Chapter 7

Lorali

The art opening is the first event I’m working tonight. I leave the apartment early so I can make it through traffic and across town. Saturday traffic in Denver is temperamental at best. I’ll not have much time to spend at this event as the gala is considered more prestigious, therefore garnering more attention for Sunday’s edition.

My older model Toyota Corolla takes a bit longer to warm up. It’s been a super cold week. With the exception of last week, we haven’t had much snow, but what was left hasn’t had the opportunity to melt yet. Having lived in Colorado all my life, this type of weather has never really bothered me, but I’m looking forward to spring.

At the art gallery Adama D’Amore’s artistic ability focuses on the photography of different scenic landscapes, brought to life by his lens and perception of importance. I walk quickly through the exhibit noting who’s in attendance and jotting down quick notes about the pieces that seem to be getting the most attention. There are more events around town this evening, and although there are quite a number of people here, this event didn’t pull the bigger names it could’ve if tonight had been less busy around town.

Man, I think to myself, I sure would love to be able to spend a few hours looking at his work in earnest. I don’t really know much about art. I’ve no idea who paints what or which sculptor sculpts what statue, but I can appreciate beauty, and boy does D’Amore know what he’s doing. By the buzz in the room I can tell that not only will he have a great night in sales, but it looks as though his success will extend beyond this one show.

After roaming around and grabbing a few snapshots of the crowds and venue, I head out to my car. The masquerade ball began an hour ago, so it should be in full swing by the time I make it across town.

Pulling up to the Trade Street Convention Center I avoid the valet line and drive into the parking garage. Apparently everyone has intentions of being fashionably late tonight. I self-park and walk for what seems like forever to get inside. My feet are already beginning to hurt from having to take extra care avoiding patches of ice. After showing my press pass and being checked off of the guest list, I’m allowed to enter the facility.

I make my way to the Versailles Ballroom and gasp. This place is magnificent! The lights have been turned down low, and there are hurricane lanterns all over the place, providing most of the light in the room. The purple, green, and gold mardi gras theme connects all the decorations. The white cloth-covered tables are each decorated with smaller accent cloths in coordinating colors and have flat, wide vases with floating votive candles in them. It’s absolutely stunning!

I’m actually appalled by the number of people who just shove past me into the ballroom, not even stopping to take in the beauty and obvious hard work put into the event. Ugh, rich people. Taking everything for granted. Whoever threw this event together shouldn’t have even bothered to make it so appealing because apparently no one even notices it. I bet they’d sure as hell notice it if it was just an empty room with some blank tables thrown in the mix. The tables surround the dance floor on three sides and at the front of the dance floor is the stage where the band is playing right now.

The floor to ceiling walls is actually LCD screens. They’re showcasing scenes of peaceful, serene landscapes. It’s very tranquil and calming. I look down to the rectangle piece of cardstock I was handed at the door, which happens to be a donation form for Safe House. I know the place. It’s a refuge for battered women looking to escape the abusive situations they’re currently in. Nothing peaceful and tranquil about abused women. Surely flashing pictures of injured women wouldn’t go over well with this crowd, I think as I continue to take in my environment.

“What a waste of money,” I say under my breath. All of the money used to glitz this place up could’ve gone directly to Safe House. Sure the five thousand dollars per plate price tag will help pay for the event, but then what goes towards Safe House? What happens if they only break even? It just seems like a waste to me.

***

I do my best to stay on the periphery. I thought it’d look unprofessional to bring in a pen and notepad, so I’m doing my best to commit everything to memory, and I’ll jot down notes as soon as I’m back in my car.

Not wanting to look even more out of place I take a flute of champagne which is offered by an exquisitely dressed waiter in a tuxedo. I’ve no intention of drinking it, since drinking hasn’t been cleared by Tom, but having it in my hands calms my nerves slightly.

I feel underdressed even though Alexa assured me my attire would be appropriate for tonight’s event. Even though this is technically a masquerade ball, I didn’t have a mask to wear. I’m glad I didn’t because apparently the ‘in’ thing to do is not to wear a physical mask but to have your face painted, and I’m not talking about a six-year-olds birthday party paint either. These women have some of the most beautiful, exquisite masks painted on their faces, each one matching their expensive dresses perfectly. If I’d I worn a mask I would’ve stood out more than I do now with nothing on my face. I make a mental note to go back through the photo archives to find out if this is a new trend or if there have been other events where this was done. I can’t remember seeing it yesterday while skimming through the photos. If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t see much past the picture of Ian ‘do- you-wanna-be-my-friend-with-benefits’ Hale.

I absently wonder if he’d be here tonight, knowing full well I’ve been looking for his magnificent hazel eyes in every black painted mask I’ve passed by since arriving.

Settling in close to the wall near the entrance, I continue to watch the crowd intently. I’m grateful that it seems no one even notices me. They’re not rude, more indifferent to my being here. Most of the women are wearing floor length gowns with simple but elegant trains. There are quite a few black dresses which I’m sure is popular so they won’t clash with the decorations. I’m glad I wore black as well even though my dress is substantially shorter than most at this party.

The average age of the attendees at the event seems to be fifties and sixties for the men and quite a bit younger for the women. It could be more that these women are so well preserved and possibly have surgical enhancements to look younger rather than being of the gold-digging variety. I did, however, see one woman who couldn’t have been older than I am hanging on the arm of a rather geriatric man. I was determined to think she was his granddaughter, but then realized you don’t kiss a grandfather the way she laid one on him. I had to clear my throat to keep from gagging. To each their own I guess.

Sweeping the room, my eyes land on the tuxedoed body of a statuesque man. My gaze only briefly pauses on him. He seems to be looking my way; I discard that thought and continue looking around. Once I take in the whole room, my line of sight goes right back to that man across the room. He holds a tumbler, half full of golden liquid, close to his body. He’s surrounded on both sides by other men who are clearly vying for his attention, yet he continues to glare at me.

Surely not, I think as I break eye contact to look around me, knowing there has to be something close to me that I’m just not aware of to garner such a look. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Small groups of people are all around chatting, but nothing peculiar. I look down and make sure I haven’t fallen out of my dress or that there’s something stuck to me.

I shift my eyes back in his direction, feigning nonchalance as I do. He’s gone. His little group of party goers has broken up. Somewhat distraught I glance around quickly, trying to find him. Hell, what am I thinking every man here looks the same, black designer tuxedos-black painted masks.

I absently bring the champagne flute to my mouth and stop. It’s only for show; I chastise myself. “Spill any more fabric softener on innocent bystanders this week?” someone purrs in my ear.