“At least have a talk with Bradley about these hatchet jobs. I’m sure this woman, Barbara, is wondering what she did to have him set her up like this.”
During his walk home that evening, Warren’s gossip column kept crossing Rob’s mind. In truth, he would happily toss Warren out of the paper’s circle of community reporters, but he knew that would equal a loss of readership and eventually a loss of ad sales, neither of which The Standard could afford. He resolved to leave the status quo for now but made a promise to himself to monitor Warren’s column more carefully. He’d start by reading it before putting it on press, and when possible, edit out comments he thought were inappropriate.
Barbara remained willfully unaware that her social standing was quickly eroding. But one day, several weeks after Warren’s column about her had appeared, she went for a Saturday afternoon walk with Debbie Sirica and heard for the first time that she was not well thought of by many of the women in town.
Debbie, who had been a longtime member of the league—in fact, she was a former chair of the holiday follies program—seemed shaken by this. “I was surprised to hear many of the women in the league referring to you as the ‘ice queen.’ When I asked them what they meant by that the only answer I got back was, ‘Well, actually, I didn’t say that, someone else told me.’”
Further, when Debbie asked them to recall who they heard that from, she was told, “I really can’t remember,” which Debbie took to mean, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore; it’s not my problem.”
Debbie was annoyed by all this nonsense. But, as she shared with Barbara, “I think they don’t like the fact that you’re a professional woman with more on your mind than holiday follies, cake sales, and silly gossip.”
To Warren’s view, damaging Barbara’s social standing was the low hanging fruit. He was certain that greater care would need to be taken in what was written about her husband.
It was difficult to control his urge to undermine Grant’s standing in town. As much as he prided himself on knowing all there was to know about fine food, music, and art, he was still envious. Warren could never hope to compete with either of the Randolphs’ credentials in the art world.
This was made clear during the arts commission’s outing to San Francisco’s Legion of Honor to see the well-reviewed retrospective of the Danish-French impressionist Camille Pissarro. It was natural for the group to direct their questions to Grant—especially after he corrected Warren's faux pas in confusing Manet with Matisse.
Another time, he corrected Warren, insisting, “No, that’s not a work by the American master John Singer Sargent. It’s the work of Anders Zorn, arguably Sweden’s greatest painter.”
Catching the sly smiles of the others, Warren realized that his unquestioned position as a gentleman of culture and refinement was suddenly in doubt.
Making matters worse, Grant had a physique envied by men and admired by women. His fitted shirt did little to hide his flat stomach, broad chest, and massive shoulders—all of which fueled Warren’s growing resentment.
Warren’s one hope of dismantling this living statue of a man was that Alma and her Ladies of Liberty would in time believe that Grant was just as much of an outsider as his unappreciative wife. He enjoyed speculating with Robin Mitchell that perhaps the two of them were involved in the sale of forged artworks or other nefarious crimes.
“What a delicious scandal that would be,” Warren told her, as his gray eyes lit up and his aging face broke into a smile. “Perhaps their home was purchased through the sale of forged paintings!”
In time Robin Mitchell was repeating Warren Bradley’s privately spoken words of caution to others. At the Waterfront Beautification Association monthly meeting, she announced to a small group who hung on her every word, “Both of the Grants are a little full of themselves, don’t you think? These two immigrants from the cutthroat business of Manhattan art galleries should be approached with caution!”
Chapter Nine
Some of the storm warnings regarding their deteriorating social standing blew back to Barbara and Grant. Their concern, however, was always tempered by the Siricas’ advice not to take seriously the negative sentiments of small town folks with too much time on their hands.
As much as Grant enjoyed his work with Sausalito’s small but very active arts community, and Barbara continued to frequently put on her laptop’s screen photos taken from their home’s patio, the town’s insular nature began to wear on both of them.
She thoroughly enjoyed working with Anna Moss. The aging gallery owner still moved with boundless energy. Her passion reinvigorated all Barbara loved and missed about the world of art sales.
Regularly, Anna would come to her with a digital portfolio of a new artist and ask her opinion. “Is he too daring for us?” was invariably Anna’s first question. “I think of our artists as a blend of different styles—all unique, of course, but they work well together; otherwise you’ll never be able to cultivate a collector to move from one artist to another.”
Anna’s experience came through in everything she said and did.
What Barbara enjoyed most was Anna’s urging her to share her opinion. “I want to know what you think, Mrs. Randolph. I have not met anyone more in tune with collectors than you.”
Barbara equally enjoyed getting to know Anna’s forty-six-year-old son, James. She felt an attraction to him since the first day they met at the gallery.
James, she soon learned, had divorced two years earlier. As he told her, “I doubt that I’ll ever find my true soulmate.”
Barbara, ever the optimist, insisted, “None of us know what tomorrow might bring. The perfect woman for you might come walking through the gallery’s front door next week, and all your pessimism will vanish as if it
