by Kieran York
“Brits are fine women. And I’ll allow them to chase me. I enjoy that more. What do you say? Shall we rush through London on a damsel hunt?”
“I’d be hard-pressed to do much rushing.”
“You’re in great shape for an old broad,” she teased. “But if you’re not up to it, I’m still going to scout out the action.”
“So spread your net and snag one of those darlings. An English rose might be a great adventure for you. I’m afraid Fiona’s expecting more painting from me. I’m putting the painting I did this afternoon in the show.”
“You finished a painting?”
“Yes. Acrylic paints dry quickly. It’s a picture from the street market sketches. And Molly.”
“I thought as much. She was in those street market sketches. Amazing that you finished so quickly. You usually agonize a couple weeks.”
“This was completed in its time, not mine. Fiona is framing it when she’s certain it’s dry enough. Good thing I don’t slather paints on too thickly. And before you ask, I’ve titled it Farewell to Molly.”
Esther tossed her napkin on the table and sat back. “That’s a dramatic enough statement. You really don’t think she’ll contact you?”
“No. I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to happen. I’ve instructed the hotel and the gallery to either get her number or give her my cell phone number if she calls. So I wouldn’t have missed it, if she had called by now. She’s had enough time, even for an extraordinarily busy person.” I glanced away, not wanting to see Esther’s caustic, scolding expression. She knew me too well.
She must have decided to let the lecture be because she said, “Danielle, I can’t wait to see your painting. Is it for sale or just showing?”
“It’s for sale. The price is firmly set at a hundred grand.”
Esther’s head snapped up. “That’s really hitting the ceiling.”
“I’m pretty sure it will be making its way back to Denver with me. You know what Gertrude Stein says. ‘There is art and there is official art, there always has been and always will be.’ That pretty much sums it up.”
A moment of silence allowed me to consider the under-painting of my soul. I must have believed I was a fine artist. Why else would I have devoted the past forty-plus years to my art?
“Gert Stein.” Esther gave a sigh. “We really should go over and find her grave in France. Tour her burial site. She’s interred in Paris. In the Lachaise cemetery, I believe. You know, we could spread a few flowers on her grave or something. She helped sisters and also the art world.”
“I wonder if she would’ve liked my work.”
Esther debated a moment. “Not in a million years.”
“You’re right. I would hope she might like it at least as much as she liked Matisse.”
“She liked soiled toilet paper more than she liked most of Matisse’s art. She might have appreciated your effort. She was a pretty insightful old broad. And you’re cute as a button. Not beautiful, but cute. She’d probably have risked the great Toklas’s jealousy and ire.”
Laughing, I choked on my tea. After I got my breath, I said, “I would have been safer with Picasso chasing me. And being chased by him was by no means a safe prospect.” We chuckled a moment, then I smiled at her across the dim-lit table. “In spite of everything, this has been a marvelous day.” I held up my teacup to toast. “Ladybugs Rock!” This was the traditional toast of our group of friends back in Colorado.
She lifted her cup and clinked it against mine. “Ladybugs Rock! And I’m going to try to rock. We need to find women and settle down. But I’m somewhere between a work in progress and a bitter disappointment where relationships are concerned,” Esther confessed. “And you’re slightly worse.”
“Maybe we need to begin getting contracts and giving retainer fees.”
“We need to get ourselves out there, and you need to wake up. You’re living back in Mollyland. You need to find a new love.”
“You go out and chase women, Esther. Be as adventuresome as possible. Then save your stories to tell me. I’ll live my sexual fantasies vicariously through you. You little planet hunter, you.”
“Keep thinking only of Molly, and that might be as much as you can hope for. But remember, we’re not getting younger.”
“Yes, but I might have forgotten the erotic parts of romance. It’s easy to settle in and forget the world outside.”
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up with a clinical depression. You’re in need of companionship, Danielle.”
I motioned for our checks. “Let’s get out of here. I’m tired of your crappy diagnosis of me. I need to ward off my clinical depression with another painting.”
“You are one hardwired artist.”
I pondered that and nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
Chapter 8
In the morning, before Esther had a chance to complain about spending her first full day in London alone, I offered to go shopping with her. She was more than fine with that, and I needed a break from painting.
We spent the day sightseeing as we browsed and chatted. In the early evening, we stopped for dinner. As the taxi drove us to the restaurant, I called Fiona and asked what frame she’d selected for Farewell to Molly. To my astonishment, she said an undisclosed buyer purchased the painting almost immediately after she’d placed it on the gallery’s website. Fiona had no idea who the buyer might be.
My first suspicion was that Samantha Meade Wesley had purchased it, but she’d already openly purchased a painting. It made no sense at all for her to have purchased Farewell to Molly anonymously.
Fiona’s first guess was that it might be an art speculator who’d heard that my show was doing extraordinarily well and had then acquired Farewell. Successful art speculators keep their finds under wraps.
While the driver took us to one of London’s fancier dining rows, I told Esther about the purchase.
“Sold for one-hundred grand,” she said, her voice rising with each word. “A single painting. I seriously doubt you’ve made that much in the last two years for all your work.”
“And more than I ever thought I’d be making.”
“The dinner tab is all yours,” she muttered dryly.
I gazed out the window at the choice of restaurants. “How about a bit of pub grub?”
“I’m too overdressed for pub grub.” She gave my wardrobe a second look. “Even your attire is too elaborate. Amazingly enough.”
I wore tobacco-colored gabardine casual slacks, an ecru crewneck tee, and a bronze-colored quilted jacket. “Actually I’m rather dressed in between. Up market or casual.”
Esther snorted. “It’s called thrift shop or garage sale. Or as they say here, and accurate to our conversation, jumble sale. If you’re ever interested in becoming a chick-magnet, don’t be. You’re as invisible as dark matter. As for the restaurant, let’s try something other than pub food.”
“Okay, you pick anywhere at all. We’ll make it a festive treat. I’ll be happy to snag the check. Just appreciate the fact that I’m a good sport about being ridiculed.”
She chose a highly acclaimed restaurant called Toddy’s. Although it was a weeknight, we thought it would be impossible to get a reservation. I placed a call, while the cab driver redirected his drive to Toddy’s. For the second time that day, fortune smiled. We were able to get a table due to a cancellation. Our cabbie made better than average time, and he delivered us to the doors of Toddy’s with a few moments to spare.
As we waited for the hostess to seat us, I went to the restroom to freshen up. My hands were still damp from washing them, when my cell phone rang. I quickly dried them.
“Hello?”
“Fiona here. Danielle, I checked out the name Jeffery Wesley. A hundred-thousand dollars would be chump change to him. He is primary owner, president, and CEO of Wesley Aeronautics located in Los Angeles,” she said with evident excitement. “Married to Samantha Meade and they have two children, ages seven and eight, both boys
. Jeffery has a law and business degree from Harvard, graduate business degree from Harvard also. An avid pilot. Art collector. Worth multiple millions. It says a more realistic estimate measured their personal wealth at a billion. Their business is worth multi-billions. If he bought his wife a painting for one tenth of a million, it would be chump change. Are you still there?”
We continued talking as I walked back into the dining area and stood beside Esther. “Yes, and thanks for checking it out. So they can afford it. But that doesn’t mean they actually bought it.”
“No. But they’re both art collectors. When I talked with Samantha, she seemed very well-versed on art.”
“How so?”
“She told me your work was a composite of many women artists yet unlike anyone else’s work. She pointed out the treatment of the flowers in your Pale Daffodils and Their Gardener as being reminiscent of O’Keeffe’s Two Jimson Weeds. And she thought some of your work has similar brushstrokes to your portrait goddess, Beaux.”
“If she and her husband are mega collectors, it seems reasonable she would have studied various other artists. Thanks, Fiona. Esther and I are just being shown to our table, so I’ll call you later.”
“Where are you dining?”
“I’m splurging. Toddy’s.”
“Paint another picture like Farewell to Molly, and I’ll take you to a truly plush joint,” she promised.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Seriously. We must plan a dinner while we’re here. I’ll treat both of you.”
“Sounds great. It will be good talking art rather than stars and extraterrestrials,” I said, loudly enough for Esther to hear.
“Have a good time at dinner. Congrats again on the sale. Word of advice—don’t order shellfish. I had it there a couple of nights ago, and it didn’t set well at all. Either that or I hadn’t had enough martinis. Oh, and don’t let your paints dry out.”
Toddy’s was indeed elegant. Walls were emerald-colored with huge bas-relief in glittering gold. Conical overhead lighting reflected on the same bright gold columns that surrounded the main dining room. Our tablecloth and napkins also exhibited the opulence of the restaurant. Orchids and greenery, as well as candles, completed the gorgeous décor.
I tucked my cell phone back in my pocket. I had placed it on loud and vibrating mode, just in case. I still held out hope Molly might call.
Esther perused the menu. “It all looks delicious.”
“Fiona warned not to order shellfish.”
Esther flipped her menu shut to look at the cover. “The filet here looks luscious.”
“Sometimes photos aren’t accurate.”
“Is your latest painting of Molly accurate?”
“She did look great. We’ve all aged, but she’s aged in a wonderful way.”
“Big stars have relatively short lifetimes, and small stars provide little heat. You need to approach this in moderation. Meeting in the middle is probably best. Right now you’re once again red-hot for Molly.” She took a drink of her water with a smug expression.
“Esther, you’ve spent too many years searching for space aliens. Haven’t been able to confirm their existence, so you’re now peering into my psychological discrepancies. I’m fine. I think I’ve been handling this like a trouper.”
“Not so. I’ll bet you’ve got your cell phone on high volume and with the vibrating mechanism powerful enough to provide ten dozen orgasms. You don’t have me fooled, Danielle.”
Ignoring her comment, I closed the menu. “I’m going to have lobster.”
“You said Fiona nixed the seafood.”
“Fiona probably had picked up a very young man and wasn’t paying a bit of attention to the meal’s quality.”
Esther was tickled. “What makes you think she likes younger men?”
“What makes you think she’s a food critic?”
Chapter 9
I returned to the Marshall Hotel. My suite seemed lonely except for the corner where my easel and paint case rested. Of course, I’d find solace in painting. I needed it after an evening with Esther. The night seemed to have vanished with talks of women, art, and her wonderland of galaxies. After talking with her, I always felt it necessary to sit and do an internal geography of my soul.
I inventoried our conversation. It contained the usual humor, wisdom, and a sloughing off of yesterday’s old skin. Esther had mentioned a recently discovered planet named WASP-17. In a retrograde orbit, it had been involved in a collision with another planet. With a slingshot effect, it flung into a backward orbit. She used this analogy to tell me that I was a great deal like a backward planet. Artists often are out of orbit with the world, she said.
After I poured a glass of wine, I changed into a pair of denims and a large, sloppy, plaid shirt, both splashed with a myriad of colors from yesterday’s work. Carefully, I placed the drop cloth down, set up my easel, and began squishing paint from the tubes.
I took a small taste of the pinot grigio and clamped my eyes shut as I mentally primed my canvas. When I blinked my eyes open, I saw the emptiness on the canvas. But my vision of what would occupy the space had already taken shape.
I continued filling the disposable palette sheet with what I needed for the initial background. Having never considered “properly” building an arranged palette, I pressed various small pillows of acrylic paint out as I believed they would be used.
This practice had ended my college career. My art professor insisted that I place complementary colors facing complementary, with each color slotted in a precise spot. If we didn’t follow his instructions, we wouldn’t receive a passing grade. I had noted that some of the worst, least-talented artists in the class had perfect palettes.
In a fit of defiance, I had lifted my palette and pressed it against the empty canvas. When I pulled it back, multiple splotches dotted against white. I wildly pitched the tubes of paint into my case, slammed it shut, picked up my dotted canvas, and left the classroom. Perhaps Esther was right—I was a planet whirling the wrong way.
And now, my palette’s personalized plate was speckled with paint colors used in my portraitures. Carefully, I mixed several of them with my pallet knife. I picked up a large, wide, sable brush and loaded it with color for Molly’s cheeks. I sketched the memory of her smile with wide sweeps. This portrait would show the entirety of her face, and all else would be underexposed background.
By midnight, I’d created a likeness but not truly Molly. My cell phone rang. Frustrated, I answered it somewhat tersely. “O’Hara.”
“It’s Fiona. The gallery closed, I dined, and then I remembered one of the gallery associates said a woman called several times for you. She thought it was the same woman.”
“Get a number?” After one additional swipe of the chisel edge of my brush, I set it down.
“No. She asked, but the woman refused to leave a number. I thought you might want to know.”
“Thanks, yes. Think they have a caller ID number?”
“I’ll ask her. How was Toddy’s, by the way?”
“I had lobster. It was excellent. I told Esther that you were probably concentrating on your youthful date and thus weren’t cognizant of how superb the shellfish really was.”
She roared with laughter. “My man of the hour is also superb and certainly not much over thirty.”
“Cougar.”
“Well, you should talk. You’re tied up in knots over a woman you had thirty years ago. Now, my darling Danielle, you want your prodigal ex back again. Hell, I’d say you’re trying to become a romantic double-dipper.”
“Very funny for such a late hour,” I said with a mild chuckle. “Fiona, thanks for making me laugh when I need to laugh.”
“Painting?”
“Yes. Could you tell?”
“Always when there’s a faraway sound in your voice. That’s how I know you need a little humor. And your subject?”
“Molly. Who else? But there’s a chance I may end up painting over it wit
h a seascape.”
“Not in a million years, you crazy Saph. When you’re finished, bring it by. I’ll be at the gallery most of the day. I’m having lunch with one of my fellow agents. Had an affair with him years ago. Now we’re friends. Nice when relationships end like that. I’ll ask him about Jeffery Wesley.”
“I wish I could at least have that much of a relationship with Molly.”
“Don’t go getting an exaggerated sense of optimism, but someone is calling you. It might be Molly.”
“Thanks for checking for me. I’ll keep painting, and if it’s any good, I’ll bring it by. I’ll probably be stopping by anyway so the gallery doesn’t think I’m disinterested.”
“Don’t worry about anything except bringing your work to the table, Danielle. You’re on a roll. I know you’re not interested in finances, but money often translates into value. Value is a way to show that you’re being noticed.”
“I do want my work to be noticed.”
“Critics are saying that you don’t just reproduce a subject’s looks, but you capture their spirit. Your work is well-executed, yes, but a camera can come up with an exact image. Your magic elixir is revealing the soul. An art dealer I met tonight stated your interpretation is unlike other portraitists. And he’s right. But he also mentioned that you must be a fine judge of character. I didn’t respond to his theory.”
“You’ve got to admit, I’ve surrounded myself with fine people. Esther, Roxie, the Colorado band of merry women. And especially you, Fiona.”
“I selected you, O’Hara,” she reminded me.
“Maybe. But I’ve been smart enough to hang on to you.”
“I wish I could have done more earlier. I swear I tried. But now it is happening. I see it. The critics are getting you. A little late, but your time’s arrived.”
“Perhaps late appreciation has saved me from the booze, drugs, and insanity of Caravaggio, Modigliani, and Van Gogh.”
“You missed a few of the bonkers boys and babes,” she said with amusement.
“I don’t have all night to name them all.”
