I knew the difference between polite indulgence and genuine interest. My father was a master of polite indulgence; I rarely knew what he actually thought. This man was different. There was something … bare … about his face.
“I work in clay,” I said. “The challenge for me would be replicating the sheer feeling of this.” I nodded toward the hand. “Look at it—wrist, knuckles, fingernails, all in perfect proportion and pose. It comes to life.”
He said nothing.
Awkward, fearing I’d lost him, I asked, “Don’t you think?”
He remained serious. “I do. But I’m pretty dumb when it comes to art. I’m here just tagging along with a friend.”
That made sense. His hair was neatly cut, his suit dark and sedate, his loafers polished. The only thing even remotely artistic about him was his tie, which had tiny flowers—ironically—in the same coral as my dress. I wondered if someone had put the outfit together for him. I had a friend who earned money doing that. Her medium was gouache, but she worked at an exclusive men’s shop to pay bills. If this man used someone like her, the tie might be as far as he dared go.
Too late, I realized I was staring at it, at the pale-blue shirt that stretched fractionally with each breath, at the nearby lapel that was drawn into an elegant curve by the hand in the pocket of his slacks. Too late, I realized that we were facing each other.
The silence went on a beat too long. Trying to make a joke of staring, I said, “You look very grown-up.”
He snickered. “As in boring?”
“No. I meant serious. Disciplined.” Even the hand that held his wine glass suggested it. Long fingers supported the stem while his thumb and forefinger cradled the bowl. But there, there, was a tiny betrayal. That forefinger tapped the bowl once, then again, like the discipline only went so far.
I must have been staring again because he said, “Uh, oh, sorry, would you—?” He raised his glass and glanced at the server who was circulating with a tray.
“No. But thanks. You’re not drinking yours. Not into champagne?”
“Not into wine. Beer’s more my thing. I’m just trying to look the part.”
“Of what?”
“Knowledgeable art admirer.” He cleared his throat. “My business card says I’m a venture capitalist, but I’m not totally there. I’m working my way up. That requires looking confident.”
“Aren’t you?”
His lips lifted in a lopsided way, still not yet a smile, but sincere. “Not like you. You look bohemian through and through.”
I wondered if I’d gone too far with the outfit. Maybe the top was too bare for proper Bostonians, or the many-stacked bangles were silly, or the cowboy boots clashed with the rest. “That bad?”
“That good, no, it’s good. Do you live here in Boston?”
“For a week now and then.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“Trying to figure that out.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“Connecticut. You?”
“New Jersey. My dad’s a dairy farmer.”
I smiled at that. I wouldn’t have guessed it, though he could probably say the same about me. “My dad teaches math,” I said to even us out. “He’s buttoned up, very into formulas.”
“Which you are not.”
“Which I am not.” I grinned at a friend who approached. A fellow artist, he wore his standard black T-shirt and jeans. For the occasion, he had added a scarf that my mom would call dashing but that I called simply the price paid for the honor of eating high-end canapes.
“Hey, Mack,” he said and kissed both of my cheeks, then tossed a hand back at the room. “Is this cool or what?”
“Very cool,” I said. “Uh, Ollie, this is…”
“Edward,” said the tall man and extended his hand. They shook, which seemed to exhaust Ollie’s patience for nonartists, because as abruptly as he’d come, he turned and left.
I was about to explain that artists weren’t always socially skilled, when Edward said, “Mack?”
“Mackenzie. Edward? Ed? Woody?”
“Just Edward. Tell me about your work.”
I thought about how best to explain it to a layman. “I sculpt people, but in an interpretive way. I find a trait in my subject that I want to capture, and I sculpt the face to reflect it.”
“Then, you make head shots? Torsos?”
“Fragments of both. I’ve started doing family groups.”
“Singly or together?”
“Together. It’s the challenge of finding an overriding trait. Some families are cohesive, some are disjointed. Some are matriarchal, some are blended. I spend as much prep time getting to know the family as I do sculpting them. You must do the