The man had taste. This was the painting on the invitation, the one in the newspaper. Catherine and Rico had chosen carefully; it was the best work Rico had ever done. The painting surged with compressed power that swept the eye to the upper left quadrant where a web of magenta lines delineated eyes, nose, mouth, and a spidery jumble of hair amid the gradations of blue and gray. If I squinted, it really did resemble Rico. Particular about titles, he had called it Feature This.
“I’m terribly old-fashioned,” Patrick said, stepping back from the canvas. “I believe that paintings should be of recognizable things, that music should have a melody one can hum, and that books should tell a story.”
And that women belong in the kitchen and the bedroom? I wondered. “Well, then it’s a good thing Catherine has such an eclectic trio of artists. Something for everyone, you might say.”
“Old-fashioned doesn’t mean ineducable. Maybe someday I’ll get the point of these paintings.” Patrick’s smile made him look less like the portrait of a disapproving Mather paterfamilias-Cotton, not Jerry-and more like someone my friend Catherine might fall in love with. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“Thanks, but it’s all under control. Bound to be surprises-there always are-but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing to do now.”
Patrick’s gaze swept the room. “How about if I dice up this meat?” he said as he held up a crusty, wrinkled Italian salami.
“The caterer would kill me if I let anyone else touch her food.” The knife lay on the table, gleaming fiercely in the light. I wanted to hide it, throw it away.
The door swung open and the harpist and her unwieldy burden stumbled in. I pointed her to a corner to practice and busied myself with checking artists’ statements, price lists, champagne glasses, half listening as she brought David’s composition to life. The music was solid, lithe, fanciful, substantial; the notes flew around the room or marched, as the theme changed.
I couldn’t wait to see David. I shifted some of my anxiety to concern about his plane landing in the snow, pushed away the imagined sight of Rico’s face with a raw scar running down his cheek, left my worries in one corner of my mind while I attended to the problem of the three cases of Chablis that had arrived instead of the champagne I’d ordered.
By six forty-five, the caterer’s assistant had replaced the wine, everything else was in order, and I was holding David’s hand. His tumbled hair glistened with snow and his smile as the music spilled from the harp thrilled me nearly as much as his whispered description of how he intended to make up for lost time.
I had just finished telling him about this morning’s slashed newspaper when the door flew open and Catherine hurried in, stomping her feet and rubbing her hands.
“This is terrible. No one’s going to come out in this weather. The press will be covering the first snow of the season and the opening will be a flop. The whole thing is a terrible idea, and the critics are going to crucify me.” She shrugged out of her coat, mumbling all the way to the back room.
In fact, it had crossed my mind that the weather might keep some people away. I wondered if our correspondent would show up. Unless he (she?) was already here.
“Nonsense. The same reporters don’t cover snow and gallery openings, you know that. The guest list is loaded with people with a personal interest in you, the artists, or being seen at the new and happening place. And tonight, my dear, this is it.”
Catherine tried not to smile. “You really think so?”
“I’m sure of it.” Patrick took her in his arms. “You look wonderful. Your artists are marvelous and Porterfield’s is going to be a success.”
So supportive for someone who just a while ago told me how much he favored traditional values, at least in art and music.
Just then the door tinkled and a round woman swathed in a rainbow of gauzy stuff, a gold turban wound around her head, undulated toward the coat rack. “Cath-er-ine,” she purred. “The ten of pentacles in the future spot! I did a reading on the gallery and that’s what it said. Pentacles! Money, money, money. The tarot never lies.” She blew on her fingers and frowned. “Isn’t it cold in here?”
The thermostat was set for seventy but the red temperature indicator pointed to sixty. This was one of those things that ages an event coordinator beyond the mere passage of time. Like the broken water pipe outside the Central Park tent where four elephants were waiting for their cue in the benefit performance of Aïda, this was something I had to fix.
I soon discovered that the only piece of electrical equipment not on a circuit breaker was the furnace. By the time I found a fuse, installed it, and then made the necessary repairs to my dress and makeup, the party was well under way.
I scanned the bright, noisy crowd for Rico. A man in a dark suit and white shirt nodded to me: one of Frankie’s NYPD buddies, no doubt. Any others would be easy to spot, too. The invited guests dressed along a fashion continuum from Hell’s Angels chic to Kamali slouch, with hardly any room for Brooks Brothers, faux or vrai.
I finally spotted Rico on the other side of the room. I would not transmit my worries to him. I would not, tonight of all nights, be the hovering, overprotective mother. I would not ruin this celebration.
The lighting and the harp music and the tinkle of glasses and conversation were festive; I couldn’t help smiling as Rico, elegant in a camel-colored sweater and dark slacks, walked through the crowd toward me.
“You want a name tag? How about ‘Capobella’s Mother’?” Rico, his arm around David, grinned down at me. Frankie Fretelli stood nearby, clutching his glass half filled with amber liquid.
“A chiaroscuro mom in a rocking chair? No, thanks.” I hugged Rico, a little longer than he would have liked but a little shorter than would have pleased me. He was beautiful, radiating pleasure from his smile, from his perfect, unmarred skin. “The paintings look wonderful,” I whispered as I kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm.
“Thanks. So do you.” He kissed me back; then a leather-skirted lady appeared, slipped her arm through his, and led him into a thicket of well-wishers in the middle of the floor. Frankie stuck close behind him.
“You’re Rico’s friend?” A blue-eyed, platinum-haired, classically handsome young man stood beside me. A smile crinkled his face. In his right hand he held a champagne flute. The cast on his left arm was cradled in a sling, as fresh and white as his shirt and the scarf around his neck.
“How did you know?”
“I saw the two of you talking.” He shifted his arm.
I nodded; I would make pleasant talk with this fellow and not pursue Rico, with my eyes, all over the room. “I hope you’re not left-handed and not a painter.”
“I’m not a painter. I’m an aficionado. A particular fan of Rico’s.” He sipped from the champagne glass. “Can I get you some?”
“Thanks, no.” I craned my neck to look for David’s tousled head, which should have been towering above the crowd. I caught Catherine’s eye; she beamed back a message of gratitude.
“So Rico’s living with his girlfriend now, right? They must be really serious about each other. I mean, to be living together.” The young man’s gaze flitted around the room, resting for microseconds here and there. Then he turned to look at me; his eyes were blue, intense, and direct.
The conversation had taken a decidedly personal turn. “What did you say your name was?”
“Peter. Peter Webster.”
Harp music wafted through the din; the angel with blond hair and a cast on his arm grinned at me, but before I could say anything, Rico materialized at my right side. His worried eyes scanned the crowd. “You see Laura yet? I thought she’d be here by now.”