“Do you need help with the serving table tonight?” Sadie asked from the doorway.
“I don’t think so,” JoAnna said, distracted as she considered one of the papers, then kept it in the main stack. “We hired a couple of guys from La Fonda. Didn’t you see them up there?”
“Yes, they’re up there,” Sadie said. “But I had the impression they weren’t expecting to serve the cupcakes.”
JoAnna looked up, a concerned expression on her face that passed a few moments later. “It’s just cupcakes and champagne, I’m sure they can keep up.”
“You know, I could help with the cupcakes,” she said. “It would be no trouble.”
JoAnna looked at her thoughtfully, and Sadie hurried to make the deal even sweeter. “The boys could then pass drinks rather than stay upstairs. No charge, of course. Consider it a thank-you gift from Modern Cupcakes by Lois. This is wonderful exposure for us.”
“Really?” JoAnna said, looking unsure.
“Really,” Sadie said with a smile. She waved toward the front of the gallery. “I know how intense events like this can get, and I’m happy to take over that one small part in order to free everyone up from having to worry about it.”
JoAnna’s eyes moved toward Sadie’s clothes.
“I live a few minutes away and can be in uniform before the gallery opens.”
JoAnna paused another moment, then broke into a wide grin. “Deal. Thank you.”
Sadie found Caro texting by the back door and explained what she’d done as they headed toward their cars.
“What a great idea,” Caro said, her bright eyes wide with excitement. “This will be fun!”
Sadie hadn’t offered Caro’s help, but obviously she expected to be a part of it. Normally, Sadie would love the company.
“What about Rex?” Sadie asked. Caro hadn’t mentioned what her plan was for dinner; Wednesday was always her day to cook.
“He’s a big boy,” Caro said dismissively. “He can forage for himself. It’ll be good for him. I’ll meet you at home, and we can drive back to the gallery together.”
“Maybe Rex would like to come to the showing,” Sadie offered. “You two could come to the exhibit together, and maybe get dinner once things quiet down enough that I can handle things on my own.”
Caro waved away the suggestion and pulled open the driver’s door of her car. “He’d be a curmudgeon,” she said. “I’ll see you at home.”
Feeling as though she had no choice, Sadie got into her own car and followed Caro home. She was starving, but she didn’t have time for a full meal. Maybe she could grab something if Rex wasn’t in the kitchen.
Sadie had bought a pair of black stretchy dress pants during one of her and Caro’s shopping trips a few weeks ago. It had built-in minimizing panels in the front and at the sides, slenderizing Sadie’s figure in a way that was worth the $85 she paid. She paired the slacks with a black three-quarter sleeve, scoop-neck top. She really, really wanted to wear the turquoise necklace she’d worn the other night, but none of the other workers at the gallery had worn jewelry, and so she erred on the side of conformity.
Luckily, Sadie didn’t see Rex during the quick stop, and within ten minutes, she and Caro were back in Caro’s car and headed for the gallery. Sadie ate a handful of crackers and a string cheese during the drive, feeling sufficiently held over, though far from satisfied. Snack food wasn’t a real meal, but it turned off the hungries, and for that she was grateful.
At least she had another cupcake to look forward to. It wasn’t a meal either, but the satisfaction level would be much higher.
Chapter 20
They arrived with only minutes to spare before the front doors opened. A dozen people were already visiting with one another on the sidewalk out front. The champagne boys were very happy to see Sadie and Caro, and the shorter of the two, Darron, stayed at the table while Thomas headed downstairs with a tray full of glasses in anticipation of serving the first visitors.
Caro and Sadie set out three dozen cupcakes and then familiarized themselves with more of the loft area—three separate visiting rooms opened into a common area where the serving would take place. They decided to take turns going through those rooms every fifteen minutes or so and picking up stray glasses, napkins, or liners even though each room had its own garbage can.
Sadie wasn’t sure what she expected when the doors opened, but there was an almost anticlimactic hush to the conversations that whispered up to the loft area, and it was almost ten full minutes before the first of the guests made their way upstairs. Within half an hour, however, she and Caro were staying busy keeping the table stocked and the visiting rooms clean, while Darron poured champagne and retrieved empty glasses from pretty much every horizontal surface. They developed a good rhythm, Sadie staying mostly in the kitchen area while Caro stayed out front where she knew a surprising number of people.
Before they knew it, it was nearly eight o’clock. Caro had finished her first glass of champagne and started on a second, and they were running low on cupcakes. By 8:30, they’d put out the last of the cupcakes—people must have taken seconds. It seemed impossible that four hundred people had come through the gallery in two and a half hours.
Sadie broke down the empty bakery boxes and washed down the counters, leaving the serving area as clean as it had been before they arrived. Darron had joined Thomas on the main floor, so Sadie took a few minutes to place their dirty glasses into the plastic dishwasher trays. She suspected the glasses were on loan from La Fonda, and later tonight, they would be run through the commercial dishwashers and returned to their usual residence on a shelf somewhere in the historic hotel.
By the time she joined Caro, who was talking to yet another friend, in Spanish, there were only two dozen cupcakes left. Sadie felt guilty eating one of the last cakes, and wished she’d eaten one in the beginning when she wouldn’t feel so bad.
When Caro finished her conversation, she suggested they leave the dessert table to its own devices and go look at the prints on display.
“That’s a great idea,” Sadie said. She’d no sooner said those words when several people on the main floor turned toward the back of the gallery. Moments later, champagne glasses were put down and applause broke out. Sadie leaned over the half wall as far as she could to see what had caused such excitement, but she couldn’t see far enough.
“Ethan must be here,” Caro said, pointing at the large wrought-iron clock on the front wall of the gallery. “I heard someone say he was coming around nine. He’s going to give a little speech, I think.” It was 8:40.
Sadie was curious to see the man of the hour, the man whose family ranch seemed to have swallowed Margo whole, but reminded herself to be patient. It had never been her intent to introduce herself to him. She just wanted to be in his space and see him up close.
They made their way downstairs, and Sadie picked up a brochure from the small table set by the front door. Caro was stopped by yet another acquaintance, giving Sadie time to browse the beautifully designed brochure, complete with thumbnail-sized copies of some of Ethan’s prints. On the back was a message from Ethan:
The sense of immortality one can take from history is priceless, and I consider it a privilege to do my part in preserving those things that have survived generations, bringing a piece of that immortality with them. With Light and Lens it is my goal to keep the cherishing of these sacred items alive while allowing those same articles to complete their own existence; everything has a right to die, but that does not mean that its life cannot be treasured by those who have followed in the footsteps of the Ancients.
Sadie thought it sounded a little pedantic. The tone was all about reverence and respect, and yet wasn’t he exploiting those very items as well? She read the rest of the brochure while Caro finished her conversation. Learning that Ethan had graduated with his master’s degree in anthropology from the University of New Mexico a few years ago diffused some of her cynicism. Currently, he taught one class each seme
ster at his alma mater. Was he going to give up his career in order to take over the ranch? It seemed that his passions went wide of his family’s industry, yet his mother was in poor health and his father was traveling extensively in order to be both a husband and ranch owner. At the bar, Mike had said several ranches had downsized lately. How had Cold River Ranch been affected by the economic conditions that had seemed to impact other people in the cattle industry?
The brochure explained that each of Ethan’s prints was a one-of-a-kind original and that following the production of each piece, Ethan destroyed all electronic copies. Sadie didn’t know a lot about the photography art market, but she supposed that destroying digital negatives, which were eternal in theory, was a pretty unique thing to do.
Sadie easily picked out Ethan Standage from the crowd, though she could only see him when people moved out of the way. She guessed he was in his early thirties, but he had the young Bohemian look: overgrown hair, a casual “I’m too busy to shave” growth of beard, and silver-rimmed glasses. He wore a charcoal dress shirt with no tie and a black corduroy jacket. He also wore jeans and designer cowboy boots—the perfect blend of cowboy, artist, and yuppie all rolled together. His teeth were perfectly straight and blindingly white when he smiled, making him look more Hollywood than tree-hugger. He didn’t seem particularly comfortable in the crowd, which Sadie found interesting.
Half a dozen people surrounded Ethan near the table where he was selling his books at the front of the gallery. The serpentine flow of the crowd would take Caro and Sadie to him eventually, so Sadie turned her attention to the pictures, just as Caro said adiós to her friend.
“So, he really photographs these pieces but leaves them there?” Sadie asked Caro. It seemed suspect to her. She thought about the discovery of the cave Margo had told her about in the desert, and how careful she’d been to not touch anything for risk of destroying it. Ethan claimed to believe the same thing, but he had to pose the pieces for the photos, taking them out of situ in the process. There was hypocrisy there.
“Yep,” Caro said, accepting another glass of champagne from Darron’s tray when he passed by. Her third, Sadie noted, while deciding she’d be sure to drive home. She shook her head when Darron offered her a glass of her own.
“I wonder how much they cost?” Sadie looked at the picture of the basket she’d glanced at earlier that evening. The black-and-white photograph was so well contrasted that she could see the intricate design details within the weaving. The basket had been propped against a rock, putting it at an angle, and it showed fraying along the side, either from use or erosion. It was a beautiful picture.
“Oh, gosh,” Caro said, laughing uncomfortably as she waved her champagne glass through the air. “Tens of thousands of dollars, hundreds maybe.”
“That much?” Sadie asked, turning toward her friend in surprise. People talking near them looked over, and she lowered her voice. “That’s unreal.”
“These are the only prints,” Caro said, gesturing toward the gallery wall in front of them. “He destroys even his digital copies so that these are one-of-a-kinds.”
The brochure had said as much. “But a hundred thousand dollars?” Sadie repeated. “For a photograph?”
“This is all there is,” Caro said, giving Sadie her full attention. “These items are hidden; not available. Ethan spends months out of the year on his expeditions. No one else will be finding these items, which makes the photographs equally valuable. It’s the chance to own something without destroying it. Some would say the photos are priceless.”
“Okay,” Sadie said, understanding what Caro was saying, but still finding the logic flawed. “Why not make five hundred prints and sell them for forty bucks each?”
“Don’t you see?” Caro said, her eyebrows raised. “This is history.” She pointed at another photograph. It was of a double neck jar with one handle intact, and the other one broken. Black lines were painted across it, so meticulous that it seemed impossible that the design was done by hand. The jar sat on top of a flat stone, a prickly pear cactus in the left side of the frame. Another striking piece. “This is the only pot like this out there, but it’s not available. The photo, however, is. He only makes one print in order to maintain the excitement of ownership for people who understand the mentality of what he does. One pot, one photo. He’s not interested in gracing the walls of tourists’ homes; he’s appealing to collectors and people joined to the heritage he captures.”
“How do people know this is the only print?” Sadie asked, wondering if everyone just blindly believed like Caro did. Did no one question Ethan Standage and his conflicting motivations? “What if he doesn’t really destroy the print and makes and sells other copies too?”
“He’d be caught,” Caro said, shaking her head. Sadie noticed that she was talking louder than usual, likely from the champagne. “He publishes an anthology of the pieces each year. It’s the only other format through which he displays his photos. In the books, he talks about the item and its history and region. Not enough info for anyone to find the items’ locations, but enough to give credibility to his work. Then he sells the original picture in a sealed and signed frame, as well as a few other shots of the piece from every angle—not posed, just for reference and insurance reasons. Anyway, if he sold duplicates, someone would find out. No one wants a numbered print of these pieces, they want the only print. It’s Ethan’s hook, so to speak.”
Sadie looked at another print on the wall. “How long has he been doing this?”
“This is the exhibit’s tenth anniversary. The pieces will be on display for a couple of months, then whatever isn’t sold will go into catalogue sales.”
Sadie did quick math in her head. If Ethan took just fifteen photos a year—he’d done twenty-three this year—and sold them for an average of fifty thousand dollars, he’d have brought in three quarters of a million dollars every year for ten years—or seven and a half million dollars over the last decade. Holy cow!
One photograph was of a wolf effigy. Another featured a carved antler showing incredible detail, though part of the carving was worn smooth—perhaps from water dripping into its hiding place? In other frames, there were baskets and pots, and one was of a partially uncovered skull, only the eye sockets above the ground, as though the skeleton were watching the crowds as they looked upon it.
“They are amazing,” Sadie said as the spirit of the pieces settled upon her despite her determination not to fall under the spell. She tried not to visualize having one of these prints in her own home, but the temptation of ownership got stronger by the minute . . . until she reminded herself of the price tag, then the feeling quickly dissipated. Between Sadie’s husband’s life insurance, her brother’s careful investing, and her own self-discipline, Sadie was well cared for financially, but something like this was galaxies away from her reality. It was hard to imagine anyone could afford to hang fifty thousand dollars on a wall.
Caro nodded while admiring a print of a partially broken pot. The broken shards were laid out on the ground, but if you looked closely, you could see the hairline cracks running through the intact portion of the pot. The background was dark, and Sadie wondered if Standage had photographed the pot just as he found it, hidden somewhere, not daring to move it for fear of it crumbling further. Sadie had encountered many pots like this on the dig, and she thought about the one intact pot she’d brought up; only for it to lay in pieces at her feet. It was painful to think about.
She stopped to look at a photograph of an intricately carved pipe, the remnants of feathers still tied to the end, grains of sand trailing from the bowl.
Caro raised her hand to touch it, it looked that real. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered reverently. “I’ve never seen his prints, just the anthologies.”
“Do you own any of his anthologies?”
Caro shook her head. “Maybe I’ll buy one tonight. They’re lovely books.”
They were nearly to the end of the display, within a do
zen feet of Ethan Standage, when a sudden hush fell over the crowd, and everyone turned toward the front of the gallery. A large man with a cowboy hat stood in front of Sadie, causing her to go up on her tiptoes and step from one side to the other until she found a gap between other people’s heads that she could look through. Ethan stepped up onto some kind of platform; Sadie couldn’t see it, she only saw him rise a few feet.
“Welcome, welcome, bienvenidos,” he said as a final ripple of whispered conversation faded from the room. “I thank each one of you for coming to the exhibit tonight. I returned to Santa Fe just this morning and, as always, was overwhelmed with feelings of being home again.” The room applauded, and he gave the crowd a nervous smile before clearing his throat and speaking again. “It is always such a humbling experience to put my year’s work on display and to see so many people coming to join me in celebrating it. Today marks ten years of artifacts captured for the sake of timeless reverence.” A smattering of applause broke out, and he hushed it by pressing his palm down in the air, an odd tension to his face.
Again, Sadie had the impression that he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to make a speech at all. She wondered if anyone else noticed.
He cleared his throat and continued, “When I was a boy, my abuelita would make the most delicious tres leches cake, and I chose that as the theme of this year’s exhibit.”
Caro elbowed Sadie softly, and they shared a smile at the connection he’d just given to the desserts Lois had provided. That’s why he was willing to suffer all those sticky fingers. Sadie looked around the gallery, noticing for the first time all the different white flowers and white swaths of fabric draped over the windows and tables. Did all his showings have a theme?
“For Abuelita,” Ethan continued, “tres leches cake was a connection to her Mexican heritage, but she once told me that it also represented three elements of her life—religion, nourishment, and the need for something sweet now and again.” A polite chuckle rippled through the crowd. Ethan smiled and spoke as though every word he said was memorized. “Over the years, I have found my own three milks—tres leches—that have nourished me and given me purpose in my life. My personal representations of the three milks—the three essential elements of balance—are temporal reverence, spiritual acuity, and creative expression. Temporal reverence is about the care with which we reverence the earth and its resources, understanding that without its succor, all else is lost. Spiritual acuity is about remembering from whence we came and the purpose of existing as we do.” He paused and stared at the floor, seemingly out of place for a moment. Someone started to applaud and that snapped him out of his wandering thoughts. Was he drunk? He hurried to speak louder, before the clapping caught on. “The, uh, creative expression is all about how we give a piece of ourselves”—he put a hand on his chest—“to the world around us. That is the nourishment and sweetness I hope to share with the world. My own tres leches.”
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