by Jenna Gunn
“Yes, but is it nice?”
She nods, “Quite. The artist has skill with organic shapes and her color selections are exquisite. She is a diamond in the rough, likely to become someone well known, in my estimation.”
“I trust your opinion, Ray. But is it pleasing to the eye?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I change tactics, “Is it something guests will be happy to see, or is it something strictly to impress them?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“I’m not sure how to explain what I mean. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take a look for myself.”
“If you would have looked at the website, then we could have avoided all this travel in the first place,” she gently reminds me.
“Casa Azul will be my first resort, under the Rhodes Resort brand, Ray,” I remind her. “The art will be hand-picked by me. The menus are designed by me. The esthetic of each room is my creation. And everything will be perfect, or my parents will never retire, and I will never have the run of the business. So, looking at the paintings online is not enough. Paintings have textures and lighting issues and I need to seem them firsthand.”
She lets out a small sigh and says, “I know, Sir, but the Grand Opening is in less than a month, and we have yet to purchase the art for the lobby, several of the rooms, the-
“Which is why we are here,” I stop at the valet and we get out. This gallery looks like the other five we’ve seen in the last two weeks. People mulling about, champagne in hand, as they chatter politely about the creations all around. Another gallery, another night.
Bid sheets are kept separate from the art on a table near the tapas. A stodgy brunette is watching over the bid sheets like a hawk, to guarantee their security. Makes sense, I suppose. It’s the gallery’s money and reputation sitting before her.
I hope we have enough to choose from that our art search is over, but my prospects are dashed as I look the exhibits over. Most are folk art pieces and the odd sculpture. I sigh audibly, and Ray says, “I’ll find the Culpepper.” She jets off and I’m alone.
Solitude is a one of my favorite commodities and as I climbed my parents’ corporate ladder, it’s become scarce. I tool around the gallery, snatch a flute of champagne from a strolling server, and find myself face-to-face with a lovely piece.
Vines, in emerald and sapphire, wrapping around branches. They are painted in such a way that the light reflects their inner labyrinthine sinews. I want to touch them, to feel if they’re real. But I know they’re not. Still, as I walk side to side, the vines appear to shine, like they’re covered in morning dew.
A smile creeps across my face without my consent. Then, I realize there are eyes shining back at me from between the vines. Small green eyes, like wild animals are hiding in the safety of the vines. They aren’t threatening. They are lively.
“What do you think of the piece?”
I blink and pull myself out of the painting. When I look to the source of the voice, I see vibrant green eyes in a sunny, sweet face. She’s a lanky blonde, with a crooked smile. Her rosy lips are succulent things, and a sense of shame taints my second thoughts about them, since my first thoughts were so dirty. I clear my throat. “It’s a brilliant painting. Almost too real. The way the light cascades between the vines is mesmerizing. The artist is a real…well, artist.” I laugh at myself, then add, “My vocabulary seems to be lacking for superlatives.”
“So, you like it?” her crooked smile locks into a smirk.
I nod, “Very much. I wonder if the artist has ever been to a jungle, or if it’s just his imagination that lets him paint so wondrously.”
“Curious.”
“I am. I’d love the chance to chat with him.”
She shakes her head and says, “That wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I’m curious as to why men always assume a good artist must be a man.”
I shrug, “Hadn’t given it much thought either way, truthfully.”
“I don’t imagine you would. Being a man.”
Is she offended? I wonder. Then I catch the glint in her eye. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
She giggles and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve heard in years. “I might be. Though, the point remains. Men usually assume other men are the talented ones, don’t they?”
“Fair point.”
Then, she peers into the painting, “I think the artist’s use of pastel with the jewel tones speaks to an understanding of how light falls between a thick tree canopy. You see here,” she points to a fleck of a pastel mint with a note of yellow amidst the darker colors, and when she does, I can smell her perfume over the champagne. It’s vanilla. Real vanilla. Not the simulated bitter chemistry sold in spray bottles. This woman smells like she just baked cookies. “If you look at light at the bottom of a forest floor, it has that sunshiney glow, even after being filtered through leaves. What?”
She caught me smiling at her, not the painting. I look away and pretend to see what she’s pointing at. “Yes, indeed. Do you like it?”
Her arm drops and she digs around in her purse. “The painting is one of my favorites.” Something furry races up her arm and I fight the urge to jump. “This little man is also one of my favorites.”
I force a smile at the thing. “Good evening, sir. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Everett was the inspiration for this painting.”
My face flushes hot as I realize I’ve been chatting up the artist. Before I can speak, Ray joins us and says, “I see you’ve already found the Culpepper.”
“I believe I have.”
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