Chapter 3

"Grace," I said, "you will make every other woman at the opening green with envy. That dress is stunning, but what it packages makes the dress, not the other way around."

She blushed, but just under the flush or her embarrassment, I could see that my words had thrilled her. What made it easy was the fact that I hadn't exaggerated at all.

"And Mom, if you looked any more alluring, Dad would need to carry a stick to beat off the men that would crowd around you instead of my paintings."

Mom beamed. "Paul, listen to your son and learn. He knows how to compliment a lady."

"Hah!" I said. "Dad's a man of few words, but his love for you shines like a beacon. Look at him. He can't take his eyes off you, unless it's to glance at his beautiful daughter."

"Boy speaks truth," Dad said ponderously, which cracked us up.

With large smiles, the ladies took our arms, and Dad and I escorted them to the limo waiting at the curb in front of our house — Dad's contribution to the cause. One of many.

Inside the limo, Mom said, "I like your new look, Brent. It ages you slightly. You look eighteen, not sixteen."

The beautician had given me a razor cut that looked wild, but framed my long face perfectly, giving me a mysterious appearance, like I kept secrets. I'd clipped a picture from a magazine to give her an idea of what I wanted. She did a good job of it. My trousers were black linen. The black shoes were Bally loafers. Thin black dress socks. A thin, black leather belt. My shirt was bright red, knit, cut like a t-shirt but with a slight v-neck. I wore a Kenneth Cole black three-button leather dress jacket, with a red silk handkerchief in the pocket. I'd raised the lapel at the back of my neck. I looked good, and I knew it, which was important for an artist at an opening.

"Thank you," I said as I watched Dad push the cork out of a bottle of champagne.

"You're both too young, but one glass won't hurt you," Dad said as he poured the bubbly into the flute Mom held in her hand. She handed the glass to Grace, and Dad continued pouring until we all had our drinks.

"A toast," Dad said. "To the ladies first, Brent. Sweet Rose, you were my first love, and my last, and I've never loved you more than I do tonight. Grace, tonight you fit your name. You are grace and beauty, and I'm very proud of you and love you more than you'll ever know."

"Man speaks truth," I said ponderously.

Grace choked. It's difficult to drink champagne when you're laughing.

"To you, Brent," Dad said. "You are my son, and I love you, but you confuse me. I've decided that that's a good thing. You confuse me because your maturity approaches mine. You're just sixteen, but you create astonishing paintings superior to artists who have labored at their craft for many, many years. But my toast isn't about how mature you are or how great you are as an artist. I toast you, Brent Carson, because you are a good man."

"Man of few words like hell," Mom said. "Paul, that was beautiful but I want to add good luck for your show tonight, Brent. May all your paintings sell. As hard as you've worked, including many all-nighters, you deserve all the success I'm certain you'll achieve." She started to take a drink but stopped. "Oh, and I love you, too."

"I wanna make a toast," Grace said after drinking to Mom's, "but I'm out of champagne."

"That can be remedied," Dad said and poured a little more champagne in Grace's glass and mine, and then filled Mom's and his.

Grace raised her glass and said, "To Brent, who more often than not ends up being more like my big brother than the little brother he is. I'm not sure how you do everything you do, Brent, but you never cease to amaze me. I might add that you look very dashing tonight." She paused. "Oh, and I love you, too. You, too, Mom and Dad."

A happy bunch spilled out of the limo when it stopped in front of the gallery.

I've mentioned the importance of a buyer list to the success of any art opening. The buyer list is a gallery owner's lifeblood, but a competent gallery owner can't rely strictly on his buyer list. Non-buyers are invited, some related to the business of art, like art critics, but some merely because an art opening is also a social event.

As we entered the gallery, I heard live music filling the cavernous space. The music was background sound, in this instance a string quartet with a piano. I saw pretty waitresses dressed in finery circulating and offering wine and hors d'oeuvres to the guests.

"Are we late?" Dad asked when he noticed a number of small groups standing and talking in different areas in the gallery.

"No, we're early," I said. "You're looking at the pre-opening guests, Frazier's serious buyers, for the most part. The bulk of the business end of this opening took place before we arrived. Now it's party time. But not for me. It's time for me to go to work, to take center stage, so to speak, and talk about my art with the buyers and critics and other guests. We can't leave out the other guests. Non-buying guests occasionally become buyers.

"It's a staged affair, Dad. First I've gotta impress the buyers, especially those who purchased one of my paintings, and then Frazier will introduce me to a critic or two. Finally, close to the end of the evening I can relax and briefly join the party like all the other guests."

I patted Grace's hand. "I hope my repetitive hyperbole doesn't bore you because it would be best if you stayed on my arm or nearby most of the time."

She nodded.

I didn't truly need her by my side, but she was so stunningly beautiful that I worried about smooth predatory males turning her head and taking advantage of her naivety. Not that my sister was overly naïve, but the world of art at this level drew men with money and power, and men with money and power used both to get what they wanted. If these men had eyes in their heads, and they did, they'd want Grace.

Frazier noticed us and broke away from the group he was with. He hurried to us with a large smile on his face, a good omen, I hoped.

"Brent, I'm glad you're a little early," he said and extended his hand. I shook it, and when I started to end the handshake, he held on and added, "I've put sold stickers on seven of your paintings, and I'm certain the remaining three will be purchased before the evening ends. Congratulations, young man!" He shook my hand with both of his. "Come. I want to introduce you to around. You look good, by the way, very... ah, arty." He laughed.

That's when he noticed Grace. "And, Grace, you are... well, you're simply gorgeous." He laughed again. "This is going to be fun. The two of you will be a bigger hit than your paintings, Brent."

I talked about micro-landscapes, color, form, composition, texture, balance, all the tenets of my art, until I was blue in the face. I grew tired of my repetitious narratives before Grace, but my flowery hyperbole convinced three other buyers to part with their money.

Early in the evening, Terry arrived with her guest, a woman named Vicki, Terry's new roommate and lover, Terry whispered in my ear after leaning to kiss my cheek.

"Call me," she said in parting.

I was pleased that she hadn't been more demanding than the brief greeting she'd given me. Perhaps our friendship could be saved and fostered. I altered that opinion later when I suddenly found myself standing alone. One of the predator males I wanted Grace to avoid had captured her attention, and they were talking quietly in the far corner of the room. Almost as suddenly as I'd found myself alone, Terry stepped in front of me.

"Hi, handsome," she said.

I grinned. "Hello, friend."

"Congratulations. I noticed the sold stickers on your paintings. You sold out!"

I nodded.

She glanced toward her new roommate who was standing with a group looking at one of my paintings. "She's beautiful, isn't she? I told her about you. She wouldn't say no if you joined us for a naughty evening."

Vicki was indeed beautiful, and to say I wasn't tempted would've been a lie, but as I'd predicted, Terry hadn't given up on me. She was using Vicki as bait.

"Terry, that gentleman in the navy suit standing over there with two women is a gallery owner from San Diego. One of the women with him is a gallery owner from San Francisco. Both want to show my work. Frazier wants to do another show for me next December, and galleries in Denver, Los Angeles, and Santa Fe have expressed interest in presenting one-man shows for me. I'm buried in work, and I can't neglect my education. Socializing must take fourth place to work, school and sleep. I can be your friend, but I don't and won't have the time a heavy relationship requires."

Anger briefly flared in her pretty eyes, anger that quickly changed to disappointment.

"Terry!" Grace said, returning to me. "It's good to see you again. How have you been? Have you noticed that all of my little brother's paintings sold?"

Terry nodded. Grace took her by the arm. "I have someone I want you to meet. Like you, he's an art lover. In fact, he purchased one of Brent's paintings."

As Grace dragged Terry away, Terry turned her head and mouthed, "Call me."

After Grace made the introductions, she quickly extricated herself and came back to me.

"Thanks, big sister. I owe you," I said.

Grace laughed. "Yes you do. That girl is not about to give up on you, Brent."

"Argh."

I met Sherry Crane while Grace was across the room talking with another predator male. I'd stopped worrying about my big sister. After a few whispered comments, Grace told me in no uncertain terms that she could take care of herself. After that conversation, I watched her, and she appeared to hold her own with the powerful, rich men who hit on her.

"Brent," Grace said, "I try to ignore the charm, the flash, and look underneath for the real man, but if I raise my eyebrows at you, please come running to help me escape anyone who refuses to accept no as an answer."

"That works for me," I said.

So Grace was testing her alluring feminine appeal with predator males while I stood in front of a beautiful woman who'd just introduced herself as Sherry Crane. If Grace had a rival at the opening, Sherry would be that woman. She was tall and slim, wore a slinky black gown held aloft with what looked like a diamond-studded necklace. A matching bracelet wrapped her feminine wrist. Her soft shoulders were bare, and the gown plunged at the back. The elegant silkiness of the garment offered hints of an incredible body underneath — a naked body, I figured, because I could see no evidence of a bra or panties under the dress. She wore her black hair long. It was sleek and luxurious, styled a little like mine, giving her a wild, dangerous look. A panther came to mind. Her dark eyes glinted like the necklace that held up her dress.

A compulsion to kiss her shoulders nearly overwhelmed me. The urge also surprised me. I'd never considered shoulders as replacements for kissable lips, but then there wasn't any part of Sherry Crane that wasn't utterly alluring. I tried and failed to guess her age because I couldn't decide whether she was in her early or late twenties.

When she introduced herself, her sultry voice captivated me almost as much as her soft shoulders.

"Your work presents a degree of maturity that doesn't conform to your youth, Mr. Carson," she said.

"I have this urge — it's almost a compulsion — to rain kisses down your long neck and over your soft shoulders," I said quietly, my eyes never leaving hers.

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, and her smile took away her dangerous, wild look.

"Young man, that gorgeous young woman you're with should have you on a leash. You're dangerous."

I laughed. "Thank you — I think. That stunningly beautiful, young woman I'm with is my sister, and if anyone should be on a leash, it's she. The predator males in this place keep trying to steal her away from me."

Sherry glanced at Grace. "If I were a male, I'd whisk her away and hold her close." Her sparkling dark eyes returned to mine, and she looked dangerous and wild again. "But I'm not a man."

"That's the understatement of the evening. I didn't believe any woman at the opening could possibly rival my sister's beauty and grace. I was mistaken."

Sherry frowned and shook her head. "You can't be the teenager written about in the printed hype for this show."

A distinguished man joined us. Was he Sherry's date? Husband? Lover? Her father was a possibility. He was old enough to be her father.

"There you are, Sherry," he said, his voice deep and commanding. He nodded at me.

"Uncle Harry, have you met this remarkable young artist?" Sherry asked.

"I have not," Harry said.

Dr. Harry Crane was not only Sherry's uncle, he was also an art critic who wrote a weekly column for the Arizona Republic & Gazette. What's more, he was also a professor of art history at Arizona State University. Sherry didn't tell me all this when she introduced him. As soon as I heard his name, I recognized him. I read his column every week.

"And this young man is Brent Carson," Sherry said to her uncle. "He painted the large acrylics showcased at the opening tonight."

"Which I haven't had a chance to see. Frazier corralled me when we arrived, as you know. Join us, Mr. Carson, and tell us about your work while I take a look at your paintings."

"All right," I said. We turned to the painting hanging at our right. "My work appears non-objective, but it's not. I paint micro-landscapes." I described each painting as we stepped from one to the other. Crane didn't comment, nod or shake his head, and my descriptions became terse with less hyperbole. When we finished the tour of my work, I didn't know whether he liked or detested what he saw.

"Humph," he muttered. "Thank you, young man. Excuse me, please. Two other artists at this show expect my attention, I suspect." With that, he walked away with Sherry on his arm.

Frazier sidled up to me. "What did Dr. Crane say?" he asked.

"Not one word."

"Really?"

"Not a word. That is a frustrating man."

Frazier laughed. "He's that. We'll know what he thinks on Sunday morning when his column hits the newsstands."

"What do you know about his niece?" I asked.

"Sherry?"

"Yes."

"Be careful with that one, Brent. She's a piranha. She chews up young artists, spits out their bare bones, and moves on to her next meal."

I laughed. "If she wants me for dinner, I might let her munch away."

Frazier grimaced. "That evokes images I'd rather not have skipping through my mind. Darrell wants words with you." Darrell was the gallery owner in San Diego. "He wants to know how soon you can provide him with twelve paintings."

"Twelve?"

"Twelve. Ten is too few for a one-man show. Fourteen would be too many for his gallery. He also wants to talk about pricing."

"All right, but find my father." I grinned. "I am, after all, a minor."

"Humph, in age only."

"After our success tonight, the prices for my paintings should increase fifteen to twenty percent," I said.

"I agree," Frazier said.

"I'll want Darrell to pay for framing and any and all photography and prints needed, also to crate and ship my paintings to San Diego for the show."

Frazier shook his head. "That'll be up to Darrell."

"No, Gary. You'll be getting your cut. Earn it. Get me what I want and we'll have a long and mutually beneficial business relationship. I can ship twelve acrylic paintings in two months, but the show after San Diego, wherever it is, won't take place until four months after Darrell's show. I'm switching from acrylics to oils. Oils will give me a greater range of color depth than acrylics, something I'll need with the direction I'm taking with my art. I'll be renting a studio so I can work on a dozen paintings at the same time."

Frazier nodded. "I agree. Oils would be a better medium for your style of painting."

"Go ahead. Find my father, and the two of you can negotiate my deal with Darrell."

Prior to the show, I'd had a private conversation with my father about future shows. He, too, knew what I wanted. I'd given him a few scenarios based upon the success of my first opening.

A little later, Dad found me. "You're set for San Diego near the end of February. Darrell caved on every issue."

I grinned. "Good job, Dad. You're a wonder."

"Thanks." He beamed.

I beamed, too. My first show had exceeded my greatest expectations, and my second show was in the hopper, a one-man show this time. That Sherry Crane left without speaking to me again was the only downer of the evening. That, and Terry's attempt to rekindle our relationship, I added as a thought a few seconds later.

Monday evening following my show, I received a call from Sherry Crane. My mother answered the call and passed the phone to me.

"Uncle Harry liked your work," she said after I said hello.

"I noticed." I'd read his column early Sunday morning moments after the paperboy threw the newspaper into the bougainvillea bush in our front yard. A couple of the critic's comments were: a good command of the medium, and an artist with a vision.

Sherry said, "My uncle hosts a cocktail party for local artists every year during the Christmas season. He doesn't discriminate. He invites artists he praised in his column, as well as artists he vilified. Most fall between the two extremes. Because the invitations were sent weeks ago, he asked me to call and invite you this year. The party is Saturday evening. It starts at six o'clock. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres only, so don't expect to be fed. You're welcome to bring a guest."

"Tell your uncle that I'm pleased he thought of me. I'll be there, of course. I do have one request."

"You do, huh? What?"

"I'm too young for booze, and my soft drink of choice is root beer. I like it served in a frosted glass mug."

I listened to a second or two of silence, and then she laughed gaily. "I'll pass on your request, Mr. Carson. Whether he'll comply, I won't venture a guess. Bring your sister. She and I can compete for the most male attention."