such a feat.”
He murmured with modest delight as the group praised the work. Antonio tied a robe around himself and came to join in the admiration. Nathan moved to keep himself between the model and Christine, which she acknowledged with a sly smile and wink to Amanda
They all admired Christine’s carefully crafted pencil rendering, so different than her usual powerful Roualt-type slashings. Her horizons had, indeed, expanded beyond the naked model’s midsection and she had produced an exquisite sketch of a full-length nude that caught Amanda’s breath in her throat.
It was so startlingly similar to the Ingres-like sketch Amanda had chosen in her wealthy European persona at Pinks gallery that she could have sworn both drawings had been done by the same person. But Christine had said the creepy Pink Dracula had never taken any work of hers.
Amanda’s mind began to race. Nathan’s drawing was crisp, clean and very well-executed and evidenced his underlying background as a superb graphic artist. How could it not, Amanda thought. Her employee drew dramatic, contemporary cartoons daily at his job with great relish and obvious love of his work. His art was contemporary and very much of today.
She couldn’t put all the bits and pieces together and longed for a chance to discuss what was going through her head with Marc. He could help her sort it out. He would add his own insight and the pieces would begin to fall into place.
And the case would be solved. One of her dear friends would be indicted as an international forger, Marc would be gone and she would never again feel his touch.
Impulsively, she grabbed “Antonio’s” hand for support, for strength, for belief that what they had had would have to last her for the rest of her empty life and because she couldn’t stand being in his presence one more moment without feeling the touch of his flesh.
Just as impulsively, Marc leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. The two older artists smiled in delighted surprise. Christine raised her eyebrows and Nathan smirked.
Amanda’s cheeks flamed and she looked around in confusion. Even Marc, behind his dark contacts, seemed startled. But she did not let go of his hand. Nor he of hers.
“I… I… we…”
“How delightful,” Professor Angeli ducked his head coyly, patting both Amanda and Antonio on their reddening cheeks. “It appears our young people have become… friends.”
He looked around at a beaming Mr. Wilde. “Perhaps now would be a perfect time for a bit of a respite. Amanda, my dear, your timing is superb. Our more than gracious host has provided us with a lavish, authentic 15th century Zabar’s nosh to keep our energies up. And I have offered to assist in spreading the fare.”
He reached over and squeezed Antonio and Amanda’s hands, still holding tightly to each other.
“Thank goodness something good came of my awful madness with poor Parkerson the other evening at the League.” The professor moved toward the kitchen, speaking to no one in particular. “I spoke to him this morning- I call every day, you know- and he’s coming along nicely. I still can’t imagine what got into my befuddled brain.” His voice came from the depths of the refrigerator. “The madness of the crowd, I assume.”
Amanda pulled “Antonio” into the kitchen with her. “Professor Angeli, did you see Mr. Wilde’s sketches,” Amanda asked excitedly. “They look like… they look like,” she gave a quick glance to the apprehensive Marc, “like classical work I’ve seen in the Metropolitan or at the Morgan. Isn’t that amazing?” she added, with what she hoped sounded like girlish naivete.
“Yes, Wilde has been making an effort to emulate the old masters for years,” the professor explained lightly. “He’s even made a study of the formulation of inks of the various periods. He doesn’t usually feel confident enough to show off that aspect of his talent in the presence of others.
“Wilde,” he directed to their host, who had entered the kitchen to retrieve the plastic-protected bowls and platters prepared by the world-famous, local delicatessen which Angeli pulled from the refrigerator. “You’re becoming extraordinarily accomplished. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dash off such excellent work of the period quite so proficiently.
“We’re settling in the salon,” the professor informed them as an aside. “Good heavens, Wilde, there’s enough food here for a dozen starving artists.” He handed Amanda and Antonio bottles of wine and wine glasses and led the way through the studio.
“Amanda is quite impressed with your work tonight,” Angeli said to Wilde as they passed a chatting Christine and Nathan and motioned for them to follow.
“Do have one, my dear,” Wilde offered magnanimously, setting the various containers on a large art deco coffee table. “Take any sketch you like. I want you to have one and I certainly want our gifted young model to have one.” He began to spoon various salads onto intricately-decorated hand-made crockery plates. “You may choose whatever you wish.”
Christine popped an olive into her mouth and gave Amanda a satisfied look that indicated how impressed she was with Amanda’s good fortune: a new boyfriend to take the place of the one leaving soon and a damn fine drawing by old Wilde.
Amanda was as nonplused at Christine’s look as she was flabbergasted at Wilde’s suggestion. “Mr. Wilde,” she sputtered, “those drawings are magnificent. I can’t imagine you giving them away. Why…why you could sell them if you don’t want to keep them. I’m sure there are galleries that…”
“Pagh,” Wilde erupted in fury, spraying food over his comfortable masculine living room. “Galleries! Vile, wretched, blood-sucking dens created solely to drive poor, naive artists to utter distraction!” He gestured wildly with an antique silver fork sending bits of salad flying. “We tried, didn’t we, Angeli? Didn’t we, Nathan? Didn’t we, Christine? God knows, we tried to do business with those money grubbing pariahs. You met one of them, my dear.” He turned to Amanda and let out a huge, appreciative guffaw.
“She called him Dracula… Pink Dracula. Perfect! Blood-sucking, namby-pamby pariah. I should have known better. But we did try, didn’t we, Angeli?”
“Yes, Wilde, we did.” Angeli scooted about the room wiping up the bits of scattered food. “Several of us in the class went to a Village gallery recommended by Parkerson and I’m afraid were treated rather perfunctorily.”
The professor leaned between Amanda and Antonio and said quietly, “An attitude that reacts rather badly with Wilde’s personality.”
“Purveyors of wretched modern crap! Not a decent reproduction in the whole shop! Worse than shyster, bottom-feeding lawyers,” Wilde grumbled into his food. “Forgive me, my dear fellow artists, my lack of restraint.”
Amanda wasn’t sure any of this was computing. Wilde hadn’t seemed that upset about the gallery when she ran into him in SoHo. Maybe he was just being overly dramatic now in front of appreciative friends. But the idea that David had sent them to the gallery?
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Mr. Wilde, but I’m sure there must be places that handle your quality of work.”
He patted her hand. “You are a dear to be concerned and I appreciate your thoughts, but I much rather enjoy giving my work to those who truly appreciate it for its quality rather than for what it might have cost them.”
“Unless the entire economy of the western world collapses, Wilde is fortunate not to have to choose between art and commerce, “Professor Angeli said, as he smiled somewhat tightly at the group.
Amanda looked at the sketches. Tears of joy bubbled in her eyes. She hugged the startled Wilde fervently.
“Oh, Mr. Wilde, thank you, thank you. This gift is the most wonderful thing to happen… since… since,” She grabbed Antonio’s hand and pressed it to her bosom. “Since Antonio.” She dropped her eyes, feeling delighted and silly, knowing she was blushing and that her emotions had carried her over the top. What would Marc think?
Wilde beamed. “I’m so pleased you would consider my paltry efforts on a par with such an obviously special attachment.”
“Don’t be so modest, Wilde,” the professor’s voice was chilly. “Your work is good and you know it. Fortunately you don’t have to give a fig about what any stupid so-called artist’s representative might think.”
There was an awkward silence. Christine looked from one to the other. Nathan continued to shovel food into his mouth, unconcerned.
Oh dear, I’ve offended Professor Angeli, Amanda thought. Obviously, he had also at one time had a bad
