Authors: Kate Willoughby
Chapter Nineteen
Summer lovin’ had me a blast...
The lyrics from the
Grease
song floated in and out of Claire’s head for the next four weeks. It was funny how she and Alex’s relationship sort of mirrored that of Danny and Sandy in the movie. Danny was a bad boy, a possibly corrupting influence on Sandy, the “good girl.” No one thought they were right for each other, and yet the two of them ignored the consensus and continued to date. The one difference was that Sandy didn’t put out, and Claire was putting out every chance she got.
Alex was the most amazing lover she’d ever had. He made her feel so beautiful and desirable, which was quite a feat, considering the fact that he could have his pick of any supermodel or actress out there. He was
that
crazy-sexy. Now she understood exactly what Erin had been talking about at the rehearsal dinner, about wondering when the rug-puller was going to show and upend everything. But unlike Erin, Claire knew this thing with Alex would end sooner or later. She wasn’t fooling herself into thinking that he was the marrying type.
After having taken the summer off because of the wedding (and the divorce), she resumed her docent duties at the museum and found she’d missed it. Even though she wasn’t getting paid, it felt like her job. Settling back into a routine was nice after all the impromptu fun and games with Alex. The gang was glad to see her, as well. Marla, the head of the docent program, had cupcakes to celebrate her return.
One day, out of the blue, Elliot called.
“How are you, my dear? How is Alex? Are you two still seeing each other?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Good. Don’t tell anyone, but Alex is one of my favorites. He needs a good woman like you to hold him accountable. Which brings me to the reason I called. I’d like to take you two to dinner. I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you.”
An idea he wanted to discuss with her
and
Alex. What could it be, she wondered? She’d tried to get him to go into more detail, but he remained cagey. She accepted the invitation anyway, of course.
They went to a seafood restaurant downtown, where Elliot stood to welcome them at a table set for five. She was about to ask who else was coming, when Hart Griffin and his friend Jeremy Fenton strode up.
Dinner was getting stranger and stranger.
Claire knew Hart and Jeremy because they were moving into her high-rise. Hart was the new star forward for the Barracudas and Jeremy, an art history professor, was his “roommate.” She strongly suspected they were partners, but didn’t voice this. She wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
They ordered drinks before Elliot got down to business. “I asked you here tonight to float something by you. Thanks for coming, by the way. I have a project that I’ve been thinking about over the past few weeks, and I’m hoping you’ll agree it’s something we should put into motion.
“Basically, I want to hold an art auction to raise money for the Barracuda Foundation.” He turned to Jeremy. “The Barracuda Foundation contributes to causes benefitting the youth of San Diego.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Claire said. “What type of art? From local artists?”
Elliot chuckled. “Funny you should ask. As a matter of fact, they
are
local. And two of them are sitting at this table.”
Four sets of eyebrows rose. It dawned on them all at about the same time.
“You can’t be serious,” Hart said.
“No way.
No.
Way
,” Alex said.
She couldn’t tell what Jeremy was thinking, but her mind starting running with the idea. “Oh my God, Elliot. That’s perfect. It would be like the art camp, but with grown-ups.”
Elliot nodded. “Exactly. Which is why I’d like you to organize it, Claire.”
She gasped. “Really?” She glanced at Alex, who still looked queasy.
“You’re a natural for this project. You’re very knowledgeable about art. You ran the camp and you organized your sister’s wedding, which was a high-end affair and exactly the level of sophistication I’m looking for with this auction. Classy, but with a bit of hockey whimsy.”
Her cheeks warm from the praise, she said, “Elliot, I’d be honored to.”
Elliot turned to Jeremy. “And you, my young friend, would make the perfect instructor. For those of you who aren’t aware, Jeremy taught art in high school while getting his PhD and he knows how to deal with the hockey player temperament. Both of you do.” He included Claire in on this last comment.
Hart smiled wryly. “You have a point there. Hockey players can act a lot like high schoolers.”
“Well, I hope you’re not expecting to make a lot of money with this, Phlegmy,” Alex said. “Because I can’t paint and I’m pretty sure a lot of the other guys can’t either.”
“But, see, here’s the beauty of the idea—an idea I admit to stealing from Claire. You don’t have to be Michelangelos. People aren’t going to expect Sistine Chapels from you. And besides, the art isn’t the point.
You
are the point. They will be paying for something made by you. Case in point, do you know how much the value of a jersey goes up if you’ve worn it in a game? One thousand percent. So, we could sell doodles on a cocktail napkin and make money. But we’re not going to sell doodles. We’re going to sell real paintings. Reproductions of famous works of art, like these.”
Elliot got out a tablet and passed it around. Claire recognized the photos as close-ups from the gallery showing they held at the conclusion of the camp. She was again struck at how good some of the artwork was. It wasn’t that hard to reproduce a Matisse cut-out or a geometric Mondrian. The trick was, it just had to be recognizable, not perfect. The kids had proven that at art camp and the players could, too.
Alex still looked closed to the idea in his expression and his body language. “I still think you’re crazy. You’ll never get anything even remotely close to that out of us.”
“Alex...those paintings Elliot just showed you were done by the kids,” Claire said. “Those aren’t the originals. That’s what they did at art camp.”
That took him by surprise. “You’re shitting me. Kids did that?” He took a second look.
“Yes. Kids do a lot of amazing things. Like hike The Narrows.”
He gave her a sharp glance and then a smile to acknowledge the chirp.
“I don’t understand,” Elliot said. “What’s The Narrows?”
“It’s a challenging hike in Zion National Park that Alex convinced me I could do when we were in Utah.”
“This is not the same thing,” Alex said.
“Yes it is,” Claire said.
“Regardless,” Elliot interjected, “the question is whether Jeremy will consent to taking on the project. You players, frankly, have no choice.”
Jeremy leaned back to allow the waiter to serve his salad. “You want me to coax works of art out a bunch of hockey players.”
“For how much?” Hart asked. “You’re paying them, of course.”
Claire was interested to hear Elliot’s answer. She’d been ready to donate her time, as she’d done with the art camp.
“Of course.” From out of his breast pocket, Elliot pulled two envelopes. He gave one to Claire and one to Jeremy. “This comes out of my pocket, not the team’s.”
Claire opened her envelope and read the figure printed on the check. It was a lot of money. She immediately looked up at Elliot, but he gave her a smile and a nod. There was no mistake. He believed she was worth that. Alex leaned over and she let him see.
“Holy shit,” he said under his breath.
Across the table, Jeremy and Hart consulted quietly. Elliot waited patiently but his demeanor indicated his confidence that Jeremy would agree.
And he was right.
“All right, provided this doesn’t interfere with my course schedule, I’m in.”
“Me too,” Claire said.
Elliot beamed. “Excellent. This calls for a celebratory bottle of wine.”
As Elliot waved to the sommelier, Claire grabbed Alex’s hand and squeezed it. He gave her a halfhearted smile of encouragement.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to him. “It’ll be fun.”
“It might be fun during the painting part,” he whispered back as Elliot perused the wine list, “but the auction is going to suck balls. When people see what we did, not only will they refuse to bid, we’ll be the laughingstocks of the league.”
Chapter Twenty
Alex closed the door to his car and nodded to Dustin DeVries a couple of parking spaces over. Alex had never come to the Bayside Art Museum before. He’d never wanted to. He still didn’t want to. Museums were boring and the few times he’d visited one, he’d felt as if he were wearing a straitjacket. There were so many rules and niceties and he didn’t think anyone ever laughed inside them. And yet, Claire had asked Alex to be among the first to paint and he found it hard to refuse her anything, especially since she didn’t ask for much.
“You look about as excited about this as I do,” Alex said to DeVries as they headed toward the all-purpose building adjacent to the museum proper where Claire had conducted the summer camp. She had told him they did other stuff there too, but he didn’t remember what. For the next few days, they would be trying to turn hockey players into artists, three at a time.
Dustin opened the door. “I told my mom we were doing this and she laughed for five minutes. I suck at art.”
“Me too.”
“Someone told me it was your girlfriend’s idea.”
“She’s not my��” Then he stopped. As much as he wanted to resist the idea, Claire
was
his girlfriend. He wasn’t dating anyone else, wasn’t interested in dating anyone else. Ever since Utah, they’d spent pretty much all their free hours together. Damn. Dev was right.
DeVries laughed. “How the mighty have fallen.”
“Fuck you, Dev.”
“Dude, why didn’t you tell her this would never work? You do know everyone except Hart hates this idea.”
“I did tell her. Tim and I both told her, but Phlegmy’s the one insisting on it.”
“Well, my painting is going to turn out like crap. I guarantee it.”
“At least you didn’t have to get grilled about your teammates, all their hobbies and shit.”
“Why did you have to do that?”
“She and Jeremy want to make sure we were all matched to the ‘perfect painting.’ They think we’ll end up with something better looking in the end if we’re ‘emotionally invested.’”
Dev frowned. “What did you say about me?”
“I told them you liked dogs. And you surf.”
They found the room easily by following the arrow-shaped signs that said Barracudas. It was large and full of art crap, like easels and brushes and other equipment and supplies. Large windows allowed a lot of natural light. It smelled like paint.
Claire was there, along with Hart Griffin, Jeremy, and the team’s video crew. She looked sexy but casual in jeans and a sleeveless blouse.
After making introductions, Claire said, “So, we wanted to start by educating you boys a little about art first. That way, at the auction, you’ll be able to talk to the bidders intelligently about the artist and the work you’re reproducing today.”
Jeremy laid some photos on the table. “What you see here are specific works of art that we chose just for you.”
Alex gave Dev an “I told you so” look.
Dev leaned forward. “Hey, I hope I get the one with the pool.”
“The Hockney?” Jeremy asked.
“The hockey?”
“
Hockney
, as in David. David Hockney is an artist famous for painting California pools and I heard you’re having a pool put into your backyard soon.”
“He painted pools? A guy got famous for painting pools?” Dev asked.
“That’s not all he painted.” Jeremy pulled out more prints and handed them to Dev. Alex looked over his shoulder. Pools. Buildings. Palm trees. “He’s actually still painting now. He’s not quite dead yet.”
Alex pointed to
Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool.
Peter was clearly naked. “Is Hockney gay?”
Jeremy smiled wryly. “I believe he is. Is that a problem?”
“No,” Alex said. “I was just wondering.”
DeVries cleared his throat. “It’s not a problem for me either—that the guy is gay, but you know, I’m straight so I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to paint a naked guy. I mean, we have to sign the paintings, right?”
“Yes,” Claire said. “You absolutely have to sign the painting. Your name and your jersey number.”
“Then, yeah. No naked guy, if you don’t mind. I don’t want the ladies getting the wrong idea about me,” Dev said with a grin.
“That’s fine.” Jeremy handed him a slim folder. “Here’s a bio about Hockney in case you’re interested.”
Dev picked up the packet and started reading.
“What about me?” Alex asked. “What am I painting?”
“Which one do you think is yours?”
Alex looked at the two prints on the table. One was of a Campbell’s soup can label. The other was of a couple embracing.
“Shit, I hope it’s the soup can. I don’t have a chance in hell of painting that hugging one.”
“It
is
the soup can,” Claire said. “I chose that for you because...well, because you like processed food.”
“I’m not ashamed of it.”
“I know. That’s why I thought it was perfect for you.”
“Warhol—that’s the artist,” Jeremy said. “Andy Warhol.”
Dev looked up. “Hey, I’ve heard of him.”
“Warhol supposedly had Campbell’s soup for lunch every day for twenty years,” Jeremy said. “He made one canvas for every variety of soup they made in 1962, but you’re just going to paint one. How it’s going to work is, we’ll project the image onto your canvas and you’ll trace an outline. Then it’ll just be a matter of filling in the spaces with paint.”
Alex squinted at the print. “Okay then, I think I can do this. Does this mean Hart’s doing the hugging one?”
“Yep,” Hart said.
“You’re braver than me,” Alex said.
Hart shrugged. “Jeremy’s taught me a thing or two about painting over the years. It’s not going to look exactly like this, but I think I can do a decent job.”
* * *
Much later, Claire stood to the side watching the three men hard at work on their individual paintings. She hadn’t expected them to become so involved. She’d thought the most she could hope for was an hour or so of their time and a painting that would be valued more for its uniqueness and signature than for any artistic merit. Instead, they had become immersed in the act of creation and were succeeding beyond her expectations.
She was talking to one of the video guys when Elliot Fleming entered the room, noticed the level of concentration and quietly came over. He gestured to the crew that he didn’t want to be filmed.
“What’s this?” Elliot asked. “What kind of spell did you cast on my players?”
She smiled. “I didn’t do a thing. If anyone cast a spell, it’s Jeremy. He’s the one who’s been coaching them. It’s obvious they’re going to need more time than we’d originally scheduled. I was just about to order some lunch so they can keep working.”
“Get something with lean protein. They need to eat healthy.”
The intensity didn’t diminish after the meal. Claire made the rounds and loved what she saw. Each of them had taken the original image and, with Jeremy’s help, had made it their own. At two o’clock, three more players arrived, received their assignments and got started the way Hart, Dev and Alex had—transferring the image to canvas via a projector and tracing it. An hour later, a total of six rough-and-tough hockey players were painting in earnest while being filmed by the video crew.
“All right, lady and gents,” Alex said a while later. “I think I’m finally done.”
“Fuck, Sully,” Dev said. He’d been painting next to Alex all day. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
Alex took a few steps away from the canvas, like Jeremy had taught him, and took stock. “It is, isn’t it? Really looks like a can of soup.”
Claire had to agree. The canvas was small—only 9x12—but it popped with its simplicity and brightness. As perhaps the quintessential example of the Pop Art movement, this was particularly fitting.
“Good job,” Jeremy said. “The lettering is spot on.”
“There’s just one thing missing,” Claire said.
Alex frowned and checked the print of Warhol’s original, pretty mangled by now and smudged with paint, against his own work. “What?”
“Your signature.”
Alex grinned. “I’ve never done this with anything but a Sharpie.” Biting his lip in concentration, he painted his name and number in the lower right corner.
“Nice,” Hart said. “That’s a winner.”
“I’ll say,” Claire said. “In fact, all of you are doing a stellar job. I didn’t expect this much talent from you guys. I thought it was a fluke when Alex, Dustin and Hart came in and got off to a great start, but you three are doing fantastic too. This auction is going to knock people’s socks off. It really is.”
“What does the teacher say?” Dev said. “And what about Phlegmy? Yeah, I see you in the corner there, boss man.”
One hand on his hip, Jeremy stuck a pencil behind his ear. “Truthfully? I’m really impressed. Hart told me you could do this, and I’ll admit I had my doubts, but what you’ve done here today is amazing.”
Hart raised his fist. “The Barracudas can do anything they put their mind to.”
* * *
On the second day of painting, when a new group of guys came in, they saw what had been done the day before and immediately started trash-talking.
A tall man wearing a Padres cap said, “What the fuck is this? Dev painted a pool.” He grinned. “Quick, someone give me some green paint and a brush. I’ll paint a lawn and be out of here before lunch.”
“And look at Sully’s,” someone else said. “This is supposed to be art? Am I going to be painting a Kraft dinner box?”
They laughed, but Claire got angry.
“Hey, you, what’s your name?” She pointed at the player who had made fun of Alex’s painting. He was a big man with bushy eyebrows.
“Booth. Booth MacDonald.”
“And you? And you?” She addressed the other two.
The Padres fan looked contrite. “I’m Gil Carpenter. That’s Joe Rutherford.”
“All right, you listen to me, gentlemen. Mr. Fleming gave me the impression that you were deeply committed to the idea of raising money for your team’s charitable foundation. I understand it does some wonderful things for the youth of San Diego, but frankly, I’m not seeing a lot of commitment. What I’m seeing is three jerks whose mothers never taught them ‘If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’”
Hart had come in while she was talking and stopped short in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, arms crossed with an amused smile on his face.
“Now, if you aren’t as devoted to this as your teammates were yesterday, then I want you to leave. Really. I’m not kidding. The only way this is going to work is if you want to create something worthwhile to
do
something worthwhile. Otherwise, your art will come out looking like shit. I guarantee it.”
Hart came all the way in as Jeremy said, “They’re just joking around, Claire. They’re hockey players.”
“Not today they’re not. Today they will be artists and they’ll be respectful or they’ll go home. So,” she said, crossing her arms, “anyone leaving?”
She stared them down one by one and was gratified to see all three of them looking sheepish.
“No, ma’am.” Rutherford said as the other two mumbled apologies.
“Then let’s get started.”
Half an hour later, the new guys had gotten started reading about their artist and the body of their work or tracing the image Jeremy had picked for them onto the canvas using the projector. She and Jeremy were standing near Hart, who was still hard at work on his Klimt replica.
“Way to kick ass, Claire,” Hart said as he dabbed gold paint on his canvas.
“Well, they made me mad.”
“It was harmless. That’s what hockey players do. Chirping is literally part of the game. Hockey is as much mental as it is physical and if you can find a chink in your opponent’s psychological armor, you exploit it.”
“Oh.” She glanced at him. “I forgot about chirping. Alex told me about that.”
“Yeah, we were just chirping, Sarge,” Ford said.
“Keep working,” she told him with a mock glare. “And don’t call me Sarge.”
Hart picked up some more gold paint on his brush. “You know of course that they’re all going to call you Sarge now.”
She sighed. “Now you tell me.”
“It’s good,” Hart said. “If you’re going to be a hockey girlfriend, you need a nickname.”
“What is it with hockey players and nicknames?”
“What, does Sully have a nickname for you?” Ford asked.
“Bet he does,” Booth MacDonald said. “Tell us what it is.”
“No. It’s personal.”
“He calls her Cream Puff,” Dev said as he came into the studio.
“Dev, what are you doing here?” Claire asked.
“I wanted to check up on these guys and see how bad they were screwing up.”
“He calls her Cream Puff?” MacDonald asked.
“Yup. Heard him call her that yesterday.”
Claire got a nervous feeling in her stomach. “Come on, guys. How about you forget you ever heard that?”
MacDonald looked at Rutherford, Rutherford looked at Carpenter, Dev shrugged. Claire held her breath.
“Not a chance,” MacDonald said. “In fact, I’m having a vision of the future in which someone—I’m not saying who—finds a cream puff in his helmet.”
“Or his jock,” Rutherford said.
MacDonald pointed his paint brush at Rutherford. “Bingo.”
Claire cursed.
“Welcome to the world of hockey,” Hart said, patting her on the shoulder.