Warren repeated Ethel’s comments and praise for Grant in his column that week, gritting his teeth with each sentence he wrote. He had to satisfy himself with the thought that the man he now thought of as “pretty boy” would one day fall from the lofty pedestal that Ethel Landau had unwisely placed him upon.
Warren never imagined how soon that fall would come.
To Barbara’s amazement, Grant warmed to his role on the commission.
His favorite part was meeting the promising young artists who made up the Sausalito’s Gate Six Artists’ Cooperative, all of whom he encouraged to apply for his new program of funding artists in residence.
Meanwhile, Barbara had to come up with an acceptable excuse for ducking the offer to join the Sausalito Women’s League. When Marilyn Williams, one of Alma Samuels’ lieutenants and a charter member of the Ladies of Liberty, eventually did call, Barbara was prepared to be utterly charming—and completely dishonest.
“Oh, Marilyn, this is so sweet of you! Yes, I had so much fun at the luncheon. But since I last saw you, I’ve accepted a position with the Moss Gallery on Post Street, in San Francisco.”
Marilyn sounded like she was getting ready to say something, so Barbara kept speaking.
“I’ve been so busy settling into my new job and adjusting to the daily commute I just haven't had time to think. I should have reached out to you first. I hope the invitation to the club will remain open so I may reapply when things at my job settle down.”
“Oh, absolutely, my dear,” Marilyn assured her, but her tone hinted at a level of unspoken disappointment. “Just let me know. And I do have to tell you that I’ve heard so many good things about your husband Grant’s work with the arts commission. He’s making quite a name for himself with all the right people.”
Barbara hummed and purred her way through the rest of the conversation. During her time in town, she’d learned that warm, welcoming smiles could turn into disapproving frowns with a single misstep. Turning down the invitation to join the league was pushing the envelope for anyone who wanted to remain on the right side of those considered individuals of note. Even though it was small when compared to their lower Manhattan social set, neither of the Grants appreciated being viewed as social outcasts, regardless of the arena they were playing in.
As for the position at the Moss Gallery on San Francisco’s Post Street, Barbara’s story was something of an embellishment. The Moss Gallery was considered by most aficionados to be the city’s leader in both the purchase and sale of works by Northern California’s diverse body of established and emerging artists. Just two days earlier, Barbara had interviewed for the position of sales associate with Anna Ruth Moss, the gallery’s seventy-two-year-old founder. Given her years of previous experience in the nation’s most competitive fine arts acquisition market, more than likely the position could be Barbara’s for the asking. What had been a convenient excuse to avoid the vacuous delights of the Sausalito Women’s League was a reasonable professional step forward.
Anna Ruth Moss was delighted to hear that Barbara Randolph wished to join her team. Barbara was equally delighted that she would be reconnecting with the art world from a west coast perspective.
Best of all, three days a week she would once again be surrounded by the vitality of a great city. She missed Manhattan more than she ever imagined she would. While San Francisco and New York were as different as Paris and London, it was that buzzing rhythm of a busy city center that gave Barbara the feeling of being back home. Besides, there was something charming about replacing the sound of Manhattan car horns with the chime of ringing bells on cable cars as they went up and down along Powell Street, just steps from the location of the gallery.
Grant was pleased with Barbara’s selection of galleries, yet found himself asking repeatedly, “But you are happy with our choice to settle in Sausalito as opposed to San Francisco?”
“Oh, absolutely, Grant. I can’t imagine a more idyllic place to live. But I do miss the gallery business, and I need to get back to something that challenges me to be my best. I’ll be forty-one in a few months, and that’s a little young for retirement,” she said with a smile.
“Well, I’m just a little older. You don’t think of me as retired, do you?”
“Not exactly…”
Grant frowned. “Okay, maybe in a sense I am, but I’m at least keeping busy.”
Barbara came close to saying something else but held back. While Grant was undoubtedly in the best physical shape she had ever seen him in, the competitive business of fine art acquisition and sales had kept him sharp in ways that he was not anymore. There had always been a hungry look in his eyes whenever he was going to make a significant acquisition, knowing that he had several buyers who would eagerly compete against each other to add a particular piece to their collection. That hunger seemed to have vanished.
On some level, Grant knew this truth as well. It was the likely reason he had embraced his involvement in the city’s small but thriving art scene.
It was a discussion about their future that neither Barbara nor Grant was willing to have. With the passage of time, Barbara wondered if Grant loved their new life too much.
Grant thought perhaps Barbara did not love it enough.
Chapter Eight
Warren made it his mission to keep a careful eye on both Barbara and Grant.
His seemingly innocent patter would go something like this: “Have you
