The Treasure of Christmas (48 page)

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 that 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 she 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.

And then she saw them. She blinked at first, thinking she must be imagining things. But there they were, Garret and Anna, both smiling at her as if she were a long-lost friend.

“What are you two doing here?” she exclaimed, taking each of them by a hand.

“We wanted to surprise you,” said Anna.

Garret cleared his throat. “Actually, I’d promised Anna some Christmas shopping and – ”

“I made him bring me here.” Anna nodded victoriously.

“She didn’t
make
me.” Garret smiled. “I wanted to come.”

“Claire, these paintings are – ” Anna paused as if looking for the perfect word – “they’re awesome.”

“Thank you, Anna.” Claire glanced around then spoke quietly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said tonight.”

Anna frowned. “You mean they don’t like them?”

Claire shrugged then forced a smile. “It’s hard to say.”

“Then these people are all crazy.”

“Anna.” Garret spoke in a hushed but stern voice.

“Sorry.” Anna looked up at Claire, then spoke in a quiet voice. “That one over there.” She pointed toward the entrance. “Is
that – ?
”

Claire grinned. “Yep. You recognize yourself?”

Garret was shaking his head in what seemed amazement. “But I don’t get it, Claire. I mean how on earth did you manage – ”

“I relied on memory.” Claire guided them over to the painting of Anna. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Garret stared at the painting.

“I love it,” said Anna. “And the bird is just perfect. I can’t even explain why; it just is.”

Claire sighed. “I hadn’t planned on the bird at first, but he just came.”

“But it’s sold,” said Anna, the disappointment plain in her voice.

Garret laughed. “We couldn’t have afforded it anyway, sweetheart.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Henri. “Can I borrow the artist from you, for just a moment, please?”

“Of course,” said Garret. “We didn’t mean to monopolize her.”

The next instant, Claire was whisked off to meet the Fontaines, a wealthy couple who were seriously considering the painting that was set in the evening.

“I just love the dusky feel to it,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “It reminds me of something. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Do you like Van Gogh?” asked Claire.

“That’s it,” said Mr. Fontaine. “It’s like
Starry Night.
”

Claire smiled. “Yes, that’s what I thought when I finished it. I hadn’t really meant it to be. Although I must admit to adoring Van Gogh. But when it was finished, I could see it too.”

“Claire,” called Jeannie.

Claire turned to see Jeannie motioning to her. “Will you excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine,” she said.

“Of course.” Mrs. Fontaine smiled warmly. “It was so nice to meet you.”

For the next ten minutes, Claire was shuffled around from customer to potential customer like a pinball. But the whole while she tried to keep a discreet eye on Garret and Anna, afraid they would soon grow bored and leave. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome Garret looked with his hair combed and beard neatly trimmed. Not that he hadn’t looked handsome before. But tonight he looked more of a turn-your-head sort of handsome. Striking even. And she felt a slight flush climb into her cheeks as she accidentally caught his gaze upon occasion. She didn’t really think it was just her imagination, but he almost seemed to be keeping an attentive eye on her too. Now, more than ever, she was thankful she’d taken the time to dress carefully. And yet she was troubled too.

As pleasurable as Anna and Garret’s unexpected visit was, she still felt as if she’d been caught slightly off guard. And to experience such feelings of interest toward Garret was more than a little disturbing. She hadn’t felt this way since – well, since Scott. And in a way, she felt as if she were betraying him now – just by
feeling
this way. She knew it was probably ridiculous and unfounded. After all, Garret was little more than a casual acquaintance. And even if he turned out to be something more, Scott, of all people, would surely want her to get on with her life. But still she felt unsure and slightly off balance. Finally, there came a lull in her introductions, and she knew it was time to return to Garret and Anna. She could tell by Garret’s posture that he was moving toward the door. She knew it was time to say good-bye. And although it was something of a relief, it was a stinging disappointment as well.