she added: “You sure know how to shovel it, don’t you Arrr-mando?”
“Ah, mi amiga es inteligente as well as bonita,” he said with a flash of his white teeth, returning the sarcasm. Even when he’s being nasty he can’t help flirting, Adrian thought to herself as he gave her his best dimpled smile. He was probably born flirting with the midwife who delivered him. He was incurable, a real piece of work.
The three of them walked over to the table and began emptying the bags, putting cheese squares in one dish and assorted snacks in the rest. It took less than five minutes and everything was in order and ready for the reception. Adrian and Rocco ignored Barbara’s sideways glances as they worked. At least her dark mood had lifted somewhat since Armando’s return from Nogales.
Rocco clapped his hands together and addressing Barbara said: “Anything else?”
“Just thank you. I appreciate all you do to help around here. You too, Adrian.”
Adrian gave her a half-smile, sadness in her eyes as she looked at her friend. Barbara was wearing a long, teal blue dress and high heels that added three more inches to her already statuesque height. Her blonde hair caressed her shoulders and touched the blue sapphires she wore around her long neck. She was exquisite. But she was Armando’s. For the most part anyway.
Rocco turned at the sound of loud banging and headed towards the door.
“My god, don’t they know it’s unlocked?” Barbara said.
Rocco opened the door just as Belinda Blume, facing away from him, prepared to give it one more kick with the sole of her shoe. In her hands she held her heavy contribution to the show. Frizzy light brown hair fell in her face as she turned at the sound of the door opening and lowered her foot to the ground.
“Darn near gotcha,” she said. “Thanks. I was afraid I’d drop it.”
She walked inside to where Adrian, Barbara and Armando stood talking. “Hi all,” she said. “Barb, baby doll, where do you want this?”
Barbara pointed to a pedestal sandwiched between Armando’s shelf and the display case that held the Paloma Blanca jewelry. Belinda was tempted to say something about not wanting her beautiful sculpture next to Armando’s knickknacks, but being next to his crap actually made her piece look all the better. With calloused hands, he placed her artwork on the pedestal then stood back, looking at it with admiration.
“I topped myself,” she said.
Adrian walked over to take a closer look.
“It’s magical,” she said. “Gaia! It’s the goddess.” She reached out and felt its soft, round stomach bursting with child, then lifted it. “Heavy,” she said as she carefully placed it back down with a grunt. Gaia was formed from red clay, sitting proud in all her nakedness, a wreath of flowers meticulously carved into her tangled hair. Adrian thought how much the piece resembled the artist. Full-bodied, short necked, thick fingered. “She’s a masterpiece, Belinda.”
“Oh Goddess,” Barbara chanted, “source of gods and mortals, all-fertile, all-destroying Gaia!” Then added: “You’ve captured her essence to perfection, Belinda. You should be proud.”
“First in my prayer, before all deities, I call upon Gaia, primeval prophetess, the Greek great earth mother,” chimed in Adrian with a dramatic bow.
“Oy, enough already,” said Belinda, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Armando, bubeleh, how about uncorking some of that bubbly? I’m ready to rock and roll.”
“Make that two,” said Adrian.
“Three,” said Rocco.
“Three’s an unlucky number,” said Barbara. “Better make that four.”
“And one for the bartender,” said Armando, as he popped the cork and began to pour.
The bell above the door jingled as Misty Waters entered the gallery. She walked softly through the first public room, pleased that her oils were displayed where they were the first thing one’s eyes set sight on upon entering. Her paintings were large and abstract, in shades of white as pale as her own complexion. Despite being only thirty her head was crowned with snow white hair. As always, Misty dressed in flowing white gauze from head to toe. She was as abstract as her art and as difficult to figure. She floated in like a passing cloud, avoiding eye contact.
“Misty, I’m so glad you could come,” said Barbara. “I can always depend on you.”
Rocco walked over to where Misty stood. She recoiled from his welcoming hug, her arms remaining awkwardly at her sides. Physical contact clearly made her uncomfortable. He pulled away and said, “Why don’t I get you something to drink? What would you like?”
“Do we have white wine?” she asked.
Rocco turned to Armando with a slight smile. He should have guessed that Misty Waters would only drink something white. Everything about her was white. Weird, he thought with a shrug. White as an unpainted wall, a blank canvas, an icy snow bank. How, he wondered, did she manage to stay so pale in the Arizona sun? She was spooky, like a vampire who only ventured out after sundown. In their close-knit gallery family Misty was their resident enigma.
Armando fished through the mini-fridge and took out a bottle of white zinfandel. “Will this work for the fine señorita?” She nodded her approval. He poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Rocco who in turn handed it to Misty.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she turned and walked into another room, looking at the display of art on the walls, ignoring everyone as she faded silently into the background.
“Talk about distant,” Adrian said under her breath.
Barbara walked over to where Adrian stood. “But she always comes to the receptions. That’s more than some of the artists do.”
“She never stays long. It’s like an obligation that she has to suffer through.”
Rocco joined the two women. “Remember, we’re a family. We don’t judge, we accept. Where would we be if we didn’t embrace one another just the way we are? Not one of us is perfect. And some of us are flawed almost beyond repair.” He laughed at his own comment. “That’s what makes us special, don’t you think?”
“You’re painfully magnanimous,” said Adrian. “She’s so invisible she could be a hit man or a spy for the CIA. Or a serial killer. They say it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.”
“We can all learn a thing or two from you Rocco,” said Barbara. “You’re a highly evolved soul and I truly believe the gods brought you here to guide us. You’re my favorite motorcycle riding, rough and tumble, tattooed guru.”
“Aw shucks ma’am,” he said in his best cowboy drawl.
“Mary Rose,” said Adrian as the elderly woman walked in. She wore a floral dress and a soft lavender silk shawl that reflected the color of the flower in her hair. “I’m so glad you came. You’re beautiful as always.”
“For a crone, my dear, for a crone.”
Armando walked out from where he stood at the bar and took Mary Rose’s hand, her skin as thin and frail as crepe paper.
