“Not at all. On occasion, I find myself at a loss for words.”
“On a rare occasion,” her husband said.
Katherine smiled, but Martine ignored him.
“Tell me, Dr. Jackson, is it true that you and Dr. Richardson fell in love ten years ago?”
Katherine smiled. “I can’t speak for Steven, but I know that I did.”
“He’s very fond of you, Dr. Jackson. Don’t break his heart.”
***
Later in the evening, she sat talking with a woman named Judith Harris. Her husband, Travis was an associate curator and had been with the Museum for almost five years.
“There certainly is a large crowd tonight,” Judith observed. “That’s good.”
“I’m certain the Museum is pleased.” Katherine took a sip of wine.
“Well, it is good for the Museum. The opening often indicates how successful the exhibition will be. There has been quite a bit of publicity. It’s good for Steven, too.”
“I know he’s pleased.” Katherine looked around the room. “I wonder where he is.”
“A curator’s work is often rather routine,” Judith continued. “Exhibitions are special. It takes little creativity to perform the routine work, but if you can mount a successful exhibition, it’s a definite plus for your career.”
“What do you mean?” Katherine asked, cocking her head to one side.
“Most junior curators do not stay at the Museum, you know. Some do, of course, and they are promoted to higher positions. Dr. McCoy, Travis’s supervisor, began as a junior curator about twenty years ago, for example.” She sipped her wine. “Most of them, though, move on. Some take senior positions at smaller museums, others go into academia, a few return to painting or sculpting, or whatever. Curating a successful exhibition enhances one’s résumé. Travis had one a couple of years ago and it led to a promotion.”
Katherine shook her head. “I’m not really familiar with career paths in the art world.”
“It’s sort of like academia. Doing your job doesn’t attract a lot of attention—it’s the special things you do. In a college, publishing is noticed, rather than teaching. In the art world, exhibitions, books, and lectures attract attention. Being a producing artist does too.”
“Oh.” Katherine had never thought that Steven might move on some day.
“Katie.” She turned to find Steven standing behind her. “Are you having a good time? Judith is filling you in on all of the gossip?”
Katherine smiled up at him. “That’s right, all of the gossip. A real den of iniquity!”
She looked at Judith, and they both laughed.
“Actually,” Katherine continued, “we were talking about the exhibit. There seems to be a large group here tonight.”
“That’s what I’m told.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Dinner will start in a few minutes. I’m really nervous. I have to give a little welcoming speech, you know. I hate speaking in front of large groups of people.”
“You taught at Oxford,” Judith exclaimed. “You spoke to groups every day.”
“But this is different.” He leaned over and kissed Katherine on the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re here.” He straightened. “I need to rehearse. I’ll see you in the dining room in a few minutes.”
As she watched Steven make his way through the crowd, Katherine took another sip from her glass. She sniffed the wine. Fruity, she thought. And very good.
She turned back to Judith. “What do you do, Judith?”
“I was a teacher. I’m a mommy now. Three preschool children keep me really busy.”
“Three?”
“A three-year-old and a set of twins. It’s not boring.”
“I’ll bet. Where do you live?”
“In Brooklyn. It’s so much less expensive than Manhattan. We own a house there.” As she stood to look for her husband, Judith asked, “You’re a physician?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I shouldn’t think the two of you would have a problem finding a place to live. Between his salary and his painting, I think Steven does well. Ever been to his apartment?”
“No.” Katherine shook her head.
“Wait until you see it.”
Katherine smiled as she realized that Judith viewed her as more than simply Steven’s current girlfriend.
***
On Sunday afternoon, Katherine lay on the sofa, looking at the photograph in the Times. It really was a good picture. The photograph had been taken on Friday at the reception. The accompanying story described the opening, with emphasis on the social aspects, the reception, and the dinner that preceded the formal opening. The exhibit itself was reviewed, quite favorably, in another section. Steven had called earlier, excited about the review, and had casually mentioned the story in the Style section.
The story was accompanied by several photographs of people in attendance. As she had expected, most of them were prominent in New York society, but Katherine was looking at the photograph of Steven and her. “Dr. Steven Richardson, curator of the exhibit, and Dr. Katherine Jackson.” She smiled as she read the caption aloud.
She closed her eyes, recalling the evening, but the telephone rang, interrupting her thoughts.
“Hi, Mom, what’s up? How are you?”
“I’m fine, Katherine. It’s an excellent photograph in the Times this morning, ‘Dr. Steven Richardson and Dr. Katherine Jackson.’”
“Oh, Mom, I had forgotten that you receive the Times on Sunday. I would have called you.”
“Dr. Richardson is quite good looking.”
“He is, isn’t he? The reception was so much fun. I met all of the people who work with Steven, and, Mom, the food was just out of this world—Greek, of course. My mouth waters as I just think about it.” She stared at the ceiling, picturing dinner. “We had orzo—it’s a kind of pasta—with grilled shrimp and a feta cheese sauce. It was so good. For dessert, there was baklava, and it was almost floating in custard. Oh, Mom!”
“It sounds delicious.”
“I can still taste it. Steven told me that he remembered something similar when he studied in England. And, Mom, the dresses—you should have seen the dresses. They are shorter than they were last year, a lot shorter. And low cut. The women in Hamilton will die when the new styles show up in the stores in Richmond.”
Katherine picked up the telephone and wandered around the room as they talked.
“I met your old friend, Mrs. Van de Stowe, one of the ladies you told me I might see. I heard someone call her name, so I looked. Then, I walked over and introduced myself. You told me that she might not remember you, but she did. Her eyes lit up when I told her your name, and we talked for almost half an hour, I think.”
“I’m so glad,” her mother replied. “Marta was one of my suite-mates when I was in college. We had so much fun together, but you know it’s so hard to keep up after you graduate. Her husband is an investment banker, isn’t he?”
“He is.” Katherine glanced out the window at the people on the street. “Steven told me that he is a major contributor to the Museum.”
“I’m not surprised. Marta was an art major in college. Wanted to be a painter as I recall. I wonder if she still paints.”
“She seems to paint still, from what she said, but I’m not sure how much.” Katherine put the telephone down and placed one hand on her hip.
“She told me about something that happened your freshman year in college. Something about going to a dance, leaving late, and reaching the dorm after curfew? The two of you had to crawl through a window to avoid the housemother. Sound familiar?”
“We did have a good time in college, Katherine.” Her mother laughed. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the party, sweetie. I just wanted you to know we were reading about you.”
They said good-bye, and as she hung up, Katherine pictured her mother, sitting in the family room after Sunday dinner, opening the newspaper. The Style section was always the first one that she read. She could
imagine her mother’s eyes dilating and her mouth dropping open when she saw the picture. Katherine giggled and decided she would call her Dad the next day to ask what her mother had said.
She thought about Steven and smiled. He had given her a personal tour of the exhibit, telling her stories about some of the pieces. One of them, a large red pot, was owned by a collector in North Carolina. Steven had flown to Charlotte twice to convince him to loan it to the Museum. On his second visit, he said, the owner tried to play matchmaker between Steven and his daughter. “I was afraid I was going to have to marry her in order to borrow the pot,” he had joked.
She had never seen him more excited, just like a little boy at Christmas. It was nice to know that he found his work so interesting.
Judith had said that exhibitions like Steven’s were important to a curator’s career. She had told her something else too. What was it?
Ever been to his apartment? Wait until you see it.
She never had been to his apartment. Katherine glanced at her watch—it was five o’clock. She reached for the telephone. “Can I interest you in pizza? I’ll buy one and bring it over.”
“Tonight? I don’t know.” Steven’s voice trailed off as if he were deciding what to say.
“Maybe another night?” She sighed, disappointed. “I just wanted to see you.”
“I’d like to see you, too—look, I’ve already started cooking dinner, and…oh, why don’t you come on over.”
“That’s not fair. You won’t have enough for two.”
“Of course it’s fair. There will be plenty. I can’t eat an entire beef roast myself. You know where I live. Can you be here about six?”
I can be there in fifteen minutes, if you want. Katherine twirled her hair and smiled. “Six will be great. See you then.”
***
Steven kissed her as she crossed the threshold. “I’m glad you called. Come in. Sunday is the only day that I really have to cook. So I do.” He closed the door behind her. “The place is such a mess. I hesitated to ask you to come.”
“You’ve seen my apartment. As I recall, there were piles of laundry in the living room.”
“Well, feel free to look around while I finish dinner. Would you like wine?”
Standing at the front door, Katherine could see through to the back of the apartment. She followed him into the kitchen. The smell of roasting beef mingled with the aroma of baking bread.
Steven poured two glasses of wine. As she took hers, Katherine glanced into the bedroom behind the kitchen. Then she peered into a small room off to the side of the kitchen, perhaps a pantry, originally. Inside, she found an easel. Unused canvases hung on the wall, and paints were stored in a small cabinet.
Katherine walked back into the living room. A small crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, spreading a soft light across the room. A mahogany desk beside the front door separated the entrance from the remainder of the room. On the desk, Katherine spied a leather-bound volume. It looked old and when Katherine opened it, she found an original edition of David Copperfield. “My father would love to have this,” she whispered. A small bookcase was set beneath a large window, and it was filled with books that appeared to be just as old as the one in her hands.
A mahogany table stood against the wall across from the window. She rubbed her hand across the smooth, polished surface. You didn’t see tables like this very often. It reminded her of one in her mother’s entrance hall. On the table, she saw a silver teapot, a creamer, a sugar bowl—all three set on a large silver tray. A letter C was inscribed on the side of each container, as well as the center of the tray. An ornate border circled each piece. The design was unique, faintly Celtic.
Above the table was a large painting, Bellerose Abbey, with a yellow rosebush growing in front. Katherine smiled. “The painting is beautiful, Steven,” she called.
“Which one,” he asked. “The one of the abbey or the one above the mantle?”
Katherine turned and looked at the fireplace at the other end of the room. Above the mantle hung a second painting, this one of a stone bridge that stretched across a small creek. At the other end of the bridge stood a large tree, its branches spreading out, casting shadows across the road. Green fields stretched away from the bridge on both sides, sloping up and out of sight.
Katherine gasped. She heard Steven behind her.
“I know that bridge,” she said. “I remember it.”
“Where was it?”
She turned to him. “It was just outside of Stirling. As we walked across it, you told me you loved me. The first time you said it.” She smiled as she recalled what had happened. “We had stopped to rest and I was looking down, into the water. I could see fish as they swam around in circles near the bridge.”
“I said I love you, and you weren’t paying attention. I had to repeat it twice before you heard me.”
“I heard you the first time. I just didn’t believe my ears.”
She looked up at the picture, but Steven put his hand to her chin and turned her to look at him. He placed his arms around her and kissed her. “I’ll say it again. I love you.”
“I love you, Steven.”
They held each other in silence for a moment.
“I painted it that same year, in September. The abbey, too. I didn’t want to forget.”
“The rosebush was in the chancel,” Katherine whispered.
“I know.” Steven laughed. “We call it artistic freedom.”
“It’s a beautiful room, Steven. Tell me about the silver. Does it have a history?”
Steven sighed. “Yes, it belonged to my grandmother, then my mother. When I was eight, my father lost his business. Most of what we owned had to be sold, our house in Loganville, most of the furniture, the silver, a lot of jewelry. My mother managed to hang on to the tray. For years, I took responsibility for polishing it. I insisted that we use it on Sundays—to remind us of home, I said. Mom gave it to me when I moved to New York.”
“How about the other pieces?”
“I stumbled on them in an antique store. They seemed familiar, so I matched the patterns, the writing, to that on the tray. I called Mom to ask her if they could be ours and she told me to look on the bottoms. Sure enough, on the bottom of each, in the center,” he turned one over, “you can see a small LCR scratched into the surface. Those are her initials. She scratched them just before they were taken for sale. I asked why she did that and she said just in case.”
“The books, are they originals? They remind me of my father’s library.”
“Originals, or close to it. I started collecting when I was in England. My father collected books, too—they were all sold.”
Steven was quiet.
“My father died not long after we moved to Atlanta. I think the bankruptcy was too much for him. I’ve always tried to be like him. Trying to grab the past, I suppose.”
“Steven, I’m so sorry,” Katherine began.
He shook his head. “Enough of that. I’m glad you like everything. Are you ready for dinner?”
They sat at a real dining table, not one designed for a breakfast room like the one that Katherine and her friends used. A linen cloth covered the table and silver candlesticks were set in the center. The china and silverware looked antique. Katherine was suitably impressed and told Steven so.
“I told you that I go all out for Sunday dinner.”
Dinner was as wonderful as it had looked and smelled, and afterward they sat in the wingback chairs that flanked the fireplace, sipping second glasses of wine.
“This room, this apartment, is not what I would have expected to find in a converted brownstone.”
“No, me neither.” He looked around the room. “I wouldn’t be happy in a rundown apartment, so I made it as nice as I could.”
“It’s wonderful, Steven. You have such nice things.”
“You know, I don’t intend to live in an apartment like this for the rest of my life. I will have something much nicer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Judith tells me that most junior curators eventually move on.”
Steven’s head snapped up. “Travis is looking for a job?”
“No. No. She didn’t say that,” Katherine exclaimed. “She was just saying that only a few stay forever—they become directors of smaller museums, academia, or something.”
Steven looked down as he rubbed his thumb around in a circle on the arm of the chair. He seemed to be deep in thought.
“I’m not sure,” he said after a while. “I love New York, and I enjoy my work.” He chuckled. “Professor Spence wants me to return to Oxford. He believes he’s found a way to work around the restrictions on employing foreigners. You know, he didn’t want me to leave.”
“Why did you?”
“To look for you, of course.” He smiled.
Katherine rolled her eyes.
“Well, in part. The British are reluctant to allow foreigners to do work that British citizens can perform just as well. Professor Spence suggested that I could renounce my citizenship, become a British subject.”
Katherine waved him away. “You’re not serious!”
“I think he was. I told him that was a bit extreme for an appointment as a lecturer, but for a professorship of some kind…”
Katherine laughed.
“His wife told me that he took me quite seriously, but I didn’t have the track record to justify the appointment. I hope that’s not his plan now. I’m giving a lecture series in Oxford in January.” He cocked his head. “Want to come with me?”
“It sounds wonderful. I’d probably have difficulty getting off from work, though.”
“I thought that would be so, but I wanted to ask.” He lifted her free hand and placed a kiss there.
“Can you imagine what the women in Hamilton would say if I went to England with you? I can hear Mrs. Howard now.” She pulled a face and did her best impression of the bitter old woman. “I always knew Katherine Jackson would come to no good. Running off to Europe with a man! So he could give a lecture, she says. I know just what they’re doing when that lecture is over. I recall she ran off after high school, too. Alone, she said. I’ll wager she spent nary a night alone the entire trip. Mark me! She’ll be pregnant.”
The Handfasting Page 9
