Chapter TWENTY THREE
Elizabeth
I was starting to second guess myself about having the Art Show on New Year’s Day weekend. I’d never really been a fan of New Years, per say. All that fuss over what? Just another day to get drunk? Another day to feel sorry that I was still stuck in the same ole same ole? A reminder I was single? Again! Nope, not going there this year. This year was going to be different, and the Art Show proved that. This coming year was going to be all about me.
Ironically, even though New Years Eve was technically six months and two days, but who was counting—since Delilah’s death—and the last time I saw Damon—I was determined to not let the holiday get to me. To hell with kissing your one true love at midnight. To hell with looking back. I was living my life now and the future looked rosy. It was just a day, right? Besides, I was through letting men call the shots on how I felt about myself, and that included Damon break-my-heart-into-a-million-pieces Donovan. I sighed, willing away the tears that still threatened the edge of my heart.
I ran a hand over the large white billboard with Sultry Daydreams written on it along with the pertinent information indicating time, date, and who the artists we were featuring. I’d read that having a theme was an asset, so in honor of Delilah, I went with sex appeal of some sort, aka Sultry. No nudes but everything close to that. If it didn’t make a person stop and stare—or shock them a little, it didn’t belong in the show. Scandalous, I knew, but I was thinking outside the box these days. Thinking, and holding my breath, as I scanned the list of my most eccentric artists.
There were so many. It had actually been a no-brainer coming up with the theme, since most of the artists I’d contacted seemed to be into my topic in one way or another.
I scanned the bright portraits, the recessed lighting, the hard wood floors where one artist actually painted a full-length portrait of his wife, semi-nude. Delilah would have loved it. I couldn’t look at any one painting, sculpture, or creation without thinking of her, and her story of the five muses. I missed her terribly. I dragged out everything in my collection, but only a limited amount of my own work fit into the right category. I wished I’d had my portrait of Delilah, but I’d left it in the Delaney Club. It belonged there. Still, I missed it. I missed her.
Walking around the brightly lit gallery, I was glad I’d gone with a professional for the entertainment. While everyone and their uncle was busy setting up big bands, dramatic light displays, and overall extravagance all over the city of New York, I’d opted for soft classical music. A little Mozart, Bock, and some Beethoven seemed just the ticket. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy. With my past being anything but serene, the first half of my life filled with wild parties and people coming in and out at all hours of the night, I really wanted this to be tasteful and quiet. The last thing I wanted was loud music distracting the clients from my artists.
As I scanned the shining tiled floors, the damask velvet shades, the color all around me, I couldn’t help but feel grateful and blessed with all the support.
Several of the artists with supportive families were absolutely thrilled to volunteer. They distributed flyers, set up tables and chairs, printed tickets, and any other little task I’d not had the foresight to think of.
Luckily, someone in my own family had heard about the showing, volunteering to help on my behalf, which really surprised me. Especially with my name all over the media. I’d have thought anyone related to me would be hiding his head in the sand. But Maura, a cousin on my mother’s side, was on the next plane out after I told her about the Art Show. She lived in Florida and was some sort of hot-shot attorney with lots of connections. I was touched that she thought my little venture was something worthy of her attention.
As a kid, I had the time of my life in Florida. I learned to rollerblade on the boardwalk. It was the one time Jason and I got to act like normal crazy kids. I’d grown fond of all five of my cousins, but it was Maura that I connected with most. We’d always kept in touch.
“Where should we put ole Adonis here?” asked Maura, cupping the scrotum of a very large alabaster statue. “I would put him by the door, but he may scare the kiddies.” Her smile was infectious and I giggled when she licked the earlobe of the sculpture. “Who’s the artist of this one anyway?”
“No one you’d know.”
“Oh really?” She appeared skeptical. “I’ll have you know I’m up to date on nearly every well-known artist in New York. Even the struggling ones.”
“Vincent Marrow.”
“I knew it! Give me a hand. He’s quite endowed, don’t you think?” I took the bottom half of the statue and Maura grabbed the top, but we didn’t have far to go. We set it on a pedestal by a similar work, careful that it was completely centered on the square tiled floor.
“There,” Maura said, taking out her tape measure. She insisted every piece be exactly four point two inches apart. She said if it was an inch this way or that, it was bad luck. She was a little strange that way, but who was I to argue?
I love my cousin. She had one of those brains that remembered everything. When she learned about the Art show, she did a little reading, which was something she always did when she was about to learn something new. Once, I asked her about the types of fish we’d find in Miami. She rattled off over one hundred different species! She’d read their names in an encyclopedia. But only once.
“So who is your mystery artist?” Maura asked, fiddling in her briefcase for God knows what.
“He’s kind of new. And he’s not technically a New Yorker. The only one I allowed outside of the country actually.”
“A little eccentric?”
“Aren’t they all?”
“You should know.”
“I’m not eccentric.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Anyway, you’ll love his work. He’s fresh and innovative. God, there’s no one like him. No one.”
“Hmm. Give me a hint.”
“Combines poetry with his paintings and his works are kind of whimsical, but not too much.”
Maura looked up at the ceiling tapping her chin simultaneously, as if searching for the answer. “Depicts heaven and hell? Bold colors. Rich eye popping vivacity?”
“You know him? But he’s barely done anything in public. How did you…?”
She shrugged a shoulder as if she guessed these kind of things every day. “I just do.”
“His works are astonishing! Look at that one over there.” I pointed to a three-dimensional painting over her shoulder of a dragon eating a couple of fairies.
Maura followed my gaze. “Yup, that’s Dabble.”
We both stared at the painting. “Eye catching, isn’t it?
“You can say that again.”
Vibrant colors of half- naked fairies and strange goblin-like creatures prancing through a forest with blossoms and mushrooms screamed out at them. But these were not your ordinary fairies. The fairies were topless, the goblins with big dicks shaped like serpents. Beneath the picture were the words, Snow White’s Dance to Hell. “Very enlightened view of the fairy tale,” said Maura.
“So you know its Richard Dabble”
“Who else could it be? He’s not here, is he?” She glanced around the room as if expecting the artist would jump out and introduce himself.
“Nope, Still in the asylum, but I contacted him and he said we could use his painting for the show. I got it from his…friend.” I made quotation marks in the air.
“Didn’t he kill his father because he thought he was the devil?”
“Which is why he’s not here. I’m not that brave.”
“Still, it should draw a crowd just having his work in the show.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“I’m impressed, Liz. You’ve really made a great go of this. I knew you would. My camera crew will ….”
“About that,” I began. I patted the air for emphasis. “Can we keep it short and with not too much hub bub? I’d really like this to be a calm relaxing venue. All right?”
“Oh absolutely. Anything you want, Liz.”
“And thank you for helping me today.”
“No problem, Cuz.”
Maura was a little pushy but I could deal with pushy, as long as we got coverage with her contacts in the press. That being said, I knew she would run interference if the wrong kind of reporters tried to wiggle their way inside. Mainly, the kind following my stepfather’s trial. Just having Maura around kept those frazzled butterflies zooming around my stomach safely under control. I hoped.
“Okay, let’s set up for the caterer now,” I said, leading her toward the adjacent room.
“Now, what time did we set the refreshments for? Seven? Eight? Seven twelve?”
“You decide,” I said laughing.
“Got it. Seven after eight it is. My lucky number.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, a look of horror on her perfectly made-up face as we walked around the corner.
“What’s wrong?”
She groaned, and her whole body went stiff. She started ringing her hands. “This is all wrong. All of it. Oh my god, what are we going to do now? I tried to delegate like you said. Not take every little detail on by myself. But that was hard, you know. I’m not built that way. But I did like you suggested. I let Belinda make one of the phone calls. Only one, but an important one. And now…! Well, just look at the place! This is all my fault. I just had do take over. I always do that. My sister’s are always telling me that I do that and now….” Her lips curved down, her eyes close to tears. “I’m so sorry, Maura. I’m so very sorry.”
“Maura, what are you babbling on about?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The chairs are different sizes! How are we to set up tables with chairs all different? The spacing will be all wrong. No, not wrong. A flipping disaster!”
“It’s not a disaster.” I tried not to laugh because she was really and honestly upset, her body coiled like a drum. To me it was such a small detail, but to Maura it was a catastrophe.
“Maura…” I placed a hand on her back. “This is the wrong room, honey.” I pointed. “Our room is that one to the right.”
Maura sagged, the tension releasing from her shoulders. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank god. I thought I ruined your show.”