Jake, her husband, sat at a mahogany captain’s table in the corner of their bedroom. An array of papers, spreadsheets, and inventory lists covered the polished wood surface in front of him. He couldn’t bear to face his wife. He looked again at the ledger numbers in front of him, wishing somehow that they would change, that he had made an error, that the debt would shrink. He prayed for a miracle.
Although the last ten years of Jake Devlin’s life had been spent building the Devlin Gallery for Modern Art in Chelsea, the gentrified neighborhood of former warehouses on Manhattan’s Lower West Side, he recognized with a mixture of reluctance and pride that Blair was the gallery’s biggest asset. She had an eye, a talent for separating mediocre work from true inspiration, and an ability to understand artists. She had been right about their last undertaking, a woman whose odd assortment of oil paintings looked to Jake like the work of a deranged adolescent, a single dried leaf on a silver plate, an assortment of sheet music burned at the edges with a fish skeleton strewn across them, an apple core underneath a wooden table. Blair made sense of the images. “It’s a new approach to death, death in its simplest, purest form,” she explained.
The New Yorker
coopted her clever perceptions in a positive review. The show sold out.
Even more important than her interpretive talents, public relations savvy, and social flair, Blair’s specialty was sales. She charmed cash out of clients’ pockets. Jake chuckled, remembering last Tuesday’s $50,000 sale to the plastic bucket manufacturer from North Attleboro, Massachusetts, in town for a hardware convention. The overweight man stuffed into his Nantucket red khakis could hardly stop from drooling as Blair explained the subtleties of an artist’s lateral brush stroke by running her fingers across his thigh. Jake might have been jealous had he not loved the money as much as she did.
Although the paperwork in front of him documented every step of the gallery’s financial downfall, Jake still couldn’t accept that it had happened. He rested his forehead in the palms of his hands. Where had all the money gone? He had taken out a second mortgage on their Central Park West apartment, withheld money from artists whose pieces had been sold months before, and still there wasn’t enough to cover the bills. Worst of all, Blair had no idea. At first he convinced himself that he could rectify the problem, but no amount of juggling could remedy the acute situation. Then, he couldn’t bear to confess. Each time she took a potential client to the Four Seasons for lunch, sent a bottle of Perrier-Jouët to an interested curator, bought an Armani suit for an opening, he wanted to explain that sales had been less than anticipated, that he had cut deals to move inventory, that the expenses of their lives couldn’t be sustained. Each time he failed. Her anticipated reaction seemed far more ominous than financial ruin would ever be. That he could not give her everything she wanted negated all that he had accomplished.
Jake Devlin took a deep breath and turned to face his wife. He was struck, as always, by her beauty, her shiny hair now billowing over the pillow, her pale complexion, the hue of her full lips. The slightest shift of her toes, their pale pink polished nails wagging back and forth, was enough to arouse him.
What would she think of him now?
Jake had waited until the last possible moment. In thirty-six hours, with the start of the Memorial Day weekend, Blair planned to settle herself for three months in Sag Harbor, Long Island, in a cottage on the water they had rented for the past several years. Although Sag Harbor on the Peconic Bay lacked the panache of the ocean side, it was a charming town built around a lively marina. Most important, it was still affordable to wannabes who cherished its proximity to the artery of the Hamptons: Route 27.
The Devlin Gallery’s best clients summered in the Hamptons, and Blair was unwilling to let them slip far from her sight. That left Jake to run the business alone and commute back and forth amid the traffic of the Long Island Expressway every weekend. The Devlin Gallery faced the summer season, historically its slowest time, with a large inventory, little cash, a default notice on its operating loan, a stack of unpaid bills, and several unhappy artists threatening to take their work elsewhere. Tonight was Jake’s last chance.
“Well, are you going to say something, or are you just going to sit there?” Blair asked. Her voice teased. “Because I wanted to talk to you about Marco. He’s agreed to have us represent him.”
Marco, an Argentinean sculptor, was Blair’s recent obsession. She first had heard of him when the
Chicago Tribune
reviewed a show of his eight-foot bronze nudes. The article reported that Marco remained unrepresented by any gallery because, according to his interview within, he “failed to find spark, someone who really understands me or my work completely.” That had been enough bait for Blair. After their initial contact, she had gone to his Brooklyn studio. Alone. Upon her return, Jake listened to her animated stream of accolades. Blair’s mind was made up to lure Marco to the Devlin Gallery.
“Marco says he needs a hundred-thousand-dollar advance, as a show of our commitment to him,” Blair continued. “I said that wouldn’t be a problem. My concern, though, is that we need more space, probably two thousand square feet, minimum. His work is so gloriously big.” Blair seemed oblivious of the rising barometer of her husband’s anxiety.
“What do you expect for selling prices?” Jake tried to sound calm, but his voice seemed timid. He wanted to be distracted by indulging her schemes.
“He’s still unknown, though that’ll change.” Blair furrowed her brow. “Maybe seventy-five, eighty thousand.”
An $80,000 sales price meant the gallery could take forty in commission minus advertising and other related expenses, Jake calculated. He turned back to his papers, momentarily absorbed in the possibility of a new success.
“Anyway, I invited Marco out to Sag Harbor next week—Tuesday, I think it is—to go over details.”
“Tuesday? But I won’t be there.”
“Did you want to be? I never expected you would.”
“You were planning to negotiate his terms without me?”
“Well, I suppose we can rearrange, although with his schedule, it might be difficult.”
“Forget it.”
Blair ran her forefinger along her bottom lip.
Jake forced himself to continue. “We have to talk. I have a bit of discouraging news. Discouraging isn’t accurate. I have bad news.” He exhaled, relieved that the words hadn’t stuck in his throat. “It’s about our finances, or rather the gallery’s finances.”
“What about them?”
“We don’t have enough money.”
She laughed and waved a hand toward him. “That’s what you always say. Don’t be such a worrier.”
“Listen to me.” The raised volume of his voice surprised him. He took a breath, not wanting to sound panicked. “We have a very real, very large cash shortage. This is serious.”
She sat up.
His voice softened. “I don’t know how to explain this to you, except to say that our profits don’t cover our expenses, not the gallery’s expenses and not our living expenses.”
“What?”
Her harsh tone triggered a raw nerve and radiated down his spine.
“I’m saying we need a substantial infusion of cash, and we need it soon. We’re behind on the lease, our mortgage, our taxes, our bills, you name it.” He paused, trying to compose himself. The articulation of all his worries left him with an odd feeling of euphoria and despair. “I’m sorry.”
“Arrange to borrow more,” she ordered.
“I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried. The bank won’t extend our operating loan. We don’t have anything as collateral. Everything is borrowed against alr—”
“That’s ridiculous,” Blair interrupted. “We’ve got plenty of equity in our apartment. A second mortgage is tax-deductible anyway.” She seemed to dismiss him as an idiot for not thinking of such an obvious solution.
Jake felt sweat moistening the front of his shirt. “I did that already,” he almost whispered.
“You what!”
He felt himself gasping for air. “I did that already,” he repeated.
“How could you?”
Jake’s throat burned. “Blair, listen to me. I had to. Before year end, to pay our taxes.”
“I own our house, too. How could the bank agree to loan us money?”
“I signed your name to the application.”
“You forged my signature?”
“I assumed it would be short-term, more like a line of credit that I could repay. I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t think you would ever have to know.” He wanted her to hold him. He needed to feel the touch of her skin, but he didn’t dare move. He had never seen her this angry.
“It was my down payment. The equity in the apartment is mine.”
“Blair, please.”
“What else haven’t you told me?”
Jake was silent.
“Well, Mr. Money Manager, Mr. ‘You don’t have to worry about the business end of things, dear, I’ll take care of it,’ ” she mocked, “what do you propose to do now? Are you telling me we are going to lose our house, the gallery? Is that what you’re saying? Have you thought of a solution, or should I just start packing?”
“I thought maybe you could talk to your father.”
He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. When Blair finally spoke, her voice was low. “You want my father to bail us out again?”
The Devlin Gallery had relied on Richard Pratt’s extraordinary wealth and generosity before. The year Jake and Blair married, Pratt Capital, the privately held venture capital firm that Richard had built over four decades, contributed $170,000 to cover the first year of a long-term lease for a new showroom. Six months later the company guaranteed Jake’s $5 million operating loan to allow for their considerable expansion. Then, two years ago, Blair asked again. That time Pratt Capital came up with $750,000, enough to pay back taxes and renovate their apartment with state-of-the-art lighting, marble bathrooms, and a new kitchen with soapstone counters and German appliances. They were even featured in
Architectural Digest
, a photo shoot of their designer apartment accompanied by a story on living with contemporary art.
Richard had never lectured Jake, never doubted his business skills, never asked for an explanation or accounting. He wrote checks without question and was gracious enough not to mention the money again, as if the transaction had not happened. Richard Pratt made it easy.
“Not a bailout. More like an investment.” Jake tried to sound cavalier. “We could offer a generous return, especially once Marco gets off the ground.”
“What are you suggesting, exactly?”
Jake was silent.
“Are you wanting me to talk to Miles about a deal?” she asked, referring to Miles Adler, Richard Pratt’s longtime employee and adviser, who had bought 43 percent of Pratt Capital after Richard’s stroke the year before. “I hardly know him.”
“I thought you could talk to your father.”
“My father doesn’t make decisions on his own anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She was right. Since Richard’s illness, Clio seemed intimately involved in his financial affairs. At the very least, nothing could be done without her approval.
“You could still talk to him, make him understand our situation. It’s not like he wouldn’t understand. He could convince Clio that it’s the right thing to do. Or maybe you could talk to Clio directly. They could loan us the money personally. Pratt Capital wouldn’t have to get involved.”
“I suppose.”
Blair closed her eyes. Jake knew what she was thinking. Asking her father had been one thing, but the idea of begging Clio for help was entirely different.
“If he had never married that…that bitch…” Blair’s voice drifted off.
Jake had heard the story of Richard and Clio’s wedding, now nearly thirty years ago, more times than he could recall. Blair had been five, her sister, Frances, eight. Blair’s eyes sparkled as she recounted how handsome her father had appeared, his lean frame outfitted in a morning suit.
“Mom dressed me and Fanny in floor-length pink taffeta. I don’t know why she went to such an extravagance, given that Dad was marrying someone else, but even Clio had to admit she did an exquisite job,” Blair explained whenever the subject of Richard’s second marriage arose. “Mom painted white baskets and filled them with rose petals. We dropped the petals along the aisle.” At this point in the storytelling, Blair would smile as she remembered her role as a flower girl. “It was a fairy-tale wedding,” she said, describing the tented ceiling of white-and-gold fabric, the table arrangements of white lilacs and deep pink peonies, the tiered cake filled with marzipan cream. Jake had heard the story so many times, he almost felt he had been there.
During the reception Richard had lifted Blair snug into his arms, twirled her about the dance floor, and whispered in her ear that there was nobody prettier than she. According to Blair, that day, spent in the glow of her father’s affection, had been one of the best of her childhood. She had no premonition of what was to come.
“Do you think he loves her more than me?” Blair gazed absentmindedly at the opposite wall.
Jake sighed. Blair’s chronic rearranging of relationships, her attempts to place love in a hierarchy, amazed him. He wanted to reassure her. “Your father loves you as his daughter. She is his wife.” He felt like a nursery school teacher.
“She’s the second wife, though. That matters. I would never agree to be second.”
He said nothing. Then, after a moment, he added, “Clio would want to do what would make your father happy.” He regretted that his words seemed to defend Clio, but they needed help.
“Maybe. A half million would make no difference to her.”
“Right.” Jake felt encouraged. “Remember, your father would do it. He has been generous before. He believes in us, in what we’re doing. Why wouldn’t she do the same?”
Blair didn’t appear to be listening. She rubbed the back of her neck with her long fingers. “Did I ever tell you what she did to my kittens?” she asked as she massaged the base of her skull.
“I don’t think so.” He tried to check the impatience in his voice.
“I had this incredible cat. Seaweed. She was part tabby and part Persian with long orange hair. It was always a big deal whether or not I would be allowed to bring Seaweed when we went to visit Dad and Clio. I remember begging Dad, over and over, trying to explain that Seaweed was my best friend and I couldn’t leave her behind, but Clio was allergic, or so she claimed. She didn’t like pets of any kind and didn’t want them in the house. One fall…” Blair paused to think for a moment. “The November that I turned twelve, Seaweed got pregnant. The vet told us she would be due at the end of December. It was quite possible that she would have her babies when Fanny and I were supposed to be with Dad at Christmas. I couldn’t bear not to watch her have her kittens. Dad finally agreed that I could bring her, but I had to promise not to let Seaweed out of my room while she was pregnant and I had to make sure I moved her out to the garage before she delivered her kittens. All month I was getting ready for those kittens. I don’t ever remember looking so forward to anything. Fanny got excited, too. We would watch Seaweed’s belly move and imagine the tiny kittens inside. We built a whelping pen and, when we got to Southampton, set it up in a corner of the garage with towels around it. Two days after Christmas, Seaweed went into labor in the middle of the night and had her kittens under my bed. There wasn’t time to get her outside to the garage.”