LimeLight (31 page)

He nods.

“So some of these paintings are yours?”

“Yes.” He seems uncomfortable. “I suppose my gallery is a little self-serving.”

I walk over to one of the abstracts I had already admired—a large piece in blocks of burgundy, orange, and gold. “This is very nice. Those colors would be absolutely perfect in my house.”

He brightens. “Really? I have a policy where I allow clients to take something home and try it for three days. If you don’t like it, bring it back and try something else.”

“Unfortunately I have more than enough art in my house.”

He looks disappointed, and I feel badly for having strung him along. “But if I did have room, I would certainly consider your work.”

“Yes, I get a lot of that. Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake to set up a gallery in this town.”

“What made you choose Silverton?”

He shrugs. “I passed through here one day in the summer a
few years ago. For some reason I thought the town was charming…maybe because it was a sunny day. I had started a gallery in Bodega Bay, but there was a fire… The gallery burned to the ground—including my work.”

“Oh, how heartbreaking.”

“It was even more heartbreaking when my insurance company took more than a year to pay me a settlement. They actually thought I’d burned the place down myself.”

“Why on earth?”

“Well, as you can imagine, there were a few galleries in Bodega Bay… Business had slowed down due to the economy.” He shakes his head. “But anyone who knew me would know I would
never
burn my own paintings. What kind of a moron would do something like that?”

“Ah, so that’s why your gallery is called the Phoenix?”

“Precisely.” He nods. “We rose from the ashes.”

“Well, I can’t speak for Silverton, but I think you have a fine gallery here. And as I mentioned, if I wasn’t so overloaded with art myself, I would consider one of your—” Then I stop myself. “Wait a minute, Garth.”

“What? Are you okay?”

“I’ve just had an idea—perhaps it’s even a good idea.”

“I’m always open to good ideas.”

“I’m sure you know who Sean Scully is…”

“Are you kidding? I’m a huge fan of his work.”

“Well, I just happen to have an original in my home.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I also have some other valuable pieces.”

“Wow, would I like to see those!”

“And I was thinking…” I study this young man for a moment, wondering how honest I can be with him. For some reason I feel I can trust him. “Is there a place we can sit down?”

“Yes, of course.” He points over to a seating area where a couple of attractive chrome and black leather chairs are set up.

“Eames?” I nod to the chairs.

“I wish. But they are a good reproduction, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I sit down. “Comfortable too.”

“So what’s your idea?”

“Well, may I be frank with you?”

“Sure, you know my story.” He grins. “Or some of it.”

So I tell him who my husband was, and I am not surprised that Garth knows of him.

“No kidding? You were married to Gavin Fioré? I would’ve thought his wife would be about a hundred by now.”

I clear my throat. “Well, his first wife would’ve been. As it is, I feel that I’m getting awfully close.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t look like you’re even seventy, Mrs. Fioré.”

“Call me Claudette.” I smile. “All right, here’s my idea. First, I will be honest and tell you, in all confidence, that Gavin’s estate has gone through some hard times, and most of my finances have been seized.”

“Is that why you moved here?”

“Exactly. I do, however, still have a fairly nice collection of
art, including the Scully. However, because I am short of funds, I am thinking of selling a few pieces.”

He frowns. “As much as I would love to have a Scully in here, there is no way I can afford something like that.”

“Oh…”

“However, I might be interested in taking something on consignment.” He looks unsure now. “But you might not care to do that.”

“Can you explain what that would entail?” I ask, hoping not to appear too ignorant.

“We would write up a contract for your art, and it would hang in my gallery. If any sold, I would take a small commission and pay you the remainder.”

“Yes.” I don’t want to seem too eager. “That sounds like a sensible plan, and perhaps if you have some collectible pieces mixed in with your work, you might get some recognition, possibly a write-up in an art magazine.”

His eyes light up. “Definitely. Some well-known names in here could bring me some good attention…maybe some good foot traffic.”

“Perhaps you’d even have a special show. Maybe for the holidays.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fioré! Would you really be interested?”

I nod. “You know, I think I would. It’s not anything I would’ve considered before. But now, well, things are changing. I suppose I am changing too.”

“When can I see your pieces?”

“Whenever you like.”

“How about now?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”

“My sister, also my partner, is in the back room working on a frame. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ask her to watch the shop for me.”

As he goes back, I walk around his gallery. While the art really is nice, it’s very sparse. There is room for more. I pause in front of his abstract, the one I think would go well in my house. Perhaps I wouldn’t miss my Scully quite so much if this one were to hang in its place. I look at the price. In the old days, $3,900 would seem like a trifle. But now…I’m not so sure.

“Okay,” he says as he rejoins me. He has a coat slung over one arm.

“I’m thinking, Garth…my walls could look empty if I get rid of too much. Perhaps we could work a way to make some swaps.”

“I don’t see why we can’t discuss it.” He peers curiously at me. “You really do have an original Scully?”

“Trust me, it’s the real thing. Gavin bought it years ago.”

“What’re we waiting for?”

He follows me to my house, and when we get out of our cars and go up the walk, I feel slightly apologetic for my humble abode. “It’s not much—my house, I mean. It’s been quite a transition for me…moving from Beverly Hills to here.”

“It’s a cute house,” he says as I unlock the door.

“My stepson helped me set it up. Naturally only a small portion of my things could fit in here.”

“Wow.” He stops to admire an Avakyan abstract that’s next to the window.

“Gavin got that for me just a few years before he passed away. It used to hang in our bedroom.”

“It’s beautiful.”

I study it more closely. “It is, isn’t it? And over here”—I point to the large painting above my sofa—“is the Scully.”

Garth turns around and his eyes get so big that I’m worried he is going to faint dead away. He just shakes his head in silence. Finally he mutters, “Awesome…that is just awesome.”

“Would you like some coffee or something?”

“That sounds great.”

“You go ahead and look around,” I say as I go to the kitchen.

Garth slowly works his way around my house making
ooh
and
ahh
sounds at the appropriate times. Finally he steps into the kitchen and lets out a big sigh. “Man, Claudette, your gallery is way hotter than mine.”

I have to laugh as I hand him his coffee cup. “Well, let’s discuss this in the living room.”

Once we are comfortably seated, I tell him that I know I would greatly miss my Scully painting. “It’s so warm and alive. I find it rather comforting in this room. But in some ways, it reminds me of that large piece you painted.”

“Thanks, I take that as high praise.”

“If you knew me, you’d know I don’t hand out praise lightly.”

“I’d gladly swap my painting for this one,” he says quickly. “Not straight across, of course.” He chuckles. “Maybe someday my work will be as valuable as a Scully. But for now, maybe we could work something else out—something that would make us both happy.”

So we sit here, drinking our coffee and discussing what we might do. And while I certainly don’t want to part with
all
of my art, I get a sense of excitement thinking that I might actually be helping this young man with his gallery. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before, but I want to be part of it now.

Finally we settle on several pieces, including the Scully. The agreement is that no money will cross hands yet—my paintings will be on consignment at the Phoenix, and if they should sell for fair market price, I will use some of my profits to purchase his paintings, which will be hanging in my house on loan in the meantime.

“I can get this all written up legally. My sister is the one with the business head. Celia is really good at that sort of thing.”

“If you do get an exhibition scheduled, with some good media coverage and such…well, perhaps I can loan you the rest of my art. You know, to sort of fill up the gallery during that time.”

“You would do that?”

I smile. “Gavin and I always considered ourselves to be patrons of the arts, Garth. But in all honesty, it was Gavin who
walked the walk. I mostly just went along for the ride. Perhaps it’s my turn to get involved.”

“You won’t hear me complaining.”

We shake hands and exchange phone numbers, and I send Garth happily on his way. He plans to get back to me as soon as his sister puts something together. A part of me is rather stunned to think of what I’m doing. I’m sure some would question my sanity to trade my valuable art to a man I only met today. But somehow I think it’s the right thing to do. And somehow I feel that Gavin would approve.

And I cannot deny that it feels slightly amazing to be helping someone else for a change.

O
n Saturday I get up earlier than usual. Garth called last night, telling me his sister has written out a contract that he wanted to bring by in the morning. So I invited them both to join me for coffee at ten.

It’s times like this when I really miss Sylvia’s cooking abilities. How nice it would be to have her whip up some fresh scones and muffins for my guests. As it is, I make do with a package of shortcake and some chocolate mint wafers. But I do arrange these carefully on a china plate. Before Garth and his sister arrive, I have everything nicely set on a sterling Chippendale tray, which I plan to serve in the living room. My only regret is that I have no fresh flowers. Oh, the pity of being poor.

My guests are prompt, and I welcome them into my humble abode. “It’s not much,” I tell them as I take their coats. “But I’m getting used to it.”

“This is my sister Celia,” Garth tells me. “Celia, this is Mrs. Fioré.”

I shake Celia’s hand, noting that she seems quite a bit older than her brother. And she’s not as colorful as he. Her brown wool
sweater is somewhat worn at the elbows, and her no-nonsense loafers suggest she is more practical than fashionable.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say. “But, please, call me Claudette.”

“Your home is charming,” she says. “I adore Craftsman style.”

“And her art,” says Garth, “is even more charming.”

Celia laughs. “Yes, Garth has been going on and on about your collection.”

“Please, sit down. I’ll get our coffee.”

“Let me help,” offers Garth, right on my heels. The next thing I know, he is carrying the tray, which is actually rather cumbersome and heavy. He sets it on the oversized ottoman, and soon we are all comfortably settled. I wish I’d thought to make a fire in the fireplace. Still, it’s nice and warm in here since the heating oil was delivered yesterday and the furnace has been running ever since.

“Here are the papers I’ve written up,” Celia says after a bit. “I did some research as to current market values for the pieces Garth told me about. But you may want to consult with someone yourself on the prices; perhaps you have insurance estimates.” She hands me a folder. “I have a copy of our gallery’s insurance policy in there, as well as a brochure about Garth’s work and some background about the gallery and our history. I expect you’ll need some time to go through these things before you get back to us. As you’ll see, our consignment rate is usually twenty percent, but you are doing us such a favor with these valuable pieces that we’re willing to reduce it to fifteen.”

I open the folder and skim over the pages. I am mostly interested in the values she’s attached to my paintings. But I’m also considering her mention of insurance. I have absolutely no idea as to whether my belongings in this house are actually insured. That was one of the items on Michael’s list—something I haven’t gotten around to yet. It’s unsettling to think that if something catastrophic happened, I might be left with nothing. Perhaps I should consign all my art to the Phoenix.

“Goodness,” I say when I get to the values. “I didn’t realize the paintings were worth that much. Are you sure?”

“According to my research, that’s in the ballpark,” says Celia. “Your husband had a good eye for art, especially investment art. These painters have all appreciated a great deal in the past two decades.”

“I see that.” I continue to skim the paperwork, and everything really does seem to be in order. I am tempted to sign them here and now, but I don’t wish to appear overly eager or foolish. On the other hand, I’m uneasy about my own insurance situation. What if my house burned down tonight? Wouldn’t I appear even more foolish to have lost all my art’s value for lack of insurance coverage?