“No?”

“No,” she said with a knowing smile, “I’m pretty sure you were thinking about me.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be able to read minds.”

“It is,” she said. “And for my next trick, watch this: I’m going to enter the gallery without even touching the door.”

“How are you going to do that?”

She feigned disappointment. “You’re not even going to open the door for me? I thought you were a gentleman.”

I laughed and pulled open the door for her. The interior of the building was brightly lit, with the look of an industrial loft; a large open space, with several groups of wall partitions that rose partway to the ceiling. Paintings were mounted on the partitions, and I could see about twenty people clustered among the artwork, most holding glasses of wine or champagne flutes. Waiters and waitresses circulated, bearing silver trays of appetizers.

“Lead the way,” I said. “You’re the star tonight.”

Emily scanned the room and we started toward a patrician-looking, gray-haired gentleman. This turned out to be Claude Barnes, the owner of the gallery. With him were two couples, both of whom had driven in from other cities to attend the show.

I snagged a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed one to Emily while we engaged in small talk. I saw Emily point toward a set of partitions in the rear of the gallery and after the conversation came to an end, we ambled over.

I took a few minutes to examine her paintings, thinking to myself that they were not only arrestingly beautiful, but mysterious. While the paintings I’d seen in her home had been abstract, in these, I saw more realistic elements. The colors practically exploded off the canvas, and were coupled with stark brushwork. One painting in particular continued to draw my eye.

“These are spectacular,” I said, meaning it. “I can’t imagine how much work they required. Which is the one that was giving you fits?”

“This one,” she said, pointing to the one that had caught my eye.

I studied it up close, then took a few steps back, examining it from various angles. “It’s perfect,” I said.

“I still don’t think it’s done,” she said, shaking her head, “but thank you.”

“I mean it,” I said. “I want to buy it.”

“Okaay…” she said, at once doubtful and flattered. “Are you sure? You don’t even know how much it costs.”

“I want to buy it,” I repeated. “Really.” When she saw I was sincere, she actually blushed.

“Wow. I’m honored, Russ. I’ll see if I can get Claude to give you the ‘friends and family’ discount.”

I took a sip of my wine. “Now what?”

“We wait and see if anyone comes by.” She winked. “And if they do, let me do the talking, okay? I don’t want be a modern-day Margaret Keane.”

“Who?”

“Margaret Keane was an artist whose husband took credit for her work for years. They made her life story into a movie called Big Eyes. You should see it.”

“Why don’t we watch it together one evening?”

“Deal.”

As the gallery continued to fill, I listened to Emily explain her work to interested patrons. My role, if I had one, was to take photographs using people’s phones. It seemed like practically everyone who came by wanted a picture with Emily, presumably because she was the artist, but after a while I noticed that none of the other artists seemed nearly as popular.

While Emily was chatting with various guests, I wandered among the exhibits of the other artists. A few of the sculptures caught my attention, but they were so large and abstract, I couldn’t imagine how they could possibly look good in someone’s home. I also liked the work of some of the other painters, though in my opinion Emily’s work was better.

Emily and I nibbled steadily on appetizers as the crowds ebbed and flowed. The flow of visitors reached its peak around 8:00 p.m., and then began to dwindle. While the show was supposed to be over at 9:00 p.m., Claude didn’t lock the doors until the last guest left at 9:45 p.m. “I think that went well,” he said, as he approached. “A number of the guests expressed interest in your work. It wouldn’t surprise me if you sold out in the next few days.”

Emily turned to me. “Are you sure you still want to buy that painting?”

“I do,” I said, conscious that it was a luxury I could ill afford right now. But somehow, I didn’t care. Claude frowned slightly, aware, no doubt, that a steep discount request would be coming. The frown vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Are there any other pieces you’re interested in? From the other artists?”

“No,” I said. “Just the one.”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow, Claude?” Emily asked. “It’s getting a little late, and I’m too tired to talk business.”

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for everything you did tonight, Emily,” he said. “You’re always so good at these things. Your personality endears you to others.”

Standing close to Emily, I knew that Claude was right.

“What would you like to do now?” I asked on the way to the car. “If you’re tired, I can bring you home.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I’ve got a babysitter, and I said I wouldn’t be home until midnight. I only told Claude that I was tired so we could get out of there. Once Claude starts talking, it’s sometimes hard to get him to stop. I love the guy, but I only have a babysitter once in a blue moon and I’m going to take advantage of it.”