“It wasn’t any trouble for me, was it, Mort?”
“No, sir.”
I see Abby’s eyebrows go up, and I’m guessing that she might’ve thought I am a guest or an employee and therefore not entitled to Mort’s services. I don’t want to chance an explanation now; Abby is pretty sharp, and she’s liable to spot any loose ends that don’t make sense.
Mort is serving the dinner, pouring each of us a glass of wine.
“So, Mac, tell me about your job,” I invite her.
Evidently, my interest pleases her as I see her face light up, and she begins to talk about the gallery and its work. I listen intently, making it a point to remember little details so I can bring them up again later to reassure her how important she is to me. Abby is watching us both, and I’m quite sure she is forming an opinion. I’m just hoping it’s positive when it comes to me.
Then it dawns on me that Abby is there for a reason. Maybe Mac doesn’t want to be alone with me? Is it possible that she’s not interested in any further relationship and just isn’t ready to spell that out? Is Abby here to keep a distance between us?
A massive silence grows between us. The only one moving is Mort, serving the dinner and busying himself with unfolding napkins and laying them in everyone’s lap. He is surveying the situation, and I’m embarrassed that this isn’t going as it should. I’m not used to women being cool toward me.
“Mac, maybe I could stop by the gallery one day, and you could show me around?”
Nodding, she warms to the idea. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Are the pieces for sale, or just display?”
“You know, I’m not really sure, but I think both. That’s a good question. I’ve still got a lot to learn.”
Then comes the awkward silence again. I’m not sure whether to blame Abby or to accept the obvious that Mac is keeping me at a distance.
“Where’s your ladies’ room?” Abby is standing up and looking around.
“Mort, would you show our guest?”
“Of course, sir.”
They leave the patio, and I look at Mac with a question in my eyes, not sure if I want to vocalize it. What the hell. “Is everything okay?”
The question takes her by surprise it seems. “Yes … why wouldn’t it be?”
“I wondered why you brought Abby. Was there a reason for that?”
“Sure, there is. I wanted her to see how wonderful you are,” she says simply.
Suddenly, the sun comes out, and all my self-doubt melts away.
“Actually,” she continues … “there’s a favor I have to ask.”
“Anything. What can I do for you?”
She looks over her shoulder and then says, “Well, you’ve seen Abby now. You can tell she’s a great person, but her self-confidence is about as low as it gets. I was sort of hoping you might have a friend with whom she’d hit it off and then we could go on a double-date?”
I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath without making it apparent. “You’re right; she seems very nice. She’s also mega sharp, and that can work against her. She’s going to make guys feel intimidated.”
“I know. It’s been a problem. I’m out of solutions, and that’s why I’m reaching out to you.”
I don’t want to fail, not for any reason. “Let me give it some thought, huh?”
She nods, and Abby walks through the doorway and resumes her seat. I’m much more relaxed now, and when Mort comes to clear away the dishes, I suggest to the girls that maybe they’d like to go up to the main house and go swimming.
Mac shakes her head. “We didn’t come dressed for that, and I have to work in the morning. Can I take a rain check on that?”
“Of course! Next time then.” I’m feeling such relief at hearing she wants a rain check, it’s all I can think of.
The girls stand up and head to the door, thanking me for dinner. I put my arm around Mac, reinforcing my attachment so she understands I want her. Abby ignores us, and I’m guessing she’s used to Mac getting the attention. We exchange a little good-bye small talk, and then they are gone.
As the door closes, I turn, and Mort is tidying up. He seems as though he wants to say something. “Okay, out with it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“The hell you don’t. I can tell. What is it?”
He clears his throat. “I think you may have met your match, sir.”
“What? Don’t be silly, Mort.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Well, I do. I’m not ready to settle down if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, sir, of course not … although, I didn’t bring up marriage. I simply think Ms. Mac is a nice woman and up to your standards.”
I don’t say anything. He’s caught me in a verbal trap, and it’s safer if I just don’t say anything.
Mort is wiser than he looks.
Chapter 11
MacKenzie
The Orpheum is like a playground for the visual arts. The styles vary: watercolors of flowers, bright moderns with geometrics, attempts at the classics and mixed media creations line the walls. I’m finding that every time I go into work, I get inspired. It seems to pull me out of the low places and gives me a reason to love what I do and look forward to the future. Even if the customers can be impossible to deal with. I’ve learned that South Florida’s art collectors think of themselves as unusually bright creatures who have individual flair and an eye for spotting talent that can’t be matched anywhere in the world. To hear Mrs. Anne Carruthers tell it, “Paris comes to us for the definition of art.”
Mrs. Anne Carruthers aside, there is never a lack of opinion in the community—on anything. This includes whether I am a suitable custodian of the fund-raising efforts for the gallery.
To tell the truth, I think I might have skated in beneath the radar on my mother’s coattails. Everyone knows her and that her functions are A-class and invitation only. I believe some of the board members at The Orpheum are confusing having hired me as having hired her. Sort of a two-for-one mother/daughter duo. I’m striving to find ways to separate myself from Mom’s sense of style and to develop my own in a way that will someday make me as memorable as she is today. I’m acknowledging this may not be possible until Mom has entered her pearly, Louis XVI gates in red-soled heels and Vuitton luggage trailing behind. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but seriously … they should get a look at her before she gets her makeup on and is having an argument with the postman about aligning her good mail up front and the junk at the back so she doesn’t need to sort it. “You already know what’s junk,” she reasons with him, and I find in a weird way, she’s leaving me with a legacy to fill. I hope the patrons of The Orpheum have a clear understanding of what they’re letting themselves in for.
Unfortunately, I’m realizing it’s not up to them to make me feel more comfortable—the inverse. I need to learn to cater to their whims and whimsy, meaning when Peter, the eccentric, who is also an albino wants his art framed in white, I should smile and congratulate him on his superb taste. He isn’t the worst, though.
Tatters North is nicknamed from the multiple sailboats he’s run aground or tied up with the sails fully furled; all of which happens while he is roaring drunk. He’s wealthy enough to get away with his irresponsibility, and over the years, he’s lost sight of where the lines are drawn. He’s known to have an eye for other men’s wives, and as a regular at Orpheum, I seem to have entered his radar.
I can see him crossing the street and headed in our direction. Pushing the door open causes the bell to ring, and once again I wonder about the wisdom of announcing visitors to a gallery that’s supposed to be an oasis of silence and sensory enrichment. He’s waving at me and headed in my direction, and I’m hoping desperately that Margaret finds some reason to come to the front.
I nod. “Hello, Mr. North, glad you could visit with us today.”
“You’re here today, Doll Baby, as if I didn’t know that and pla
n accordingly. When are you going to go out with me? How about tonight?”
Shaking my head, I try to look regretful and say, “Oh, sorry, but I have plans.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve been avoiding me, Doll Baby. Not a good idea if you want my contact list for sponsors.”
I feel like he’s blackmailing me for sex, and I don’t want anything to do with him. Giving him a polite smile, I move to the back of the gallery and lurk behind a short wall display. Now I understand why they wanted me to have a husband. Their entire clientele is filled with lechers! I realize then that I’m standing in the easiest place in the gallery to get trapped and quickly move forward, but not quickly enough. North is suddenly at my side, his hand on my arm and squeezing it in a pumping motion. “What about lunch? You aren’t busy right now. I know a place …”
I wish I’d thought ahead for these kinds of encounters, but frankly, this is a new world for me, and I wouldn’t have prepared well for it, anyway. I’m too much of a novice. It is time to learn. Reaching for his hand, I take it in my right, and shake it. “You know, Mr. North, I really do appreciate the generous invitations, but it’s policy here that employees aren’t to socialize with clients on a personal level.”
“Why not? Seems to me that’s exactly what you should be doing. That will sell a whole lot more shit than being cold and distant. Some people might even begin to think you consider yourself above the rest of us.”
I hurry to respond. “Oh, no, it’s not that way at all. We just have to maintain a professional distance.” That’s when I realize he’s caught me in his trap. By accusing me of arrogance, I can’t stay as distant as I like. Right about then, Margaret comes in and saves the day. He’s obviously not interested in her on an intimate level, so it’s back to his grouchy, irritable self. As he berates her for not having his favorite artist on display, I slide into the back room and lock myself in the ladies’ room until I hear the bell tinkle again.
The rest of the day is going very peacefully, but I’m bothered by the advances of these undesirable men and how I’m supposed to deal with it. We’re closing in five minutes, and I have an inspiration.
“Have a nice evening, Margaret,” I call to her as she’s locking the front door. Sliding out the back, I get into the car and head for Aunt Olivia’s Star Island estate. I know subliminally I’m hoping Michael is about, but I enjoyed meeting his aunt and want to visit her again. After all, you never know. She might be interested in acquiring some art!
Pulling up the long drive, I ease out of the car, and ring the bell. Mort answers the door and seems surprised to see me standing here, not that I can blame him.
“I wonder if I might drop in and visit with Aunt Olivia for a bit?” I request, aware that I’m using the familiar term and not her surname. That’s when I realize I don’t even know it. How odd.
“If you’ll step inside and wait here, Miss,” Mort says soberly, assuming his butler’s personality. I can tell he’s capable of many personalities, and this one seems to be his favorite when he’s attempting to be authoritative. I haven’t been around many British people in my life, but those I have always seem to take on a superior attitude, and I’ve let them have it by default. I’m feeling differently toward Mort, though. There’s something about him that makes me feel like he’s warning me off.
“Thank you, Mort,” I say, not having any problem addressing him by his first name at all. “You’re looking particularly healthy today. I think the sun is doing you some good,” I tell him and am rewarded with a beaming smile.
“Nice of you to say so, Miss,” he responds and then turns on his heel to go off to another part of the house. He returns a minute later, and with a sweep of his arm says, “Ms. Perkins will see you now in the living room, Miss.”
Well, that solves the mystery about her last name and also clues me in that Aunt Olivia apparently doesn’t have a great deal going on in her life that she’s able to see an uninvited visitor at the drop of a hat. I’m looking forward to some spirited conversation, and as it happens, she doesn’t disappoint me. I find her in a chair with a footstool, almost as regal as a queen. She has a flair for the dramatic.
“Hello, again,” I say. “I know you weren’t expecting me, and I hope you can forgive my impulse, but I’ve had a bad day and thought you might have some advice to help?”
I can tell by her smile and a crinkle at her eyes that she’s pleased by my confidence and flattery. “Well, sure, no problem. Come on in.” Her speech is so casual. I wonder whether she made her money herself or married it. She’s obviously not been raised with it. Maybe that’s why I find her so endearing.
“Come on in and find a seat. I can use some company. I’m bored out of my mind. These long, hot afternoons make me just want to get good and drunk and go to sleep. Only problem is, I’m afraid I might not wake up, you know?”
“Oh, well … I’m sorry to hear that. Then maybe it’s a good thing I came over?” I’m trying to figure her out—she’s just charming. She’s dressed in a colorful caftan and has a turban with an oversized glass ruby set in the folds over her forehead. She’s wearing considerable makeup, almost as though she’s about to give a performance on stage. This intrigues me. I find a seat on the sofa nearby, and Mort suddenly appears with a tray of iced lemonade. Although he’s trying not to appear interested, I can see his eyes darting in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking. I take a glass. “I have to say, Mort. You make the best lemonade I think I’ve ever tasted, and I can tell you I’ve tasted quite a few.” I saw him take a deep breath with pride and knew I was on the right track. I waited until he left the room before I began talking.
“I’m not sure Michael mentioned it, but I’m working at The Emporium, the art gallery and museum?”
“Don’t know it,” she dismissed my introduction. “What about it, and what do you do there?”
I’m beginning to wonder whether this has been a mistake. I really don’t know this woman and have no clue why I’m thinking she can help me. Oh, what the hell, of course I know why I’m here, but I’m not about to let on. I’ll try again.
“Doesn’t really matter that you don’t know it, but let me say we sell some local and some eclectic art, and it draws customers who tend to be a little eclectic themselves if you know what I mean?”
She’s looking at me blankly, and that’s when I realize she’d be a typical customer herself. Shit! Have I gotten myself into a mess now?
“Anyway, there are these male customers who come in and for some reason think they can take liberties with me. One of them today began following me around the gallery and then cornered me, rubbing my arm in a suggestive sexual way.”
“And …?” she asks as though this is perfectly acceptable, if not desirable behavior.
“And I want them to stop it, of course!” Am I missing something here?
“Why?”
I look at her, stupefied. I’m beginning to learn more and more about Aunt Olivia.
“Look … you’re a beautiful young girl, and the man just flirted with you. Wait ’til you get my age and see how many flirts you get. None. God, what I wouldn’t give for a good flirt right now.”
I think I’m blushing. I haven’t taken into consideration that she might not have the same perspective I did about men. Has Antonio ruined me for life? It’s entirely possible. A quick vision of the altar and his absence flit through my head.
I think she sees that I’m not quite relieved yet, and she pulls at a hair that is hanging from her chin. “Damned hairs,” she mutters and pulls at the hem of her caftan as she stretches out her feet. She has the strangest feet; completely bare with long, talon-like nails that are painted fire engine red. I have a momentary image of a man climbing into bed next to those, and it makes me smile inside. “Okay, I can tell you’re just too innocent to take this flirting with a grain of salt. Here’s what you do, sweetie. You gotta turn the tables.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whe
n this guy came in and started following you, what did you do?”
I think a moment and say, “I was looking for somewhere to hide. He’s been in before and makes me nervous. I know his reputation and don’t really like him. I’m not allowed to not like people there, though—it’s bad for business.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” she said, looking almost disgusted with me. “You gotta turn the tables,” she repeats, and I must still look blank because she explains. “Go after him. Sell him. Let your sex appeal sell the product. Use what you got to get what you want—get it?”
Nodding, “I guess so. But what if he thinks I’m flirting just to sell him.”
“Well, that’s good! That’s exactly what you want. Look, sweetie, men are all shy and insecure inside. They come up with a line that gets them out of the limelight and puts it on you. That way you’re on the defense, you see? They poke at you and then stand back to see what you do with it. Their hands are clean, and they don’t feel awkward because they made you feel that way. Now do you get it?” I can tell she is becoming exasperated.
I nod. “I do, I actually think I do.”
“There you go. You’re smarter than you look.” It sounds like a back-handed compliment, and I give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s picking at her skirt, and I wonder how hot that thing must feel, even in this air conditioning.
“Okay, so now what’s up between you and Michael?” Aunt Olivia makes no pretense in asking.
“Michael?”
“Oh, don’t go Miss Innocent on me. I can see someone leaving in the morning just as easily as night.”
This time, I know I’m blushing. “Not very well, I’m afraid. I brought my girlfriend over to meet him, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have done that. He hasn’t called me since.”
“Why did you bring her? That was a stupid thing to do. Liable to lose him to her.”
I laugh aloud. “Oh, no, you’d have to know Abby. She’s … well different from me. Any man who might be interested in me probably wouldn’t find her his type, and visa versa. That’s why I asked Michael if he might know someone for Abby. She’s not much to get out and socialize, so I thought I’d give her a little boost.”
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