The second piece was a triptych called The Crane Wife, which was the opposite of the first in almost every way. It was low- and mid-relief instead of freestanding, black marble instead of white, and a traditional scene instead of a fanciful one. In spite of the differences, it was still a piece with a strong feminist message. The panels told the story of a humble Japanese farmer who saved a crane from a hunter’s trap. The crane returned as a beautiful woman who became his wife. At night she plucked her own feathers and wove a silk brocade that made them wealthy, even though she consumed herself in the process.
(I still wonder if Christy thought she was the crane wife. I’ve asked her about it a few times since then, but she’s never given me a straight answer. She probably doesn’t even know herself. Still, she chose that story for a reason, and I think about it every time she starts a big project. Then I make sure I don’t work too late. I check on her more often, too. And I make sure she eats enough. Her apprentices help, especially during the day, but they have their own lives. Christy is mine. I digress, but I still worry about her.)
Christy and her crew finished the sculptures with barely a week to spare before Christmas. They were exhausted but elated, and we celebrated with a party before everyone took a well-deserved break for the holidays.
* * *
A whole group of us flew to Los Angeles in February 2002. We took the girls and Rich, Fred and Lance, and all five of Christy’s apprentices. My own parents were in China with Susan, but Christy’s parents drove up from San Diego.
More friends and family planned to arrive over the next couple of days—Wren and Trip, of course, along with Leah and Mark, Brooke and Nate, Erin and Tom, and even Carter and Kim. Sara and her girlfriend promised to drive down as well. Much to my surprise, Christy had sent Gina and John an invitation, and they’d returned the RSVP almost immediately.
Christy and her apprentices spent two days getting everything ready for the show itself, while the girls and I went to Disneyland with Rich and her parents. I felt a little guilty that she was working while we were having fun, but she wasn’t the least bit upset.
“No, I’m glad you did,” she said. “The girls would’ve been bored to death at the gallery.”
“Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”
“I hope so. May still has an issue with the caterer, but— Oh! I forgot to show you.” She retrieved a presentation box from atop the dresser. “She gave us these.”
She opened the lid to reveal a set of four wineglasses. They were Murano glass, with a pattern of multicolored leaves and a different color stem for each—red, green, blue, and yellow.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “That was very nice of her.”
“We need to remember to take them tomorrow night.”
“What for? Won’t the caterer have glasses?”
“Of course. But these’re special for us. You, me, Rich, and Mom. So the caterers don’t give us wine by mistake.”
“Ah, very clever.”
“I know, right!” She relaxed as the excitement started to wear off. Then her expression slowly fell. The doubts had set in. “What if no one comes? What if no one likes it? What if—?”
“They’re going to come, and they’re going to love you. Trust me. You’ve done a lot of work to get to this point. May and Fred too. They believe in you. We all do. Me, the girls, family, friends… everyone!”
“I know. Only—”
“Relax,” I said. “Trust me. The show’s going to be amazing.”
I was right.
When we arrived at the gallery the following evening, a cluster of people were waiting for the doors to open. The celebrities and big collectors didn’t arrive until later, but the place was abuzz with excitement when they did. Christy unveiled her two major pieces to a sustained round of applause. May and her gallery associates circulated, negotiated, and celebrated every sale.
By the end of the night, a wealthy Japanese collector had outbid several others for The Crane Wife, and a big law firm had bought Femme Olympians for double the original estimate. All of the other major pieces had sold as well, for the suggested prices or more in a few cases. Three-quarters of the smaller pieces had “Sold” stickers on their title placards or were gone entirely, taken home by their new owners.
When the last guest finally left, May disappeared into the gallery office. She returned with a printout and a grim look. We all fidgeted nervously until she cracked a smile.
“I couldn’t resist,” she apologized.
“Try harder next time,” Christy grumped. She drained her glass and held it out.
The caterers were all cleaning up, but Rich emptied his glass into hers.
“Sorry, it’s seltzer.”
“I don’t care.” She drained it but immediately grimaced. “Oh my gosh! Rich, that’s disgusting! How—? Never mind.” She gestured imperiously.
May surveyed the group with a long smirk before she settled on Christy.
“Congratulations. You just had your first million-dollar show.”
* * *
Christy’s art income and the inheritance from Nana C. changed our lives, although not the way money usually did. My salary alone was more than enough to cover household expenses, including what we put into investments and the girls’ college funds. We could travel when we wanted and afford luxuries like a private plane, so we decided to keep Christy’s money separate. At Fred’s suggestion, we hired a financial advisor to manage everything for her.
Moira Burns was a Scottish expat who’d been a British Army officer in her former life. She was a no-nonsense woman who reminded me of a self-portrait I’d seen once of Artemisia Gentileschi—slightly plump, red-cheeked, and with a wary expression that seemed habitual.
“Before we talk about a salary and monthly allowance,” she said, “let’s talk about a spending spree.”
“Yes, please,” Christy chirped.
“Tell me about the big things you want to buy and we’ll discuss them.”
Much to my amusement, Moira was serious about the discussion part. She immediately shot down some of Christy’s wilder ideas, like a private island, a yacht, and a ski lodge.
“None of those are practical,” she said. “You aren’t Richard Branson. Not yet, at least. Besides, they all require upkeep. I’m talking about a new car or—”
“Oh, oh, I know!” Christy said. “I want a Mercedes convertible. A red one!”
“That’s more like it.” Moira wrote it down. “What else?”
Christy wanted to replace her minivan with a new one. She also wanted shoes and purses and maybe some dresses.
“Oh, and a watch for Paul,” she added. “Maybe a new plane, too.”
Moira read my reactions before she answered, “Yes to the watch, no to the plane. What else?”
“Things for the girls, I suppose.”
“Good. What else?”
“Do you want a new car?” Christy asked me.
“No, but thank you.”
“Do we want to build the boathouse?”
“We can,” I said.
“We’d need something to put in it,” she hinted.
“Right,” Moira said. “What kind of boat?”
Christy actually bounced in her seat. “A ski boat. A fast one!”
“Anything else?”
Christy thought for a long moment but couldn’t come up with anything.
“Okay,” Moira said as she underlined things on the list. “I’ll set up a line of credit for the boathouse. I’ll arrange the financing for the cars and the other big purchases. And I’ll set up a new account for everything else.” She glanced at me. “Now, about this watch… Timex, Rolex, or Patek Philippe?”
I winced a little guiltily.
“Right.” She made a note. “Patek Philippe.”