flattery, you silly rascal. How about pouring me a glass of cold bubbles?” Mary Rose walked over to a chair and sat down while Barbara filled a small dish with cheese and crackers and grapes and took them to her, along with the glass of champagne that Armando had poured.
“Your watercolors look beautiful,” Barbara said. “I would wager every one is going to sell.”
“That’d be a plus,” she said, looking over to Armando. “You certainly have quite the catch there. As does he, of course. Such a handsome couple. You know if I were a bit younger I’d have his shoes under my bed in no time.”
“He does have his appeal,” Barbara answered with a laugh.
CHAPTER THREE
SHADES OF YESTERDAY
Prowler had finished his food and settled comfortably on Maggie Reardon’s lap, licking his paws. She wore a ragged chenille bathrobe and had the television on low to an old rerun of Cops as she picked away at a tasteless TV dinner. It was worse than not eating at all and she wondered why she kept buying them. Maybe because they were fast and no fuss. Or maybe because the photographs on the package made them look downright yummy. Or maybe she thought one of these days she’d hit on one that was actually edible. She hadn’t yet. Was it masochism? Hardly. Lack of imagination? More likely than not it was just plain laziness. She pushed Prowler onto the floor and set down the tray, which still held a few bites of over-salted beef trapped in congealing gravy.
“There you go, Prowler. Have at it boy.”
Prowler took one sniff and gagged as if he were ready to cough up a fur ball. He looked at the tray with disgust, then jumped back onto Maggie’s lap.
“I guess you’re smarter than I am,” she said scratching him behind the ear. “Your cat food probably has more flavor. Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”
Prowler began to purr, digging his sharp claws affectionately into her thigh.
“You’re right. It couldn’t be any worse.”
She looked up at the television just as two cops were shoving some perp into the back seat of their squad car. “Cuff ‘em and stuff ’em!” she yelled at the set. “Way to go!”
The black cat let out a low growl in his best imitation of a Siamese.
“Makes one proud, doesn’t it Prowler?”
There was a knock at the front door. Then another. And another.
Maggie rose, tossed Prowler across her shoulder and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole and there stood Marty the ex, flowers in hand. She was in no mood to answer. He kept knocking and she kept looking through the little round hole waiting for him to give up and go away. His baby blues peeked through curly blonde hair that fell forward over his eyebrows, his expression naive yet determined.
He was becoming a pest.
“Please open the door, Maggie. I know you’re in there.”
He held the flowers against his chest and furrowed his brow.
“I brought a peace offering.”
She yelled at him. “You’re starting to act like a stalker, Marty. Get away from here before I call in for back-up and have you hauled away.”
It was a full minute before he turned and walked away, defeated.
“The guy is starting to creep me out,” she said to the cat.
She waited until she was certain he was gone, then slowly opened the door. On the ground, wilting from the heat, lay a small bouquet of dainty pink roses. She reached down, Prowler still draped across her shoulder, picked them up and went inside, locking and bolting the door behind her. For a split second she thought of putting them in water. Then she threw them into the waste basket, returned to her comfortable chair and kicked up the volume on the TV.
Tickling the cat under his chin she muttered, “He doesn’t know me at all. If there’s anything I’m not it’s dainty pink!”
The purring cat repositioned himself more comfortably on Maggie’s lap, and meowed in response to the sound of her voice.
“Prickly cactus? That’s a bit harsh Prowler, don’t you think?”
* * * *
“Aye, Calypso!” Rocco said as the redhead entered the gallery. Her hair was as bright orange as a clown wig and just as wild. Her tiny blue eyes scrunched up with a smile as she looked at him. She wore a patchwork prairie skirt in bright shades of purple, green, orange and turquoise with a tee top in a yellow bright as the sun. Huge earrings touched her shoulders and four necklaces hung long and tangled from her neck down to her heavy braless breasts. She was a walking color wheel that hurt the eyes. A hodgepodge of utter confusion. Not unlike the mysterious Misty, she too was a reflection of her art. Calypso was the collage artist who added vibrant, lively colors to the gallery walls and shelves. Her works were happy and made people smile. She collaged everything that came within her reach, from little boxes to clip boards to canvases to lamp bases. Nothing escaped her scissors and decoupage paste. Like a gypsy on the run, the proverbial packrat collected anything that shone or caught her eye. She lived at garage sales and thrift stores and scoured the alleyways on trash collection day. She ripped colors and patterns and faces from the pages of magazines with a manic fervor. Even the photographs on the newspapers obituary page weren’t safe from her assault.
“Rocco, Rocco, Rocco!” She reached out for him, a myriad of bracelets clanked cacophonously as she embraced him. “My roly-poly welcoming committee of one, give me a hug, you big cuddly-bear.”
With the attention span of a gnat Calypso looked around the room. “Barbara, Adrian, Mary Rose!” Then she broke into a belly dance as she moved towards Armando and the bar. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, shimmy. “Wine, let there be wine.”
“That’s all she needs,” Adrian said to Rocco. “Last month we nearly had to carry her out.”
“She’s a free spirit.”
“She’s as wacky as a jar of mixed nuts.”
Barbara Atwell walked into the second room to welcome customers. The gallery was filling fast, the conversation loud and rowdy, the body heat mixed with outside temperature, thick and stifling. She jacked up the air conditioner and stood before it, letting the chill breeze cool her before making another sweep of the room. It was an impressive turnout for this time of year and she was pleased.
Two familiar faces entered the room, eyes glazed and bloodshot as always. Crazy Jake held his beat up guitar with one hand and held onto Mouse’s skinny arm with the other. Their flea-bitten cur followed obediently at their heels as they headed straight for the free food. Barbara would have banned them from the gallery a long time ago had it not been for the fact they always bought something. They were one step up from living on the street but they managed to buy Armando’s little statues at every opening. She heard they lived in a rented garage somewhere in midtown and imagined their walls filled with those tacky little statues from Mexico. They were like focused hoarders who shared but one common fixation. And there was another plus. They would sit on the porch until closing time, Crazy Jake strumming his guitar and Mouse, jittery and pale from too many drugs, singing accompaniment. She had the voice of a siren that lured people off the street and into the gallery.
