by Kim Bowman
“We’d have to focus our advertising on areas where wealthy patrons live and do business. Cape May, Philadelphia, Manhattan, Baltimore, Washington DC…”
“Those are pretty tough markets to break into. How will you get people from those cities to come here? And how could we afford the advertising?”
“I’ve got some ideas. And I know people. Do any of your contacts from New York still work in the city?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. Get me their names and I’ll work on it.” She held her breath and waited for Charlie to respond. But he’d gone silent. He wouldn’t even look at her. Had she gone overboard? Did he think she was crazy?
~~~~
Charlie stared into his teacup. He knew Rose waited for an answer, but he couldn’t help hedging. A gallery for his paintings? It seemed too good to be true. But Rose was his Lady Luck. Every time she appeared, good things happened. Maybe he needed to just let her continue her magic.
“Your mother is all right with this idea?” he finally asked.
“Mother was the one who suggested it. Charlie, this arrangement could help both of us. If we can make a go of it, I would be able to keep an eye on her because she’d be right here with me. And it would give her a sense of helpfulness because she was always known as a wonderful hostess, back before… when Father was alive. Please say you’ll think about it.”
“I will definitely do that. It would be nice to not have to haul my paintings back and forth every day, not to mention the bother of setting up and tearing down each day. But hanging paintings in a home doesn’t make a gallery. We’ll need to attract customers who are willing to pay for the art.”
“Leave that to me. I was a business and journalism student before I came home to take care of Mother. I’ll work out a campaign that will get people to come. You’ll see.”
As Charlie’s mind whirled with Rose’s ambitious plan, he thought of another detail.
“What sort of terms did you have in mind?”
Her brow furrowed. “Terms?”
“I can’t expect you to open up your home and do all the work of showing my art without some sort of compensation. What will this arrangement cost me?”
Rose closed her notebook. “I’ve given that some thought. My goal is to make this gallery successful enough that I won’t have to work outside the house. Mother isn’t able to care for herself, and I would like to be here with her as much as possible. So I’d like to propose my charging you a commission on any paintings sold here.”
“How much will you take?”
“Twenty percent.”
Charlie frowned. The rate was half of what he’d paid in New York. Did she realize that? Or was she setting it low to get him to agree? “Are you sure?”
“I know that’s low. I’ve done my homework. Other artists, if there are any, would be charged a higher commission. But for you, I want to offer this lower rate, because I want to add a clause with your agreement.”
“A clause?”
“I want your promise that if — when the economy turns around and you go back to New York, you’ll continue to provide us with an inventory of your paintings. After all, you are the major draw here. Yours is the name that will bring people to this gallery.”
Charlie got up and paced. Rose sipped her tea, leaving him to his thoughts.
“I’m hesitant to jump in with a full-scale grand opening event. That sounds expensive, and I don’t want to risk spending money my family can’t afford.”
“I understand. Mother and I don’t have money to burn, either. Why don’t we try showing your art here for a month? If we can get the locals and maybe those from the affluent neighborhoods in Cape May to come, I’ll plan a full-scale event — within a reasonable budget — to widen the visitor base and perhaps gain some patrons.”
“Okay, we’ll do it. But I want you to promise me something.” He waited until her shining eyes focused on his. “I want you to promise that neither of us will go into debt over this.” Seeing her nod, he continued. “I have all I can do to keep our family home and feed my mother and siblings, and I don’t need any more bills.”
She nodded solemnly, and Charlie relaxed.
“I understand, Mr. Brannigan. When my father died, I was stunned at the extent of his debt. I, too, have been working to dig our way out. I have no intention of having more creditors than I have now. That’s why I will do all I can to guarantee the success of this venture.”
Chapter Eight
After Charlie left, Rose turned to the next page in her notebook. Thinking back to her marketing classes at Vassar, she outlined a plan for making a success of her business venture: The Sheffield Gallery. By the time she crawled into her bed, she had a long list of people to contact.
As she drifted into slumber, her thoughts turned to Charlie. So tall and handsome and — she rolled over and punched the pillow as if to shake him from her mind. Surely she didn’t have romantic notions about the man. He was an artist, for heaven’s sake! And the life of an artist didn’t lend itself to stability. Only a few years ago, Charlie had been a big name in New York, and now he sold newspapers. For her own sake, she’d best forget about silly dreams and concentrate on making her own success.
The next morning, Rose awakened before the sun. She dressed quietly, tiptoeing out of the house so Mother wouldn’t hear. Her first stop was at André’s Café on the Boardwalk. André Duval, the proprietor, swept the boards in front of his restaurant.
“Good morning, Monsieur Duval. Do you have a moment?”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. What can I do for you?” André had grown up in Philadelphia, but he often spoke French in the restaurant, believing it gave his business an authentic flair.
“I have a business proposition for you. I am in need of a caterer for a lavish event and would be honored if you would agree to supply the refreshments.”
André frowned. “I am not in the catering business.”
“I understand. But this event will include prominent citizens from Cape May, as well as Philadelphia and possibly New York City. Wouldn’t it be to your benefit to have these people taste what your kitchen can provide? Think of this as an advertising opportunity.”
The chef scratched his chin. “What do you need?”
She left the restaurant with not only an agreement from the Frenchman, but a new job. It would require arising in the wee hours of the morning, but after cleaning and scrubbing the town’s finest restaurant, she’d have the rest of the day to put her ideas in motion.
For the next two days, she worked her way through the rest of the items on her list, visiting various businesses in the afternoons after her job at André’s. She would abide by her promise to Charlie — they would run the gallery on a trial basis for one month, but she intended to have arrangements in place for the Grand Opening as soon after the thirty day period was over.
On Friday, Rose’s last stop was the office of the Five Mile Beach Journal, Wildwood’s newspaper. Daniel Finn was hunched over his typewriter, pecking away, but he looked up at her over his wire-rim glasses as she entered the office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Finn. I am Rose Sheffield, and I am a resident of Wildwood.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Sheffield. What can I do for you?”
“I would like to submit a press release for your paper, and if you have access to wire services, I would like you to send this release to the papers in Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Newark, and New York City.”
Mr. Finn’s brows rose. “That could cost some money.”
“I know that if a reporter chooses to submit a story to the United Press, there is no cost. I am giving you material for a story. You might consider this a frivolous human interest story, but I feel it is news that could affect the livelihood of many citizens in the Wildwood area.”
The newsman sat up and reached for his pen. His other hand grabbed an empty sheet of paper. “You have my attention.”
Rose was ready with her copy. “Paintings by Mr. Cha
rles Brannigan, renowned artist whose paintings have been shown in top Manhattan galleries, will be featured at the Grand Opening of the Sheffield Gallery on Thursday, July 14.”
Finn’s brows dipped, and he sat back. “The Sheffield Gallery? You want me to run an advertisement for your brand new art gallery and disguise it as a news article?”
“Yes. It is a coup for a small gallery as ours to have exclusive access to an artist of his stature.”
“That may be so, but what makes this news for the average citizen?”
“It will be noteworthy once you add the financial advantages for the city.”
“What kind of advantages?”
“The Grand Opening will involve several city businesses. André’s Café is supplying the refreshments. Malarky and Sons are doing the renovations. Mr. James Tuttle is coordinating several area musicians to provide the entertainment. I’m hoping to persuade Miss Diana Levine to assist with the decorations—”
“Okay, okay, I understand. This is a community effort. If it succeeds, all of Wildwood will benefit from the influx of visitors. I’ll write the story and send it over the United Press wires. But then you’ve got to deliver. You understand if everyone in the community works hard to set things up and nobody shows up, you’re going to have a lot of angry people who have done a lot of work for nothing, not to mention their expense.”
Rose’s heart clenched, but she lifted her chin. “I won’t let that happen.” Keeping her gaze leveled at him, she tried not to squirm as he studied her.
Finally, the man nodded, and she let out her breath.
“All right. I’ll write the story. Let me look at the flyer you’ve prepared.” Rose handed him her copy, and he studied it for a moment. “Your event isn’t for another month. Are you sure you want the story to run this early?”
“Yes. I want to spark interest in the gallery. I plan to follow up with news stories about the various artists to be featured, as well as some of the musicians and other vendors involved in the event.”
One bushy brow rose, and the newsman nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this campaign.”
“I have. Can I count on your cooperation?” At his nod, she rose and extended her hand. “Thank you for your time.”
Her errands for the morning completed, she returned home with a light step. The Sheffield Gallery. It has a nice ring to it, she thought. Hopefully others would think so, too. Today Charlie would start bringing his paintings over so they could decide how to display them.
Rounding the corner, she found him waiting at her front door with a huge crate full of paintings perched on his bicycle handlebars. A younger version of Charlie waited with him, another large crate on his equally dilapidated bicycle.
“Good afternoon, Charlie,” she called. “Why didn’t you go into the house?”
“The door is locked,” he explained. “I thought perhaps you’d decided to rest after working hard in the restaurant.”
“Oh, no, I was — running some errands. I apologize for making you wait outdoors. I thought I’d left the door unlocked.”
“No harm done. Oh—” He turned toward the young man next to him. “—this is my brother Connor. He came to help me bring more paintings and to give us a hand setting things up. He’s pretty handy with a hammer and nails.”
Rose extended her hand and smiled brightly. “I’m so glad to meet you, Connor. Welcome to my home — soon to be the site of Sheffield Gallery.”
“That sounds so prestigious.” Connor took her hand and beamed back. He was almost as tall as Charlie, but lankier. And his voice told her he had a bit of growing to do yet. Someday, she supposed, he would be a heartbreaker with the ladies.
She found her keys, unlocked the door, and led the way inside. “Let me put on the kettle for some tea, and I’ll be right with you.”
As she turned toward the kitchen, her mother’s anxious voice called from the top of the stairs.
“Rose, dear, is that you?”
“Yes, Mother,” she answered. “Do you need something? Do you feel unwell?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, dear. But there were some strange men outside this morning, so I went down and locked the door before they could get in.”
“Strange men? Charlie and his brother are here. Are you sure it wasn’t them?”
“Charlie? Charlie who?”
“Charlie Brannigan, Mother. Remember, we’re getting the house ready for the Art Gallery opening?”
“Art Gallery? In our house? You mean strangers are coming here?”
Why is Mother so confused? Though she wasn’t much at domestic tasks, Lily’s mind had always been nimble. Rose flew up the stairs to take a closer look.
Lily peered out of her partially open bedroom door, a look of terror in her eyes. Rose noted the lace collar of Lily’s nightgown and realized her mother hadn’t even donned a dressing gown.
“Mother, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you dressed yet? Shall I call a doctor?”
“Doctor? I suppose I do feel somewhat light-headed. Perhaps Dr. Johnston will come. Would you call him, please?”
“Dr. Johnston is in Manhattan. He’s not going to come to Wildwood. Dr. McManus is nearby. I’ll call him.”
“McManus? I don’t know him. I don’t want a stranger looking at my body!” The door started to close.
“Don’t be silly. Dr. McManus just examined you last week, after I found you asleep on the stairway.”
“He did? I-I don’t remember…” She moaned and swayed.
Crying out, Rose pushed the door open and cushioned her mother’s fall. She tugged and pulled, trying to drag Lily to the bed and nearly lost her footing when the weight was suddenly lifted from her arms.
Charlie held Lily as if she were a rag doll. “Pull down the sheets and I’ll set her on the bed.”
Rose closed her gaping mouth and tamped down the butterflies taking residence in her stomach. She raced to the bed and turned down the covers, grateful to have an excuse to hide her burning face. Goodness, she’d never once given a second thought to the young men she’d known during her college days, even though her friends had giggled and gossiped about them. But the sight of Charlie in her mother’s bedroom left a strange yearning inside. Pushing the thought away, she focused on her mother. There would be time to think about the strange feelings later.
Charlie gently placed Lily on the bed. When he straightened, he spoke quietly. “Connor and I will leave. We can go to my usual spot on the Boardwalk for today.”
Rose nodded gratefully. “Wait! Why don’t you leave the larger oil paintings in the parlor. That way you won’t have to bring them back and forth. If mother is better later, I’ll come and let you know.”
“All right. Would you like me to see Doc McManus and send him over?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Charlie. For — everything.”
An hour later, Rose paced a path in the front parlor, waiting for the doctor to arrive. Hadn’t Charlie been able to persuade him to come? Had he forgotten to summon him? No, she reminded herself. Charlie wouldn’t forget. He was a good man who cared about people. She had to believe that.
The knock, when it came, made her jump, even though she’d been waiting for it. She greeted the doctor with a nod and led him up the wide stairway.
Doctor McManus had a gentle bedside manner and soon calmed Lily’s fears. He spoke quietly, making general observations about the weather, her home, and then gradually asking specific questions.
Finally the doctor straightened. “Rose, your mother and I could use some tea. Would you be so kind as to get some for us?”
Tea? At a house call? Rose nodded. “Of course, doctor. Right away.” She hurried down the stairs to the kitchen and turned the burner on under the kettle. While waiting for the water to boil, she took out a large plate and covered it with an array of snacks — finger sandwiches and desserts. The cookies she’d made just a few days ago were nearly gone. She’d have to bake more soon.
As
soon as the kettle whistled, she poured the tea into a teapot and placed it on a tray with three cups, cream and sugar, and the plate of treats. Then she carried it all up the stairs.
Mother had sat up, a pillow propped behind her. She still looked pale, but her expression brightened when Rose entered. “Oh, how nice of you to bring us tea! And what a lovely spread you’ve brought. You’re so talented in the kitchen. Doctor, would you be so kind as to pour for us?”
The good doctor obliged but declined any of the snacks. “I’ve got other patients I need to see. But I want you to eat. Remember, you must have more than just the sweets.” He turned to Rose. “Would you see me to the door, please?”
Knowing there was more to his request than courtesy, she nodded and led the way down to the sitting room. Holding her breath, she braced herself for the doctor’s prognosis.
“Rose, your mother is not eating enough. Lack of nutrition is affecting her memory as well as her health. I thought perhaps you needed help buying groceries, but she says she simply can’t eat when you’re not here.”
“Can’t eat? I leave her food every day. There are usually leftovers she can eat.”
“Have you ever seen your mother open the refrigerator?”
She thought. “I suppose not.”
“I asked if there was food in the refrigerator. Her answer was, ‘Which box is the refrigerator?’”
Rose’s jaw dropped.
“I told her it was the large white contraption that kept food cold,” the doctor continued. “Apparently she couldn’t figure out how to get into it. She tried pushing buttons and turning the handle but gave up when it didn’t open.”
Rose felt the room spin, and she reached out for something to steady herself. Doctor McManus gently guided her to a settee, and she sank into it, putting her head in her hands.
“I had no idea Mother was so helpless. I know she can’t cook and can’t do laundry. But I really thought she could get food for herself while I was away. I worked at the hotel for almost a year while she fended for herself during the day. And now that I’m working at André’s, I’m gone most of the morning.”
