The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,7

not my favorite. All the attention comes with the territory, but it’s a performance too.”

I’m taken aback, but he seems genuine. “So who is the real you?” I tease.

“Just me,” St. Clair gives me a quiet smile and takes my hand. “The guy who cooked you dinner in Napa, who just spent a lovely evening with your family.”

I smile. “That guy’s great,” I say, but I wonder why this sudden burst of authenticity.

He smiles back. “Don’t forget that,” he says.

Inside, the grand lobby has been turned into a reception area, with a bar at one end of the marble floor and the donated art pieces hung throughout the room. St. Clair is surrounded immediately. He introduces me to all kinds of amazing people, saying, “This is my art consultant, Grace Bennett,” and I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s magical.

Finally, St. Clair says, “Let’s take a tour, go say goodbye to my donations.”

I laugh, then realize he’s serious. “But they were just sitting in your vault.”

St. Clair grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and hands me one. “Which is why I’m giving them away to live a better life. But I still want a last look.”

We make it around the room to where St. Clair’s donation is displayed. A small crowd has gathered in front of the three pieces I agonized over but finally chose: a wild and crazy splattering of a Pollock, an abstract Picasso, and an up-and-coming artist named O’Brien who uses neon colors and big sweeping shapes.

People are whispering and there’s an energy surrounding the art that makes me nervous. The paintings I picked don’t fit in with the rest of the art here. All the other pieces are tame and traditional: watercolors, landscapes, lots of florals and delicate brushwork. The typical thing you find in doctors’ waiting rooms – and exactly why I went in a different direction. Now, I’m having second thoughts. If these pieces aren’t appropriate, then it makes St. Clair look bad.

“Do you think there’s a problem?” I ask nervously, my body tensing as we get closer. Before St. Clair can answer, someone sees him and starts clapping. More of the crowd joins in until dozens of people are applauding and clearing a path for us.

“Guess not,” he whispers to me.

A reporter from the Chronicle stands ready with a dictaphone. “Everyone is very impressed by your donations, Mr. St. Clair.”

Agreements and things like, “Wonderful choices, St. Clair!” and “So lively!” float from the several dozen people standing around gazing at the artwork I selected. I love the paintings, so it shouldn’t be surprising that others love them, too. And yet, I’m relieved and grateful.

“Speech!” someone shouts and the crowd quiets down.

“Yes, please,” says the man from the Chronicle. “Can you tell us a little about your donation? It’s by far the most impressive collection to hang in a public building like this. Aren’t you worried about security?”

St. Clair clears his throat and addresses the room. “Actually, my art consultant, Grace Bennett, was the brilliant mind who selected the art here tonight. Please, Grace.” He gestures for me to speak.

What? My mind goes blank. I look at the sea of expectant faces and don’t know what to say. “Um,” I say, beginning to sweat. St. Clair gives me a little nod of encouragement. “Well, my mom was sick a few years ago,” I start slowly, speaking from the heart. “So I spent a lot of time in hospitals—waiting rooms and hallway seats, patient rooms—and the art was always so lifeless. It was supposed to be soothing, I know, but instead, it felt like defeat. I always thought there should be more vibrant colors, more movement in the art to lift people’s spirits,” I go on, and suddenly I can’t stop the words flowing out of me. “To remind them about the beauty in the world when they’re facing their most difficult challenges. I know I would have liked pieces like this hanging on the hospital walls I had to be in. I hope others feel the same.”

There’s applause, a few nods of understanding, and St. Clair rests a hand on my shoulder. “Great job,” he murmurs. And I can tell from the look in his eye that he means it. “This is why I hired you, you know,” he says as the crowd disperses. “You see art as something that can enrich the everyday, not just something to stay on the wall and be admired from a distance. I’m proud