Joss and I were sipping lattes in the little kitchenette when the bells on the front door chimed. I set my cup down and peered around the corner, into the gallery. Amalie Rogers (soon to be Mathers) stood just inside the door, taking in the gallery with a rapt expression on her acquisitive little face. She took a few steps further inside, turning left, then right, experiencing the impact of the canvases from across the room. She basked as if she’d just stepped off a plane in Saint Bart’s.
The woman had marvelous taste, but I didn’t like her. To her I was just Phillip’s peon, a messenger boy, one of the army of insignificant sub-humans who were necessary to provide her life with sufficient grace and style. I always thought she secretly envied our talents and therefore must subject us to subtle forms of debasement whenever possible.
She cooed over Phillip because he was filthy rich and a member of her class. Phillip wasn’t here. She’d have to deal with me. But she’d play nice today. Joss was here.
Amalie was leggy for a short woman, and delicately boned in a build the Goths called ‘fairy.’ Joss joined me in the little hall and we watched as she removed her gloves, then slowly unwrapped a motley cloud of immense proportions from around her head and shoulders, unveiling herself like Venus emerging from sea foam. She draped the scarf over her arm, and shook out her hair. The razor-cut blonde streaks fell back perfectly in a trendy, layered hack-job, her pink and blonde coloring set off by NYC de rigueur black. Her leather jacket was matched with over-the-knee boots and leggings. She must have decided to go ‘edgy’ this season. I thought of the look as ‘Suburban Dangerous’.
“Does she know we’re watching her?” Joss whispered. “This is like a performance.”
“Every moment of that woman’s life is a performance. The audience is optional. Hush, darling, It’s not your moment yet.”
Amalie nodded at the canvases, approving as she circled. She should approve. Joss’s paintings were aching squares of anticipation, each four foot by four foot panel featuring the exquisite tension just before a kiss, a macro of approaching lips. Each held a universe of yearning in the negative space.
Amalie tilted her head at Kiss #43 and walked slowly up to it while unzipping her jacket, her mouth in a moue. The jacket fell open, silky color flashing between her lapels. She stood squarely in front of the panel, leaned back a bit and stroked the scarf on her arm as if it were a cat.
“Showtime, darling.” I tossed my head towards Amalie and took Joss’s hand. I led Joss out of the cubby, deliberately clipping my leather heels on the ancient wood floor. The sound echoed in the 3,000 square foot gallery, and Amalie turned.
“Amalie, darling, how marvelous to see you. I’m sorry you were out of town for the opening. It was wonderful. Phillip is so disappointed he couldn’t be here today. I want you to meet Joss, the creator of these marvels.” I let go of Joss’s hand and gestured toward her in a classic ‘Vanna White’ flourish.
Amalie took Joss’s hand and squeezed it in greeting as she looked the artist over, much as she had reviewed the paintings.
Joss stood five eleven, with sable hair falling to her waist. The elegant line of her cheek was offset by a bump in her nose and a wide mouth that found humor in everything. Her skin was tawny and exotic, speaking of a rich and diverse heritage.
She wore a moss green fisherman’s sweater over her Levi 501s and Doc Martins. The green of the sweater picked out hints of green in Joss’s misty silver eyes. Her entire ensemble cost less than Amalie’s socks.
Amalie of the surgically perfect nose would never be able to compete with Joss’s unadorned mystery, and she would never understand it.
“These are wonderful,” Amalie cooed. “Where ever did Phillip find you?”
“Oh,” Joss said, “It wasn’t Phillip. I’m an old friend of David’s from college.” Joss placed her free hand on my arm, reminding Amalie of my existence.
I caught the microscopic wrinkle in Amalie’s nose before she drew Joss before the canvas in a deft maneuver, cutting me out of their conversation.
She stood next to Joss, and patted her arm. “I adore this one,” She inclined her head towards lips caressed by a roguish mustache, the hint of a soul patch below. Who is he?”
Joss tilted her head. I could imagine her wistful expression. “Just a memory, I’m afraid. It’s rather private.”
“You can tell me. If I’m going to own this painting, I should know the story behind it, shouldn’t I? I promise not to repeat a word of it.” I had moved off to the side, ostensibly to give them privacy. Really, I wanted a better view. Amalie’s Delft blue eyes sparkled with avidity as she coaxed.
Joss’s mouth twitched with uncertainty as she considered. “I really don’t know if it’s much of a story.”
“Were you in love with him?” Amalie primed.
“I still am. ”Joss made a sad twist of her mouth. “He’s the inspiration for this entire series. These paintings are the only way I can deal with my feelings.”
“Unrequited love? Like Bridges of Madison County?”
I rolled my eyes. Discretely, of course.
“I was in a show in Boston two years ago. I rode up on the train for the opening,” Joss confessed.
“Do tell.”
“Another artist and I were talking and I saw this man across the room. A little voice inside my head said, ‘That’s him.’”
“Really? A voice?
“It was audible; a tiny, female voice in my left ear. I’ve never heard voices in my life, before or since. Sounds a bit crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Love at first sight, how romantic!”
“That’s what was strange. He was very handsome, a lot like Christian Bale, but I didn’t feel any attraction to him just then. So I just shrugged it off and went back to my conversation.”