C
HAPTER
47
A
s Claire and Richard stepped out of the elevator and onto the chevron parquet floors of Letty Rusalka’s beaux arts co-op, she promised they would only stay for an hour.
“Hey, I’m in for the long haul, Smitty. I’ve got the new threads and my curfew’s not till midnight.” In his houndstooth blazer with red pocket square, and new glasses, Richard looked hipper than she remembered, and most definitely festive. “Besides, your pickings here will be prime for new business contacts.”
Claire rolled her eyes and smoothed the Donna Karan draped-front cocktail dress she’d retrieved from her old closet. The crowd of sparkling guests was already thick in the salon, and Richard gave her a little push forward. Within seconds, Letty was approaching them, with her jewel-tipped cane clearing the way of inconveniently placed loafers and Weitzmans, and her deep green brocade turban and jade earrings marking a stunning contrast to her legendary porcelain skin.
“Claire Montgomery, I am so delighted you came! You know, I’ll never forget the lovely condolence note you sent after I lost Victor. I was very touched.”
Claire smiled softly. “It’s wonderful to see you again. Thank you very much for having us.” She turned to Richard. “This is my good friend Richard Elliot. He’s up from Los Angeles visiting his daughter at Berkeley.”
Letty cocked her head. “Are you the writer from the
Journal
?”
“Guilty.”
“My husband enjoyed your column. Most weeks,” she said with a twinkle.
It had never dawned on her that Richard was somewhat of a celebrity in the newspaper world, and she felt stupid for having been too wrapped up in her own mess to learn more about his professional life.
“Well, I’m honored. Your husband was a true visionary, and his involvement, along with your own, with the California Arts Council has had a tremendous impact. I’m a big fan. But not as big as Claire.” He took off his glasses and winked at Claire from the side. “She’s a great admirer of your support of young artists.”
“Is that so, my dear?”
“Well, yes,” Claire said, trying to contain her surprise. “You’ve always had such fantastic foresight in terms of the artists you’ve promoted, and I’ve long admired your interest in collecting an eclectic mix—the things that have really grabbed you. I’m not a big fan of collecting art just because it complements the couch.”
“Ah, you
understand
.” Letty’s dark, curious eyes glowed, and she handed her cane to Richard and took both of their arms. “I’ll give you the tour,” she said, leading them away from the salon and toward a grand hallway. “Zibby just adores you, and she told me about your recent difficulties. You know, I’ve always thought Margot Montgomery was a colossal pain in the neck. And of course the apple never falls far from the tree, does it?” She gave Claire a knowing look as they passed through a frosted glass door. “But
you,
my dear, are going to be just fine. I’ve heard all about your consulting business, and there are some artists here I want you to meet.”
“Smart cookie, this one,” Richard whispered behind Letty’s turban.
Claire eked out a grateful thank-you, and was immediately lost in the sleek perfection of the Rusalkas’ private gallery. It was a stunning marriage of antique and new, the up-and-coming next to the established. From the Murano-glass chandeliers to Ed Ruscha’s
Burning Gas Station,
from the Moroccan antique ceramics to the sheet metal alphabet sculpture, every piece seemed to vibrate with light and meaning. She and Richard wandered the room, admiring the mix of media on display. “The California Arts Council?” she whispered. “Very impressive. Where did
that
come from?”
“I research for a living, did you forget? And I always like to be a helpful date.” He put his hand at the small of her back as they stopped in front of an Asian grouping.
“These vases and block prints are from our stint in Japan,” Letty explained. “And over there, by the Steichen photographs, are some of our favorite art students’ pieces.”
A visually explosive abstract canvas stopped Claire mid-approach, giving her that breathtaking heart wobble she felt when she first saw Renato’s drawings, and she asked Letty about the artist. The doyenne’s slow nod and satisfied smile seemed to convey her approval of Claire’s eye.
“Her name is Marietta. She goes only by her first name, and she’s a graduate of the San Francisco Art Institute. And I suggest that you follow her career.”
“I’d like to see more of her work,” Claire said, feeling possibilities.
“I believe she’s coming tonight, so I will make sure she finds you.”
“Thank you, Letty. I’d be grateful. And it’s truly a privilege to see what you and Victor have curated here. This room is so alive and inspiring.”
“Yes, this was our life together, our experiences. It enriched our world so,” she said with a widow’s wistfulness. “I’ll loan the collection out one day, but I’m not ready to part with it just yet. In the meantime, I want you to meet Georgine Gray tonight, too. She recently cashed out her husband’s Microsoft options and needs help with a collecting strategy. Gorgeous home in the Marina, taste in her behind.”
“Sounds like the perfect client,” Richard quipped.
They followed Letty back through the frosted door toward the party. A butler stopped with a tray of martinis, and Letty picked up two and handed them to Claire. “Here,” she said, “bring these along to Georgine, she’ll be much more agreeable.” Claire handed one to Richard and they walked with their hostess across the lavish salon, its floor-to-ceiling windows and expansive views of the Golden Gate bathing the room in a sexy glow and, it appeared, the usual shellacking of foreheads. The female guests, mostly in their fifties and north, all seemed to be pulled or injected to within an inch of their thirties. Georgine, no exception, stood by a marble column, a vision of buttery confection in a flouncy number reminiscent of a Barbie gown, but with enough serious jewels to lend the overall picture gravitas. Letty made the introduction and was then called away to her kitchen. Claire offered Georgine one of the martinis, and they were off to an enthusiastic start.
“I’m in the market for some unique artwork, and Letty tells me you can help me create an artistic vision for my home.” She spoke with wild flourishes of her hands, but somehow managed to keep the gin from jumping the rim of her glass. “I honestly don’t know anything about the finer points of collecting, other than to say that I don’t want another impressionistic bridge in France, and blah, blah, blah. I want
statement
art,” she said, finishing off the martini with a lick of her lips. “I want it to speak to me, and to every-one.”
Claire felt a familiar bubbling inside her. Something concurrently exciting and doubt-inducing.
Just leap,
she reminded herself. “Well, I can certainly help you identify artists and works that would complement your goals. In fact, I’ve a few in mind that I think you’d like. And then we can design an acquisitions plan.”
“Yes,” Richard said, replacing Georgine’s empty glass with a fresh one, “Claire is dynamite at unearthing impressive finds for her clients and creating collections with serious flair.”
“That’s
exactly
what I want.”
Claire removed a newly minted business card from her minaudière. “It would be great fun to work with you, Georgine.”
On their way back to the bar Claire pinched Richard and thanked him for the unsolicited endorsement. They took their drinks to a cabaret table.
“Here’s to you and your newest client,” Richard toasted. “You were marvelous, Smitty.”
The champagne did little to calm her revving nerves, but it tasted heavenly. And when Richard questioned her expression, she launched into the multitude of emotions her journey through the labyrinth had stirred up, as well as the moving image of the collie that kept limping back into her consciousness. She wondered aloud if life would always be so full of opposition—the excitement of possibility tempered by her lurking fears about Nicholas.
“All you can do is encourage Nick not to let the past hold him back. And that even with imperfection, life can be pretty damn great.”
“I know,” she agreed, taking another heady sip. “But do you think I’m wrong to jump into this consulting thing so soon? While he’s still figuring everything out? I never want him to feel that he’s second fiddle, you know?”
“Listen, Claire,” he said in a serious and commanding tone, “the accident doesn’t erase the fact that you are an excellent mother. You will be setting a great example for him by moving forward and doing something you love.”
She nodded.
“Maybe this left turn will turn out to be a road that gets you both to somewhere great. To where you belong.”
And with those familiar words, Richard had wrapped her worries in something warm and safe. She pictured Cora at the cable car stop, impressing upon her the same message. And she hoped, once again, that clichés really could be prophetic. She squeezed his forearm just as Letty called her party guests to attention from the center of a winding staircase at the corner of the salon. The hum of conversation and background music ceased.
“I’d like to bring awareness to a new organization here in the city. It’s an arts program for primary school children—and as you all know, I’m passionate about exposing youth to the arts from an early age.” Letty spoke with an air of discernment and devotion that she wore as effortlessly as her turban, and Claire could feel her fire. “For many of these kids, it will be the one thing that will make their hearts sing. I’m not asking you to take out your wallets, but rather to volunteer some time if you’re so inclined. You’ll find information about the program scattered about tables, along with the New Year’s resolutions and artwork by some of the youngsters in the program.” She signaled with her cane for the butlers to pass more champagne. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Claire and Richard accepted more Moët, and simultaneously noticed a note card sitting under the watch of the single, fragrant white rose on the cabaret table. They both strained to see the words and accompanying pictures by candlelight. Richard handed her his glasses, and Claire laughed aloud as she read the first line written in purple crayon. It was genius in its simplicity.
Eat more elk jerky!—Amos Dugan, age 7.
Above the other expected decrees of
Listen to my Mom; Be nicer to my brother; Clean my room when Dad says so,
this kid had gotten it right. He was going to do what brought him joy, even if it was not the expected, appropriate choice. Maybe especially because it wasn’t.
“Where did a seven-year-old get to be so goddamned smart?” Richard asked, heisting an opened bottle of bubbly from the passing staff, and refilling their glasses.
“To Amos!” she said as they drank to the young sage.
“You know, sometimes you have to take advice from unlikely sources.”
“Do I look elk deficient?” she joked.
“No, Smitty, you look radiant.” He took her hand, grabbing her attention away from the unexpected compliment. “Maybe it’s time to stop overthinking things and just take life as it comes.”
“I agree,” she said, clinking his glass. She imagined herself looking at limitations as potential agents of change. She imagined embracing life again, crappy moments and all, and finding that fire she’d lost along the way. “You can be my plus-one anytime, Mr. Elliot,” she said.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
A willowy young woman with raven hair and angular features approached their table. “You two look like you’ve just solved the Middle East crisis, so I’m very sorry to interrupt. But Mrs. Rusalka insisted that I come introduce myself. I’m Marietta.” She shook Claire’s hand and gave Richard a shy wave. Her fingernails were short and painted deep purple, and were she not an artist, she could have easily been an Anthropologie model.
“We were admiring your work inside the inner sanctum,” Richard said. “Killer lines.”
“Well, thank you. I think.”
“He’s a business writer,” Claire defended. “And Letty certainly can’t say enough great things about you and your future. In fact, I believe she used the term ‘embryonic superstar.’ ”
Marietta smiled coyly. “Mrs. R has been a great champion of my work. And she tells me you are someone I need to know. You’re an art consultant?”
“Not
just
an art consultant. She’s the tops,” Richard began singing in an endearingly off-key falsetto. “She’s the Louvre museum.” He swallowed the last of his champagne and tipped an imaginary hat. “And with that, ladies, I’m going to excuse myself to the gents’ so you can talk some shop.” He danced across the parquet corridor and disappeared into the crowd.
“Your husband?” Marietta asked.
“Nope. Just a very sweet friend,” she said with a laugh. “But let’s discuss your latest work. I’m dying to see more.”
Marietta talked about her studio and some of her recent exhibitions in the city, and then took out her iPhone and scrolled through images of canvases and panels, explaining the different series she’d completed over the last year. Many shared an early abstract-expressionist feel, but with a revitalized edge, and Claire was wowed. She asked about her sales and pricing structure—which she felt could be enhanced—as she browsed the striking pieces. And one in particular, a small acrylic with symphonic bursts of color, prompted Claire to slide the phone from Marietta’s elegant hand.
“What’s this one titled?”
“That’s from the
Kindness
series. I called it
Support
.”
Claire smiled. “I love the palette and geometry of it. And I have a buyer,” she said without hesitation.
“Who?!” Marietta made no effort to conceal her elation.
“Me. There’s someone I’d like to give it to.” Claire took out her own phone, looked up Richard’s address, and forwarded it to Marietta. “I’ll come by the studio tomorrow with a check, and if you’d make arrangements to have the piece shipped, we’ll be off to a wonderful beginning.”