by Martin Brown
Because Ray and Grant could not get in their usual morning workout, Grant was not home when Barbara came back from her early afternoon luncheon. Later, when Grant arrived, he rushed to take a shower and head out for the arts commission meeting that, to Grant’s way of thinking, began much too early: six o’clock.
The meeting took place at the senior center, located on the lower level of city hall. It had just started when Grant entered and quickly took a seat. The members of the commission sat at a long, narrow conference table facing five rows of chairs, seven seats across, nearly all of which were empty. In fact, there was one more commissioner (five) than attendees (four).
With such a small gathering, the commission’s elderly chairperson, Arthur Bingham, stopped to introduce himself and the other members of the committee to this first-time attendee. Ethel proudly exclaimed to her fellow commissioners, “Grant has an impressive background in fine arts, and I hope he will be a regular attendee at future meetings.”
“Please stay for refreshments after the meeting, so we can all get to know you better,” Bingham said to Grant. “We have a mixed fruit cobbler generously prepared by Sausalito’s gracious gourmet, Warren Bradley.”
Grant turned to his right to find the outstretched hand of that frumpish man with the unruly mustache. Grant smiled, nodded, and shook Warren’s hand. With pleasant smiles exchanged, both men turned back toward the commission, who all nodded politely in return.
The two other guests were there to present proposed agreements for tent rentals and catering services for the annual art gala. By the meeting’s conclusion, only Warren and Grant remained as guests.
Ethel took Grant aside. In a soft murmur, she divulged, “Sadly, Arthur Bingham wishes to leave the commission after his term expires. Please consider getting involved! We need some young blood in the mix, and you’ve got the credentials to make a marvelous addition to the commission.”
Warren did not appreciate what he heard from a discreet distance.
With all the cobblers I’ve prepared for this group, I should be the next commission member! Regardless of hurt feelings, Warren reminded himself to smile as he suggested to Grant that he help himself to some cobbler. Grant’s refusal, patting his flat abs and saying that he had not yet had dinner, was one more mark against this apparent social climber.
Back home, as Grant and Barbara talked over cocktails, they quickly realized that they had both come away from their social interactions with differing points of view.
“After seeing the Sausalito Women’s League in action, it’s just too silly for me,” Barbara sighed.
Grant shrugged. His meeting had left him considering the commission’s future potential. “The commission is well-intentioned, and they have an idea of what they want to do. They need a little help getting there.”
“What are they hoping to accomplish?”
“They see their mission as bringing greater attention to the fine arts that are already here in Sausalito and Southern Marin. They have a history that runs pretty deep. There’s an old marine warehouse at the north end of town that provides studio space to twenty plus local artists. I've heard about it, but never gave it much thought until tonight.”
“I’m surprised your radar for emerging talent didn’t lead you there before now.”
“I think I switched it off, at least as it pertains to the marketing and sale of fine art.”
“Well, I think it’s grand that you would like to get involved,” Barbara said, with what he thought sounded like a hint of disappointment in her voice.
“We could get involved together. There’s certainly a lot to be done.”
“I’ll think about it, Grant. Your favorite part of the business was always cultivation of emerging artists. What I enjoyed was client cultivation—bringing art lovers and artists together. And even better, introducing people of means to the world of collecting fine art.”
“Sweetheart, any time you want to look at some of the galleries in San Francisco, to either work at or to be an independent rep for, I’m entirely supportive of you doing that.”
Barbara smiled, kissed Grant on the cheek, and then passed her hand over his chest. “Wow, these pecs of yours are getting harder by the week!” She moved her index finger around his shoulders and down his increasingly powerful arms. “All of this fresh air must agree with you. You’re turning into a beast.”
“I don’t think it’s the fresh air. It’s Ray, kicking my butt every time I try to slack off on my workouts.”
“Well, I like the results.” Barbara pulled Grant closer and kissed him deeply. “A girl could get carried away by a guy like you.”
Inspired by her admiration, Grant bent down wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground.
Barbara, in jest, slapped his back and said, “Put me down, you brute.”
“Tarzan like Jane. Take Jane to tree house.”
“Alright, but remember, be gentle…well, not too gentle.”
Chapter Seven
One month after he attended his first meeting, Grant was formally invited to apply for Arthur Bingham’s seat on the arts commission.
After hearing that Ethel had reached out to Grant, Warren chose not to apply.
Grant, unopposed, was selected with little discussion. The other commissioners suggested that Ethel reclaim her previous role as the commission’s chair.
To the surprise of everyone, Ethel said, “I’d like to nominate Grant Randolph as our chair. I think he’s superbly qualified and would bring a new level of energy to all our efforts.”
The other three commissioners, who had long grown weary of the demands of serving on the commission, happily deferred to Ethel’s suggestion.
To the surprise of everyone in the room, Grant suddenly found himself the new chair of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission.
It was an all but unheard of ascension, considering that he was a relative newcomer to Sausalito and had not previously served on any commission. However, of the many board and commission positions sought after by the town’s residents, service on the arts commission was near the bottom of a basket of political plums. A star turn one night during the annual Fine Arts Commission Gala was a poor trade-off for a year’s worth of twice-monthly meetings.
Warren repeated Ethel’s comments and praise for Grant in his column that week, gritting his teeth with each sentence he wrote. He had to satisfy himself with the thought that the man he now thought of as “pretty boy” would one day fall from the lofty pedestal that Ethel Landau had unwisely placed him upon.
Warren never imagined how soon that fall would come.
To Barbara’s amazement, Grant warmed to his role on the commission.
His favorite part was meeting the promising young artists who made up the Sausalito’s Gate Six Artists’ Cooperative, all of whom he encouraged to apply for his new program of funding artists in residence.
Meanwhile, Barbara had to come up with an acceptable excuse for ducking the offer to join the Sausalito Women’s League. When Marilyn Williams, one of Alma Samuels’ lieutenants and a charter member of the Ladies of Liberty, eventually did call, Barbara was prepared to be utterly charming—and completely dishonest.
“Oh, Marilyn, this is so sweet of you! Yes, I had so much fun at the luncheon. But since I last saw you, I’ve accepted a position with the Moss Gallery on Post Street, in San Francisco.”
Marilyn sounded like she was getting ready to say something, so Barbara kept speaking.
“I’ve been so busy settling into my new job and adjusting to the daily commute I just haven't had time to think. I should have reached out to you first. I hope the invitation to the club will remain open so I may reapply when things at my job settle down.”
“Oh, absolutely, my dear,” Marilyn assured her, but her tone hinted at a level of unspoken disappointment. “Just let me know. And I do have to tell you that I’ve heard so many good things about your husband Grant’s work with the arts commission. He’s making quite a name for
himself with all the right people.”
Barbara hummed and purred her way through the rest of the conversation. During her time in town, she’d learned that warm, welcoming smiles could turn into disapproving frowns with a single misstep. Turning down the invitation to join the league was pushing the envelope for anyone who wanted to remain on the right side of those considered individuals of note. Even though it was small when compared to their lower Manhattan social set, neither of the Grants appreciated being viewed as social outcasts, regardless of the arena they were playing in.
As for the position at the Moss Gallery on San Francisco’s Post Street, Barbara’s story was something of an embellishment. The Moss Gallery was considered by most aficionados to be the city’s leader in both the purchase and sale of works by Northern California’s diverse body of established and emerging artists. Just two days earlier, Barbara had interviewed for the position of sales associate with Anna Ruth Moss, the gallery’s seventy-two-year-old founder. Given her years of previous experience in the nation’s most competitive fine arts acquisition market, more than likely the position could be Barbara’s for the asking. What had been a convenient excuse to avoid the vacuous delights of the Sausalito Women’s League was a reasonable professional step forward.
Anna Ruth Moss was delighted to hear that Barbara Randolph wished to join her team. Barbara was equally delighted that she would be reconnecting with the art world from a west coast perspective.
Best of all, three days a week she would once again be surrounded by the vitality of a great city. She missed Manhattan more than she ever imagined she would. While San Francisco and New York were as different as Paris and London, it was that buzzing rhythm of a busy city center that gave Barbara the feeling of being back home. Besides, there was something charming about replacing the sound of Manhattan car horns with the chime of ringing bells on cable cars as they went up and down along Powell Street, just steps from the location of the gallery.
Grant was pleased with Barbara’s selection of galleries, yet found himself asking repeatedly, “But you are happy with our choice to settle in Sausalito as opposed to San Francisco?”
“Oh, absolutely, Grant. I can’t imagine a more idyllic place to live. But I do miss the gallery business, and I need to get back to something that challenges me to be my best. I’ll be forty-one in a few months, and that’s a little young for retirement,” she said with a smile.
“Well, I’m just a little older. You don’t think of me as retired, do you?”
“Not exactly…”
Grant frowned. “Okay, maybe in a sense I am, but I’m at least keeping busy.”
Barbara came close to saying something else but held back. While Grant was undoubtedly in the best physical shape she had ever seen him in, the competitive business of fine art acquisition and sales had kept him sharp in ways that he was not anymore. There had always been a hungry look in his eyes whenever he was going to make a significant acquisition, knowing that he had several buyers who would eagerly compete against each other to add a particular piece to their collection. That hunger seemed to have vanished.
On some level, Grant knew this truth as well. It was the likely reason he had embraced his involvement in the city’s small but thriving art scene.
It was a discussion about their future that neither Barbara nor Grant was willing to have. With the passage of time, Barbara wondered if Grant loved their new life too much.
Grant thought perhaps Barbara did not love it enough.
Chapter Eight
Warren made it his mission to keep a careful eye on both Barbara and Grant.
His seemingly innocent patter would go something like this: “Have you met the Randolphs? They bought the old McFadden home, up on Bulkley. They seem very nice. I’ve heard that he ran an art gallery in Manhattan. In fact, Grant Randolph has become chair of the arts commission. I understand he has some exciting new ideas.”
Warren would seed a conversation the way farmers pay to seed a cloud—drop enough random thoughts, and you may be delighted to find that it’s raining down information.
Most of his prodding would go nowhere. But there were those unexpected moments when a small investment in time led to an unanticipated reward.
“I don’t know if I much care for Barbara Randolph,” Marilyn Williams said. “We invited her to a lovely luncheon at the league, but then she turned down our offer of membership.”
“That wasn’t very nice of her,” Warren said sympathetically. “Did she tell you why she wasn’t interested in membership?”
“Something about starting a new job in the city at a place called the Moss Gallery.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of it. Anna Ruth Moss is the owner. She’s one of the grand dames of San Francisco’s Presidio Heights.”
Few things raised the ire of the Ladies of Liberty more than the mention of a Bay Area neighborhood with even more expensive real estate than that of Sausalito.
Warren was a walking directory of the Bay Area’s wealthiest and most influential citizens.
“Well, she won’t be getting a second invitation to join the league anytime soon! I can tell you that, Warren!”
“I should say.”
Bradley begged off Marilyn’s invitation for tea. In a few moments, he was on his way. He knew that their exchange might have appeared meaningless, but to an astute observer, it was clear that Barbara was not far from being regarded as a social outcast. That would most likely be a great disappointment to a woman who had hopes of fitting into Sausalito’s social circle.
Warren could exploit the tone of these conversations with the highly trained ear of a noted symphony’s first violist. It wasn’t long before the first small rock he tossed in the water began to ripple back towards him.
Bea confided to Warren: “I’ve heard some discouraging comments about Barbara Randolph. Frankly, I don’t know if that New York gal fits in well with the rest of the community.”
Even Alma joined the chorus, telling Warren, “I have my doubts that Barbara Randolph is one of us.”
Before writing his “Heard About Town” column the next morning, Warren sat in his small kitchen sipping a cappuccino and wondering how he could stir up trouble for the Grants. Barbara was standing on a social precipice. Surely, there must be some way to give her a little push!
Of course, he reasoned, his column would once again have to serve as his most valuable asset.
He reached Barbara by phone at the gallery. Warren introduced himself and explained, “I want to do a small piece for my column in The Sausalito Standard about your new position at the Moss Gallery.”
Barbara was pleased to have something in the local paper alerting wealthy collectors that she was affiliated with one of San Francisco’s premier galleries.
Near the end of the conversation, she was somewhat surprised when Warren said, “I understand that you recently turned down an invitation to join the league.”
“Oh, yes,” she responded cautiously. “I’d love to have the time to do it all, but at my age, I have to place my career above social engagements.”
Hearing the comment he was looking for, Warren graciously expressed his deepest thanks, wished her the best of luck in her new job, and hurried off the phone. Barbara was equally pleased to have had the opportunity to tell potential clients that she was a dedicated professional.
When Barbara pulled The Standard from her mailbox two days later, she turned quickly to Warren’s column and found this small item:
"Barbara Randolph, who recently declined an invitation to join the Sausalito Women's League, has accepted a position with the Moss Gallery in San Francisco as a new sales associate. She describes herself as excited to be a part of the gallery’s team. As for the league, Mrs. Grant explained, 'At my age, I have to place my career above social engagements.'”
Warren then quoted Marilyn Williams, the Women’s League membership chair, about the nature of the league’s efforts at community outreach: “I’m sorry to hear that Barbara Rand
olph considers the league to be little more than a ‘social engagement.’ In our annual student scholarship drive, and in so many other ways, the league is an essential part of what makes Sausalito, Sausalito!”
Barbara was stunned by the way the piece read. She toyed with the thought that Warren had set her up. Certainly, the article cast her in a negative light. But, after further thought, she was determined to disregard the entire matter. It was merely the small-minded behavior of a person who eats, lives, and breathes small town priorities.
Warren relished his handiwork. Using a light and supposedly innocent touch, he had dealt Barbara Randolph’s social standing a terrible blow. As many of Warren’s cookbooks instructed, "Spiced properly, it should leave a distinct flavor without creating an overwhelming presence."
That same afternoon Rob sat at his desk and read the entire edition of The Sausalito Standard—something, he realized, he did not do often enough. After reading the “Heard About Town” column, Rob barked to Holly to come into his office.
“Do you think this guy Warren Bradley is being a bit of an ass about this woman Barbara Randolph? He pretty much pushes her overboard in his column!”
“What planet have you been living on?” Holly asked with a curious smile and a slight shake of her head. “That’s always been Warren’s style. Some of the people in this town act like the ‘cool kids in school.’ They can never feel good about themselves unless they know they have caused someone else to feel bad. Rob, I’m telling ya, if I were you, I’d dump his ass.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Rob admitted. “But then Alma and her gang would be organizing another advertiser boycott of The Standard, and I’ve got enough on my plate to deal with without that.”