Thankfully no one is beating on my door this morning. Then I remember that today is Thanksgiving and people are probably busy getting ready to spend time with family and friends. How many, right now, are cooking up calorie-laden foods? How many are preparing to gorge themselves on turkey and stuffing, raising their cholesterol levels with too many helpings of mashed potatoes and gravy? Well, good for them. I don’t mind missing out on this occasion.
Besides, I tell myself as I make espresso, I did have two invitations. Caroline—not Violet, of course—invited me out to McLachlan Manor, and then Irene invited me to her house, telling me I could change my mind if I liked. However, I don’t believe I will change my mind. For some reason, that seems a bit pathetic. It would be like admitting to her and everyone there that I’m lonely. And although I have done almost everything possible to humiliate myself these past few days, it’s about time to start drawing the line.
I rather relish the idea of being in my house today. Only twenty-four hours ago this place was a house of horrors. Now it feels peaceful and somewhat orderly… My goal is to keep it that way. After a light breakfast, I wash the dishes from yesterday and today. Then I put a load of laundry into the washing machine, and as Irene advised me, I’m careful not to overload it. After that, I take more of Irene’s advice and go over my lists and even make a new one. Things I will do tomorrow.
But by midafternoon, I feel a bit out of sorts. I try not to think about other people, those who are gathering with friends and family right now. Perhaps there’s the sound of a ball game playing in the background, the tinkling of glasses, the ringing of laughter, pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert. I long for some distraction from these thoughts—a television, some kind of chatter or noise to fill up the quiet space of my small house. But there seems to be no escape. I suppose there’s no getting around this.
I am lonely. And I feel a fool for declining Irene’s invitation.
So what if she or her friends make the assumption that I’m lonely? Why am I such an old fool? Lonely. Old. Fool.
On Friday I attempt to call my accountant again. This time I listen a bit more carefully to the recording to discover that his office will be “closed during the holiday and won’t be open again until Monday.” I don’t leave a message this time. Instead I slam down the receiver. What right does Jackie have to tie up my funds until Monday? For all he knows I could be starving, freezing… Come to think of it, wasn’t that nearly the case? I had really been hoping to have some funds transferred up here so I could get a few groceries today. Unfortunately that doesn’t appear to be possible.
I go over my lists again. I call the heating oil company and am informed that an order for oil has already been placed by a woman from Senior Services and that a delivery truck should be by later today. Then I decide to pay a visit to the local bank. At least I can open an account and have it all ready for when I speak to Jackie, which I hope will be Monday.
Once again I dress carefully. I suppose I’m hoping to impress the people at the bank. After all, I may have to ask them for a loan or something to temporarily get me by this little financial dry spell. It’s hard to believe that I have less than seven dollars to my name at the moment. I look at the art on my walls and remember what the Senior Services volunteer said about selling something. And then I remember there is that art gallery by Maurice’s restaurant. Perhaps they would have some interest. I think I’ll pay them a visit as well.
My stop at the bank is disappointing. Not only am I unable to discuss a loan, since their loan officer is gone, but I cannot even open an account. “You have to have money to set up an account,” she tells me as if I’m a simpleton. Goodness, I don’t know when I’ve suffered such humiliation—publicly anyway. So I crisply tell the ignorant girl, who is dressed in blue jeans, of all things, that I am waiting for funds to arrive and that I simply want to get an account in order to have a deposit made.
“Perhaps I shall look for another banking establishment to handle my financial affairs.” I hook my purse strap over my arm and make a hasty exit. Unfortunately that bank is the only one in town. Still, I hope I’ve worried her a bit. As I get into my car, I wish I’d mentioned something about speaking to her manager next week when my funds do arrive—perhaps that would’ve put that disrespectful upstart in her place.
Feeling slightly more desperate than when I set out this morning, I drive on up to the Phoenix Gallery, park my car in front, and go inside. Classical music is playing, and there is a good smell in here—a combination of oil paint, pine trees, and something else—coffee perhaps. Although the building seemed small on the exterior, it feels spacious inside with its high ceilings and wooden floors. The lighting for a small gallery seems well done, and the selection of art, while slightly minimalist, isn’t half bad. Especially for a small town. Of course, I don’t recognize the names of these artists, but the quality of the work, much of it abstract, contemporary, and modern, is something I wouldn’t be ashamed to hang on my own walls. Although a recognizable name on the canvas would make the prospects more tempting. Not that I can afford to purchase anything right now.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” says a man who appears to be fortyish. He has a goatee and short-cropped dark hair. “Anything I can help you with today?”
“I’m new in town,” I begin, thinking that’s not exactly true, but I don’t care to explain my roots to someone I don’t even know. “I heard about your gallery and I thought it was time to come see it for myself.”
He smiles and extends his hand. “Welcome to Silverton. I’m Garth Rawlins, the owner of the Phoenix.”
I nod with appreciation. “I’m Claudette Fioré, and this is a lovely little gallery.”
“Thank you. Where did you relocate from, Ms. Fioré?”
“Southern California…”
“Ah yes, well, then this must seem like a very small gallery to you.”
“But it’s marvelous for Silverton. I was actually quite surprised to find the town has an art gallery at all.”
“So what brought you to Silverton?”
I quickly explain that I grew up here and have returned to my family home. “I think I’ll appreciate the slower pace,” I say, getting more and more comfortable with my little white lie. “It’s nice to be able to walk to town… And I feel safer here… although the weather seems a bit extreme.”
“It’s not usually this cold.”
“I noticed you have a good selection of contemporary art,” I say. “I don’t recognize the names, but they seem talented enough.” Then realization hits me. “Oh, did you say your name is Garth Rawlins?”
He nods.
“So some of these paintings are yours?”
“Yes.” He seems uncomfortable. “I suppose my gallery is a little self-serving.”
I walk over to one of the abstracts I had already admired—a large piece in blocks of burgundy, orange, and gold. “This is very nice. Those colors would be absolutely perfect in my house.”
He brightens. “Really? I have a policy where I allow clients to take something home and try it for three days. If you don’t like it, bring it back and try something else.”
“Unfortunately I have more than enough art in my house.”
He looks disappointed, and I feel badly for having strung him along. “But if I did have room, I would certainly consider your work.”
“Yes, I get a lot of that. Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake to set up a gallery in this town.”
“What made you choose Silverton?”
He shrugs. “I passed through here one day in the summer a few years ago. For some reason I thought the town was charming…maybe because it was a sunny day. I had started a gallery in Bodega Bay, but there was a fire… The gallery burned to the ground—including my work.”
“Oh, how heartbreaking.”
“It was even more heartbreaking when my insurance company took more than a year to pay me a settlement. They actually thought I’d burned the place down myself.”
“Why on earth?”
“Well, as you can imagine, there were a few galleries in Bodega Bay… Business had slowed down due to the economy.” He shakes his head. “But anyone who knew me would know I would never burn my own paintings. What kind of a moron would do something like that?”
“Ah, so that’s why your gallery is called the Phoenix?”
“Precisely.” He nods. “We rose from the ashes.”
“Well, I can’t speak for Silverton, but I think you have a fine gallery here. And as I mentioned, if I wasn’t so overloaded with art myself, I would consider one of your—” Then I stop myself. “Wait a minute, Garth.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“I’ve just had an idea—perhaps it’s even a good idea.”
“I’m always open to good ideas.”
“I’m sure you know who Sean Scully is…”
“Are you kidding? I’m a huge fan of his work.”
“Well, I just happen to have an original in my home.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. I also have some other valuable pieces.”
“Wow, would I like to see those!”
“And I was thinking…” I study this young man for a moment, wondering how honest I can be with him. For some reason I feel I can trust him. “Is there a place we can sit down?”
“Yes, of course.” He points over to a seating area where a couple of attractive chrome and black leather chairs are set up.
“Eames?” I nod to the chairs.
“I wish. But they are a good reproduction, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” I sit down. “Comfortable too.”
“So what’s your idea?”
“Well, may I be frank with you?”
“Sure, you know my story.” He grins. “Or some of it.”
So I tell him who my husband was, and I am not surprised that Garth knows of him.
“No kidding? You were married to Gavin Fioré? I would’ve thought his wife would be about a hundred by now.”
I clear my throat. “Well, his first wife would’ve been. As it is, I feel that I’m getting awfully close.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t look like you’re even seventy, Mrs. Fioré.”
“Call me Claudette.” I smile. “All right, here’s my idea. First, I will be honest and tell you, in all confidence, that Gavin’s estate has gone through some hard times, and most of my finances have been seized.”
“Is that why you moved here?”
“Exactly. I do, however, still have a fairly nice collection of art, including the Scully. However, because I am short of funds, I am thinking of selling a few pieces.”
He frowns. “As much as I would love to have a Scully in here, there is no way I can afford something like that.”
“Oh…”
“However, I might be interested in taking something on consignment.” He looks unsure now. “But you might not care to do that.”
“Can you explain what that would entail?” I ask, hoping not to appear too ignorant.
“We would write up a contract for your art, and it would hang in my gallery. If any sold, I would take a small commission and pay you the remainder.”
“Yes.” I don’t want to seem too eager. “That sounds like a sensible plan, and perhaps if you have some collectible pieces mixed in with your work, you might get some recognition, possibly a write-up in an art magazine.”
His eyes light up. “Definitely. Some well-known names in here could bring me some good attention…maybe some good foot traffic.”
“Perhaps you’d even have a special show. Maybe for the holidays.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fioré! Would you really be interested?”
I nod. “You know, I think I would. It’s not anything I would’ve considered before. But now, well, things are changing. I suppose I am changing too.”
“When can I see your pieces?”
“Whenever you like.”
“How about now?”
I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”
“My sister, also my partner, is in the back room working on a frame. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ask her to watch the shop for me.”
As he goes back, I walk around his gallery. While the art really is nice, it’s very sparse. There is room for more. I pause in front of his abstract, the one I think would go well in my house. Perhaps I wouldn’t miss my Scully quite so much if this one were to hang in its place. I look at the price. In the old days, $3,900 would seem like a trifle. But now…I’m not so sure.
“Okay,” he says as he rejoins me. He has a coat slung over one arm.
“I’m thinking, Garth…my walls could look empty if I get rid of too much. Perhaps we could work a way to make some swaps.”
“I don’t see why we can’t discuss it.” He peers curiously at me. “You really do have an original Scully?”
“Trust me, it’s the real thing. Gavin bought it years ago.”
“What’re we waiting for?”
He follows me to my house, and when we get out of our cars and go up the walk, I feel slightly apologetic for my humble abode. “It’s not much—my house, I mean. It’s been quite a transition for me…moving from Beverly Hills to here.”
“It’s a cute house,” he says as I unlock the door.
“My stepson helped me set it up. Naturally only a small portion of my things could fit in here.”
“Wow.” He stops to admire an Avakyan abstract that’s next to the window.
“Gavin got that for me just a few years before he passed away. It used to hang in our bedroom.”
“It’s beautiful.”
I study it more closely. “It is, isn’t it? And over here”—I point to the large painting above my sofa—“is the Scully.”
Garth turns around and his eyes get so big that I’m worried he is going to faint dead away. He just shakes his head in silence. Finally he mutters, “Awesome…that is just awesome.”
“Would you like some coffee or something?”
“That sounds great.”
“You go ahead and look around,” I say as I go to the kitchen.
Garth slowly works his way around my house making ooh and ahh sounds at the appropriate times. Finally he steps into the kitchen and lets out a big sigh. “Man, Claudette, your gallery is way hotter than mine.”
I have to laugh as I hand him his coffee cup. “Well, let’s discuss this in the living room.”
Once we are comfortably seated, I tell him that I know I would greatly miss my Scully painting. “It’s so warm and alive. I find it rather comforting in this room. But in some ways, it reminds me of that large piece you painted.”
“Thanks, I take that as high praise.”
“If you knew me, you’d know I don’t hand out praise lightly.”
“I’d gladly swap my painting for this one,” he says quickly. “Not straight across, of course.” He chuckles. “Maybe someday my work will be as valuable as a Scully. But for now, maybe we could work something else out—something that would make us both happy.”
So we sit here, drinking our coffee and discussing what we might do. And while I certainly don’t want to part with all of my art, I get a sense of excitement thinking that I might actually be helping this young man with his gallery. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before, but I want to be part of it now.
Finally we settle on several pieces, including the Scully. The agreement is that no money will cross hands yet—my paintings will be on consignment at the Phoenix, and if they should sell for fair market price, I will use some of my profits to purchase his paintings, which will be hanging in my house on loan in the meantime.
“I can get this all written up legally. My sister is the one with the business head. Celia is really good at that sort of thing.”
“If you do get an exhibition scheduled, with some good media coverage and such…well, perhaps I can loan you the rest of my art. You know, to sort of fill up the gallery during that time.”
&
nbsp; “You would do that?”
I smile. “Gavin and I always considered ourselves to be patrons of the arts, Garth. But in all honesty, it was Gavin who walked the walk. I mostly just went along for the ride. Perhaps it’s my turn to get involved.”
“You won’t hear me complaining.”
We shake hands and exchange phone numbers, and I send Garth happily on his way. He plans to get back to me as soon as his sister puts something together. A part of me is rather stunned to think of what I’m doing. I’m sure some would question my sanity to trade my valuable art to a man I only met today. But somehow I think it’s the right thing to do. And somehow I feel that Gavin would approve.
And I cannot deny that it feels slightly amazing to be helping someone else for a change.
On Saturday I get up earlier than usual. Garth called last night, telling me his sister has written out a contract that he wanted to bring by in the morning. So I invited them both to join me for coffee at ten.
It’s times like this when I really miss Sylvia’s cooking abilities. How nice it would be to have her whip up some fresh scones and muffins for my guests. As it is, I make do with a package of shortcake and some chocolate mint wafers. But I do arrange these carefully on a china plate. Before Garth and his sister arrive, I have everything nicely set on a sterling Chippendale tray, which I plan to serve in the living room. My only regret is that I have no fresh flowers. Oh, the pity of being poor.
My guests are prompt, and I welcome them into my humble abode. “It’s not much,” I tell them as I take their coats. “But I’m getting used to it.”
“This is my sister Celia,” Garth tells me. “Celia, this is Mrs. Fioré.”
I shake Celia’s hand, noting that she seems quite a bit older than her brother. And she’s not as colorful as he. Her brown wool sweater is somewhat worn at the elbows, and her no-nonsense loafers suggest she is more practical than fashionable.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say. “But, please, call me Claudette.”
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