By Thursday morning I had sublimated any leftover worries about Rico with vast and unnecessary expenditures of energy. Despite the presence of my willing and competent staff, I took care of everything personally: I hired the harpist, selected the champagne, calculated the number of hors d’oeuvres, tested the lighting, and called my media contacts. Only a few times during those hectic days did I catch myself staring at Rico, memorising the details of his face, the angle of his cheekbones, the ridge of his jaw, the clear, taut skin.
Only one last detail to settle-what to wear.
“Do you like this one better?” I swirled into the kitchen with what I hoped was the grace of a runway model. In the bulky gray suit with the leather trim, I felt more like a 747.
“No contest. The white jumpsuit. My boyfriend says white is the ultimate sophistication. He wants me to wear white all the time. He says it enhances inner purity.” Laura wrinkled her nose, tugged at the collar of her houndstooth jacket, pulled down the sleeve of her cinnamon-and-nutmeg striped jersey. “Maybe wear the green silk. I like what it does for your eyes.”
That sounded nice. “What about you, Rico? You’re the star. What are you wearing?” I asked.
Rico, who had become involved with a cleaver, garlic, celery, and bok choy, said through his gritted teeth, “I’ve done okay dressing myself for the past two years, Mom. I’ll figure out something.”
That told me.
“Mothers are supposed to care about these things, Rico.” Laura gave Rico’s cheek a pinch before she turned to me. “If you wear the silk, you need some outrageous earrings. I’m going to see my boyfriend before I go to the opening, so remind me before I leave and I’ll lend you mine.”
Did she mean the safety pins or the Christmas ornaments? I was saved from a reply by the insistent shrill of the doorbell.
I unlocked the inner door. A blast of arctic air swept into the vestibule as I opened the grill work gate. Shivering, I moved aside to let a grape-colored woolen bundle step in.
Catherine’s face was barely visible between the wool beret and the scarf pulled up around her nose. Her eyes warned that this was not a simple social call.
“Come into the kitchen and stand by the stove,” I said.
She didn’t budge. With her gloved hand she reached into her coat pocket and handed me an envelope. “Someone slipped this under the gallery door early this morning. I just found it.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out a folded page from the New York Post entertainment section. Great-they were doing a piece on the gallery. Not the Times, to be sure, but maybe after the opening… I unfolded the page. Rico’ face, centered in front of one of his paintings, stared up at me, A slash outlined in reddish brown sliced through the page. Dried blood or cranberry juice, it hardly mattered; the intent was clear enough.
“This doesn’t feel like a prank, Catherine. Someone is sending a message that they intend to hurt Rico.”
“Or me. Or the gallery.” Her eyes downcast, she jammed her hands into her pockets. “Rico’s not the only possible target. And no, I don’t know anyone who thinks Rico cheated them out of a place in the show. Patrick already asked me that.”
Exasperated with her self-indulgence and fearful for Rico, I sent her home and called Frankie Fretelli, an old friend with an NYPD desk job. If I brought along some Johnnie Walker Black instead of art gallery white wine, Frankie said, he’d come to the opening and keep an eye on things. David would be there too, if the weather didn’t delay his flight. We’d all keep our eyes open.
Now, despite my neat avoidance of the subject, Rico would have to be told. I could no longer convince myself that it was just a prank. Perhaps professional jealousy was the poison here. How many times had Catherine pointed out how young Rico was? Other artists, embittered after years of struggle, might also resent Rico’s success.
The delicious smell of vegetables sizzling in sesame oil filled the kitchen. Rico stirred them, then grated fresh ginger into the wok.
“Was that Catherine? I thought I heard her voice but it sounded kind of funny.”
Time to plunge in. Lettuce begin, I thought. “She’s worried. She, uh…” Orange you going to tell him? I demanded of myself. “She found a newspaper article. Slipped under the galleiy door. A picture of you and one of your paintings. It was cut and the edge was stained with something that looked like dried blood.”
Rico dribbled tamari over the vegetables and I went on. “That’s the second time. The first was eight days ago. It looks like someone is threatening you, Rico.”
He set the wooden stirrer on the stove. “Me? Who would threaten me?”
His bewilderment was genuine. I hated asking him to think the way I’d been thinking, off and on, for the past week, but I had to. “Another artist, maybe? Someone whose girl you stole? Someone you had an argument with at the record store?”
With each suggestion he shook his head. “None of the above. Listen, I get to have my first gallery opening once in my life. And nobody-no nameless enemy, no one playing jokes-nobody is going to keep me from enjoying it.”
He smiled at me and stopped just short of admonishing me to do the same.
It was ten after five when the taxi deposited me at the curb in front of the gallery. Fat snowfiakes drifted lazily to the ground, dusting everything with a sugary whiteness. No wind, temperature hovering near thirty. If I could let go of the nagging anxiety that had kept me company all afternoon, the weather might even feel festive.
I pushed open the door and surveyed the gallery.
The minifioods cast an even, untinted light on the paintings. White movable walls, arranged with enough angles to keep the space from feeling predictable, carried attention to the paintings rather than to the room itself. False modesty aside, Catherine and I had done a superb job of hanging this show and of placating artists’ egos, sensitive to such questions as which was the better wall and what critics would see first when they entered the gallery.
Rico’s large canvases, those faces emerging from abstract swirls of strong, clear colors, hung at the far end of the room. To the left of the door, a profusion of tiny paintings-florals a la O ’Keeffe but signed Siandra-dotted the wall. On the right, Ken Artie’s monochromatic, detailed landscapes of New England scenes served as somber balance. The total effect was stunning.
“Hello. Anybody here?” I called.
“I’ll be out in a moment.”
The voice was exactly as I remembered, a rich baritone, a little haughty but approachable, redolent of old money and Harvard.
I brushed the snow from my hair and peeled off my gloves, took off my coat, and shook it.
“Very fetching. You look like a Mary Cassatt, high-necked demure dress, dark eyes.” Patrick was tall, golden-haired, and polished; if he had been bald, he would have resembled an Oscar statuette wearing a gray wool suit.
“Thanks. I think. How do you like it?” I said, sweeping my arm to take in the whole room.
A flicker of something I didn’t understand shone in his eyes. “You’ve both done a fine job of it,” he said. “Fine.”
I gathered my coat and walked toward the small rear office, thinking about faint praise and damning myself for not pursuing my uneasiness over his feelings about the gallery. “Catherine’s a little nervous about tonight,” I said as I deposited the Johnnie Walker in a desk drawer. “She’s done a wonderful job. She has some terrific artists.”
“Even if you do say so yourself.” His voice was flat.
When I walked back into the gallery, he was standing in front of one of Rico’s paintings, arms crossed against his chest, the habitual skeptic’s pose. His head was tilted; considering that he was a corporate attorney, his hair curled toward his collar in an almost decadent way.