So far, Nadine was pleased at how the party was going. She had only opened the doors fifteen minutes ago and already half the invited guests were strolling the gallery, looking over the works of art. There were even some of them eyeing the paintings by her new artist, Benjamin White.
“Look,” she said to Ben, who was standing next to her, “they’re interested.”
Ben White, who was in his forties, tall but slightly stooped, said, “Maybe they can’t believe what they’re seeing.”
“Ben—”
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, “think positively.”
Ben was from New England. Nadine had seen his work during s trip up there and had managed to convince him to allow her to show them at her gallery. She had not, however, expected him to come to New York along with his work.
She looked around, wondering where Clint was, wondering if Emory Bates was going to come and, if so, who would arrive first.
~*~
Clint decided to let the doorman—the one who was new to him—get him a cab.
“Looking as resplendent as you do, sir,” he said, “you should arrive in style.”
“All right,” Clint said.
It was a closed carriage, and upon arrival, the driver stepped down and opened the door for him.
“Thank you,” Clint said.
“Sir,” the man said, accepting his payment.
Clint stopped in front of the door, buttoned the jacket of his new suit, hoping the New Line didn’t make an unattractive lump in his back.
He went inside.
~*~
Nadine saw Clint enter and hurried to meet him.
“Finally,” she said. “I thought you were going to stand me up.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “Not when you look like that.”
She was wearing a green dress, form fitting but not showing much skin, and her hair was down.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad, yourself. Very handsome, indeed.”
“And thank you.”
Clint looked around.
“Nice turnout,” he said.
“About half the invited guests,” she informed him. “I’m hoping the others will soon arrive.”
“And the artist?”
“Standing over there,” she said, gesturing. “I’d like you to meet him.”
“Sure. What about Emory Bates?”
“Not here yet.” She said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Ben.”
As they approached the artist, he turned and smiled at Nadine.
“Another conquest, I see,” Clint said to her.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot.”
When they reached him Nadine said, “Benjamin White, I’d like you to meet my friend, Clint Adams.”
“A pleasure,” Ben said, extending his hand.
“The pleasure is mine,” Clint said.
“Are you an art lover, Mr. Adams?”
“I can’t say that I am,” Clint said, “But I’m new to this world.”
“Clint helped me uncrate and hang your paintings,” Nadine said.
“Ah, then I owe you a debt.”
“Not at all.” Clint looked around. Some more people were entering the gallery.
“Uh-oh,” Nadine said, “potential investors. Excuse me.”
She hurried over to greet them.
“How are things going tonight?” Clint asked.
“People are looking,” Ben said, “but as far as I know, no one has bought anything, yet.”
“Well,” Clint said, “there’s still time.”
“Nadine said the same thing,” Ben commented, “only what she said was ‘the night is young.’”
“Right either way, I suppose.”
“What do you think of my work, Mr. Adams?”
Clint hesitated, then said, “Well, keeping in mind that I don’t know what I’m looking at . . .
“Of course.”
“ . . . I find it interesting. Your . . . point of view, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I mean . . . compared to other pieces I’ve seen here. But Nadine, she really likes it.”
“I know,” Ben White said. “She’s doing her best.”
A man and a woman came over to talk to the artist, who said to Clint, “Excuse ne.”
“Go ahead.”
Clint turned, took a few steps away and looked across the floor at Nadine. Then he surveyed the room again, sized up all the well-dressed men and women. Even in his new suit he felt out of place. Just a few days in New York and already he was missing Eclipse, and the West. But he’d promised to help Nadine keep her gallery, and he intended to honor that promise.
Clint stuck his finger into his collar in an attempt to loosen it. He was wearing a tie, which was very much unusual for him.
He walked over to the wall with Ben White’s paintings and studied them for a moment. Two other men also came to the wall, and stood together.
“What do you think?” one asked the other.
“The use of color is good,” the man said, “But the point of view is not one that appeals to me.”
“I don’t know,” the first man said, “I like his vision, but not his use of color.”
“Then I guess neither one of us is buying,” the second man said, and they walked away.
Clint thought he’d learned a lot about what an artist needed to do to sell his paintings. They needed to appeal to everyone, which he assumed was a very, very difficult thing to do.