It was nearly midnight by the time she’d unloaded and put away everything from the Jeep. Michael had faithfully followed her up and down the three flights of stairs, and she hoped that maybe this would help to familiarize him with his new surroundings. She felt bad about uprooting this country dog to such an urban setting. But amazingly, he seemed to be fairly happy. Still, he didn’t let her out of his sight.
“We’ll lay low tomorrow,” she promised him as she arranged an old army blanket for his bed right next to her own. She was glad that she’d returned a day before the opening; it would give them both more time to adjust. Being back in her old bed was a little unsettling. She recalled all the sleepless nights she’d spent tossing and turning there before. But perhaps it would be different now. Maybe this was the true litmus test as to whether she was really moving on or not.
To her surprise she slept fairly soundly again. Other than waking up a couple of times when she heard street noises below – a startling change after the silence of the cabin – she really did sleep well.
By midmorning, she was bored with puttering about her low-maintenance loft apartment, and she’d already taken Michael for a short romp in the nearby city park – a mere slip of land wedged between the packed-in housing. Finally she decided to set up her easel, ready to attempt an idea that had sprung up like a fertile seed, planted somewhere in the back of her mind. She’d been toying with it for a couple of days now. And it was time to see if she could really pull it off. It wasn’t that she planned to put this in the show. But it was something she wanted to attempt.
By late that evening, she was finished. She washed out her brushes, and without looking at the painting, took Michael out for one last quick walk, then took a hot shower and collapsed exhausted into her bed.
The next morning, she got up just as the sun was rising. Feeling like a stranger in her own house, she tiptoed over to the easel and took a peek at yesterday’s painting. With the morning sunlight gently diffused through a thin voile curtain, it was as if the painting was specially lit. She stared at the image with wide eyes, wondering if she’d really captured the likeness or whether her memory had simply transformed itself, meshing into her latest creation. But even if the portrait didn’t look like Anna, it somehow captured the girl’s spirit. And that’s what she’d wanted. Oh, she knew the little girl wasn’t really an angel. No doubt, she could probably be a little tyrant if she wanted to be. What child couldn’t? But there was something in that face, her countenance, her innocence . . . something Claire had been unable to forget ever since the day she’d met her.
Stepping back, she studied the picture more critically now. She wasn’t sure why she’d painted a white bird in Anna’s hands; she hadn’t planned to in the beginning, but somehow it had just seemed to fit, with its feathery wings splayed open like a burst of living light. Really, this piece was beautiful. But then that was only her opinion. And she had been wrong before. She’d have to let Jeannie and Henri be the final judges.
She sighed, then shook her head. Why deceive herself? It was the public and the art critics who would be the final judges in this matter. And in all honesty it was the actual “patrons of the arts” who really determined whether any single work was a success or not. Because, despite what critics or contemporaries might think, it was that old bottom line that could make or break any show. She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, willing herself to calm. But the nagging fear wouldn’t leave her. What if her show was a complete bust?
She filled her day with mundane chores, doing laundry, organizing a storage closet, walking the dog, paying bills. But by midafternoon she felt as if her nerves were all on edge. How would she manage to survive this opening? She fumbled to dial Jeannie’s number, waiting impatiently until an assistant finally put her on the line.
“Jeannie?” she heard the urgency in her own voice.
“What’s wrong, kiddo? You sound upset.”
“I am! I mean, I’m totally freaked out.” She took in a quick breath. “I just know they’re going to hate me – my art. What was I thinking? Angels? Good grief! Why didn’t you tell me that I was out of my mind? It’s just way too sentimental, too weird. Oh, Jeannie –”
“Take it easy, Claire. It’s going to be okay.”
“I’ll be a laughingstock. I’ll probably never be taken seriously again. Is it too late to cancel the show? Can Henri get – ”
“Relax, Claire. You’re getting yourself all worked into a lather over nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, I’m not saying your art is nothing. But think about it – what is the worst that can happen? That’s what my shrink always asks me. I mean, really, what’s the worst case scenario here? That people won’t like it? Won’t get it? You won’t sell anything?” Jeannie groaned. “Well, okay, even if that did happen, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?”
“I guess not.”
“And I doubt that it would even end your career. People have pretty short memories when it comes to art. And besides, what if you hadn’t painted those angels; where would you be right now?”
“Back at the cabin?” Suddenly Claire didn’t think that sounded so bad – safe, secure, isolated.
“Yeah, and you’d be so down, you’d probably be ready to just give up.”
“But if this show goes bust, I’ll be ready – ”
“I don’t want to hear another word of negativity from you. You’re killing my mood, and I need to be on my toes tonight. Now, let’s change the subject. Tell me, when did you get into town anyway? And are you dropping Bowzer by my house?”
“We got here on Wednesday, and his name is Michael. I’ve got permission to keep him with me until Christmas.”
“Great.”
“But, Jeannie – ”
“Only positive thoughts, Claire. I mean it.”
“Right.”
“Because just think about it, kiddo; it’s like you’re insulting whatever inspired you to paint those angels in the first place. Do you want to do that?”
Claire bit her lip. “No, not really.”
“Okay then, this is what I want you to do. Go fill up that old claw-foot tub of yours with hot water and then add some really expensive bath salts – something soothing like lavender. Then put on a nice calming CD, light some candles, and just climb in and soak until the water cools off. After you’re done, take a little nap, then get up and get dressed in something – uh, let me see – something heavenly. You got that?”
“I think so.”
“And I’ll come pick you up – ”
“Oh, I can drive my – ”
“No way. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be there around six – just to give us plenty of time.”
12
Jeannie’s prescription worked its magic on Claire, and by the time she got up from her nap, she felt a tiny glimmer of hope glowing within her. Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so terrible after all. And if it was, she could always feign a headache and duck into the back room to lie down. She searched and searched her closet for something appropriate – was it “heavenly” that Jeannie had said? She’d be doing well to find something that fit, didn’t need mending, and wasn’t completely out of style. All the while she pulled out items, she berated herself for not having gone out and gotten something special for this evening. What had she been thinking? Finally, she came to a dress tucked way in the back of her closet. Something she’d almost forgotten. She pulled it out and gave it a shake. She barely remembered purchasing it. But as she recalled, it was supposed to have been for Scott’s younger sister’s wedding about three years ago. The couple, however, decided to elope, and as a consequence, the dress had never been worn. Claire wondered why she hadn’t returned it then, but she’d liked it and probably hoped she could use it for something else.
The dress was a champagne-colored velvet – almost luminous, and perhaps slightly celestial or heavenly, if there were such a thing in earthbound apparel. It was the kind of fabric t
hat seemed to just melt in your hand, soft and luxurious, flowing. That was probably why she’d kept it. It felt like liquid gold – only warmer. She held the dress before her in front of the mirror. The style, thankfully, was classic – as appropriate for today as it was three years ago.
Feeling a little like Cinderella, Claire slipped on the dress. But instead of a fairy godmother, she imagined that angels had prepared her finery for her. And why not? Her spirits buoyed even more when she found a pair of shoes that actually went with the dress. And her hopes for the evening continued to climb as she successfully pinned her hair into a fairly nice-looking chignon, slightly loose with a few strands curling around her bare neck. Then she inserted the antique pearl drop earrings that had been left to her by her mother. Perfect. She considered a rope of pearls around her neck, but that seemed a little too much. Just the earrings and her usual wedding ring would be sufficient jewelry for someone who’d worn little more than jeans and sweats for the last year and a half.
Standing before the mirror again, she admired her image with an artist’s eye. The color of the dress was almost identical to her hair. Perhaps another reason she’d picked it. She’d just finished adding a soft touch of makeup, the first she’d worn in ages, when the doorbell rang.
“Claire!” exclaimed Jeannie. “You look fabulous, dah-ling!” She laughed. “I’m serious, girl, you look stunning. Where’d you get that dress?”
“I found it in my closet.”
“Shoot, I wish I could get so lucky.” Jeannie tossed her cape onto the sofa and went to the refrigerator. “Mind if I get myself a soda?”
“Of course not. Let me get my coat and purse, and I’ll be ready.”
Claire had just located her coat when she heard Jeannie’s scream. Running out of the bedroom, she nearly tripped over the dog. “What’s wrong?” she cried.
“Oh, my word!” Jeannie was standing before the easel now. “This is absolutely gorgeous! When did you do it? And why isn’t it in the show?”
Claire’s hand was on her pounding chest. “Jeannie, you scared me to death! I thought you were being mugged or something.”
Jeannie grabbed her arm. “I mean it, why isn’t this in the show?”
“I don’t know. I just did it. I wasn’t even sure if – ”
“Well, it’s dry isn’t it?” She gingerly tapped the edge. “Good. Grab some bubble wrap. We’re taking it with us.”
“But I’m not sure I want to sell it.”
“Oh, Claire.” Jeannie frowned at her, tapping the sharp point of her shoe on the hardwood floor.
“Really, Jeannie. I want to give it to someone.”
Jeannie sighed. “Well, whatever. I suppose we can put a sold sign on it, but it is going in the show.”
Claire practiced her deep breathing techniques as Jeannie drove them to Henri’s gallery, praying silently that God would help her through this night. She wasn’t asking for anything spectacular – mere survival would be sufficient.
“It’s going to be okay,” Jeannie assured her as she parked in back. “Leo’s already written a rave review that came out in today’s paper, but he’ll be on hand just the same. And I’ve got a few other aces up my sleeve.”
“Stacking the deck, are you?” Claire glanced uneasily at Jeannie as she carefully retrieved the painting from her trunk. “You afraid I might flop without some help?”
“No, I just like a little insurance; you could call it priming the pump.”
Claire shook her head. “I think people can see right through your little devices, Jeannie. I mean, they’re either going to like it or – ” she controlled herself from using the word hate – “or they just won’t.”
“Claire! Claire!” Henri beamed as he met her at the door. He kissed her on both cheeks, then helped her to remove her coat and handed it to his assistant. “Oh, my!” He clasped his hands together. “You are such a vision – ah, the perfect companion to your lovely creations.”
She looked right into his eyes. “So, really, Henri, be honest, do you like them?”
He pressed his lips together then nodded solemnly. “It is a very different type of show for me, but, yes, I do like them – very much so.”
She knew that this was also his way of saying that he too felt unsure as to how the public might respond to her work. He, better than anyone, was well accustomed to the cynics and critics and snobs. And it was no secret that they could ruin an opening like this. For his sake, she hoped they wouldn’t show at all – other than Leo that is.
Jeannie removed the bubble wrap from Claire’s latest piece. “Voila!”
Henri clapped his hands. “Oh, it is exquisite. A prize! I know just where it will go.” He turned around. “Andre! Come quickly.” He whispered something to the man, then turned back to Jeannie and Claire. “Champagne?” he asked as a woman in a sleek black dress appeared with a tray. “And we have cheese and – ” he waved his hands. “Oh, you know, it is the regular fare. Now if you will, please excuse me.”
Claire leaned over to Jeannie. “He’s nervous, isn’t he?”
Jeannie nodded, taking a sip of champagne. “Let’s give him a moment to place that last painting before we go in. You know how he likes the drama – to feel like the curtain’s going up at the theater on opening night.”
Claire swallowed. “I just hope it doesn’t fall flat in the first act.”
Jeannie scowled, then cautioned in a lowered voice, “No more negativity!”
“I’m sorry.” Claire held up her hand. “I promise, no more.”
Before long, Henri was ushering them into the gallery, waiting expectantly for their compliments and approval. And the truth was, Claire was impressed. His setup was flawless. The music was perfect. If the paintings flopped, the blame would be hers and hers alone.
“It’s perfect, Henri,” she said finally. “It couldn’t be better. Thank you for taking such care.” She looked around the carefully lit room. “Your gallery is really the best in the city, you know.”
Jeannie held up her glass. “Best on the West Coast.”
Claire laughed. “Best in the country.”
Henri waved his hands as if to stop them. “Thank you, ladies. You make me blush.”
People started to arrive now, slowly drifting through, quietly moving through the gallery in groups of twos and threes. Claire recognized a few of the faces and tried to be as friendly as seemed appropriate. She knew the early showing was for serious buyers, those who’d been specially invited – the type of people who would narrow their eyes and study a painting for several minutes, as if trying to see into the mind of the artist who painted it. Henri always served the best of the champagne first, and he scurried about, greeting his guests, introducing people, and commenting on various aspects of the art.
Claire could feel her hands trembling as she stood in a corner and watched their faces, unsure as to what they thought – one could never be sure. These were the kinds of people you would never want to play poker against. Their ability to conceal emotion was uncanny. And Claire knew it would be useless to try to read them tonight.
Like a puppet, she came when either Jeannie or Henri called, shaking the hand extended her way, smiling – but not too widely – aware that she could easily send the wrong message whether she meant to or not. She hated these shows – always had. But these were her dues, and in the art world, they had to be paid.
“Mrs. Campbell,” she said. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read of your work with the children’s center – so wonderful.”
“Thank you, dear.” The woman pointed to one of Claire’s earliest angel paintings. “And what inspired you to paint that?”
Claire swallowed. “It’s hard to describe where inspiration comes from exactly . . .” she struggled for words. “I could say it’s from some hidden place deep within me, and that wouldn’t be untrue, but sometimes there seem to be other forces at work too.” She smiled, but not too big.
“I see.” Mrs. Campbell nodded as if sh
e understood. Odd, since even Claire didn’t completely understand herself. “Very nice, dear,” said the older woman, as if talking to a preschooler about a finger painting.
Claire couldn’t remember when the evening started to become fuzzy and hazy to her, and maybe it was the champagne, although she’d only had a few polite sips. But it was a blessing of sorts, like a form of protective insulation wrapping itself around her. And it helped to get her through all the varied and sometimes thoughtless comments that casual observers often make.
But finally, about midway through the show, and long after most of the serious art world had gone their way, to dinner reservations or some Christmas party or the comfort of their own homes, she slipped into the back room and sank into Henri’s deep mohair sofa, leaning her head back with a loud sigh. She closed her eyes and tried to get everything she’d heard the last few hours to slide off her – like water off a duck’s back, as her father would say. She’d talked him into coming on another night, when it wasn’t so busy. But suddenly, she wished she’d begged him to make it tonight.
It would help to have someone else in her court right now. Someone unrelated and uninvolved in the precarious and unpredictable world of art. He could hold her hand and reassure her that it would be okay. No matter, if everyone here hated her work, if no one bought a single piece, if Henri quietly cancelled the remaining three weeks of the showing. Her father would put his arm around her and tell her that he loved her anyway. At least, that’s the way she imagined it tonight. In reality, he might say something stupid like, “Maybe you should go back to teaching.” He did that sometimes. Oh, she supposed it was only his practical side. But it always deflated her. Yes, perhaps it was better that he wasn’t here to see her flop tonight.
“Claire?” Glenda, the woman in the sleek black dress, was standing in the doorway. “Someone here would like to meet you.”
“Yes, of course.” Claire stood and smoothed her dress. “I was just taking a break.”
Glenda nodded without speaking. Claire wondered if she just thought she was being lazy, a slacker, like she didn’t really care about the outcome of the showing. Claire followed this graceful woman in silence, wondering who could possibly be interested in the creator of these strange works that really wouldn’t look good on anyone’s wall.
The Treasure of Christmas Page 38
