philadelphia, but I could have the piece delivered to your Morro Bay office this week.” She knew when to close a sale. “Would that be convenient?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“And you’ll instruct your office to have the check ready?” These nasty little details might be unpleasant to some, but I rather enjoy them.
“Yes,” said Clarke. “Should the check be made out to you?”
“It can be made out to my company: Art Placements & Artist Representations.”
“It’ll be ready.”
“Good. Well, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Clarke.”
There was again no reply, except for the click of Mr. Clarke’s phone. But Zelda was unperturbed. She replaced the receiver. It’s just that simple, if you know what you’re doing. And what poor little Miranda doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt her. Zelda would pick up the check for $10,000, send $5,000 to Miranda, and make a nice little deposit at her own bank. Even if Mr. Clarke ever met the artist, Miranda would have no reason to discuss the dollar amount of a previous sale.
Zelda sat back in her plush office chair and ruminated over the events of the day. Miranda was satisfied. Mr. Clarke seemed satisfied. And as for me, well… I’m working on it. She had a long way to go before her plans came completely to fruition.
She thought again about Miranda for a moment, and about the bond she’d felt when they first met. The girl would never talk about her past—a sentiment they shared.
One thing they did not share was this zeal for the environment, which Zelda considered merely to be the latest fad. She did not, however, fail to recognize that “environment” was beginning to heat up as a marketable buzz word in the world of art.
She considered for a moment about the girl’s sincerity. Such concerns were washed away, however, by the image of that dreadful painting. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a painting of seals in my living room, she thought. In fact, maybe with some of my new profit, I’ll get myself a seal coat! And with that thought, Zelda leaned forward in her chair and began to laugh.
Chapter 6
Jack Sawyer glowered at his office phone. The press should be calling me. Doesn’t anyone in this town know how to do their job?
Grudgingly, he had to admit living in a small town did have its advantages, even if being surrounded by competent professionals wasn’t one of them. The Milford-Haven News had small-town written all over it. Jack snorted at the awful pun.
The one-and-only local news reporter Emily Wilkins had previously expressed an interest in the “fabulous mansion” his company had been contracted to design and build. But somehow she’d forgotten to follow through with his interview.
Jack flipped open the phonebook, his thick fingers mashing the curled edges. Finally locating the listing, he grabbed the receiver and dialed the number.
“Milford-Haven News, Editorial.” said a crisp female voice. The accent surprised him, as it had before. What is it again? Australian? No, South African. That’s what it is. Too exotic for these parts.
“This is Jack Sawyer.” Let’s see if that’s enough of a cue.
“Jack… oh! Yes, Mr. Sawyer. This is Emily Wilkins. How may I help?”
“I think it’s more a matter of me helping you, isn’t it? Or did you decide you don’t want to scoop the national press on Milford-Haven’s largest home construction project?” He tapped a pencil on his desk.
“Uh… I…” she stammered. “You’re on my list. What would be a convenient time to meet?”
“I’m a busy man, Ms. Wilkins. Why don’t we just talk on the phone?”
“Well, that would be fine, providing our photographer can visit the building site soon… say, tomorrow morning?”
Now I’ve got her attention. “I’ll have my job site manager check to see what we have scheduled for tomorrow. Call the office in the morning. You have the number, right?”
“Yes, it’s here in my notes.”
“You’ll get the machine, but punch number two for Kevin, and it’ll forward to his voice mail.”
“Kevin,” she repeated, apparently writing down the name. “Voice mail. Will do. So… uh….”
Can’t this woman do anything but stutter? “Do you have questions for me, Ms. Wilkins? Or do you just want me to start talking?”
“Uh… I do have questions! I’ll just…” Papers rustled in the background. “I had them written down….”
“As I said, I’m busy. That means I don’t have much time. The Clarke House will be the most spectacular home ever built on the Central Coast.”
Now the rustling stopped, and keyboard clacking began. “Most… spectacular…”
“And it’s not so much the square-footage, which, by the way, is 25,000, but—”
“Twenty-five thousand!” Emily exclaimed. “That’s large enough to hold a… well, a ballroom!”
“Or an indoor media theater with seating for one hundred.”
Clack clack clack. �
��I see. I mean, I’d like to see!”
‘Yes, the size will be impressive, but the design far more so. For this project I used the principles I learned at Taliesin West.”
“Taliesin… isn’t that the former home of Frank Lloyd—”
“Wright. Yes.”
“And you visited there?” the reported asked.
“I taught there, Ms. Wilkins.”
“Oh! I didn’t realize you—”
Jack cut her off. “You can look it up.”
“Indeed, I shall. So what sort of design ideas did you—”
“Taliesin was the name of a Welsh bard from 555 B.C.”
“And… he designed buildings?”
Jack could barely suppress a guffaw. “Wright liked the meaning of the bard’s name—‘shining brow’—and he used that principle in the designs of his winter home in Arizona.”
“I see, yes, it is very sunny there.”
“His focus wasn’t the ‘shining’. It was the ‘brow.’
“The…uh, brow?”
Jack sighed. “As he had in Wisconsin, Wright looked for a brow of land for his building site, then built his structure—not to sit like a wedding cake on a table—but rather to nestle organically into the existing profile of the hill.”
Clack clack clack. “Organically.”
“You’ll see what I mean the moment you step onto the Clarke property. Though the house is only a skeleton at this point, you’ll realize immediately it’s not dominating the ridge, but is rather below it, incorporated into the hillside.”
“Like it was always meant to be there.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Part of the ridge,” she repeated, apparently typing the words as she spoke them. “And, Mr. Sawyer, what about the Environmental Planning Commission?”
Jack, at last pleased that the reporter had finally begun to grasp what he was talking about, now suddenly felt wary. If I tread lightly here, I can lead her just where I want her. “What about the EPC?”
“I understand the plans have not yet been approved.”
