“The red is much better, trust me.”
“Red is a little too bold for my taste.”
Paul caught her subtext immediately. Grinning, he held up his glass, toasting her. “Suit yourself.”
She took a sip and immediately made a face.
“Told you so.” Paul laughed.
“What did I miss?” Marta rushed in, grabbing the empty seat beside Emily; she was older than Emily, but not by much. Unlike most of the women in attendance, Marta wore no jewelry at all, not even a wedding ring.
Paul started to stand again, but Marta motioned him to sit.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” Towner said.
Back at the tearoom, Towner had introduced Marta and Callie only by first names. Now, as she looked at tonight’s program, Callie saw Marta’s last name.
“Hathorne,” Callie said. “Any relation to Nathaniel?”
“He’s Hawthorne, with a w,” Marta said, after an uncomfortable pause. “And yes. A different branch on the same family tree. Which also includes the hanging judge from the Court of Oyer and Terminer, I’m afraid. The embarrassment of which is what prompted young Nathaniel to change the spelling of his name.”
It was a much longer explanation than Callie had expected and had the feeling of a rehearsed speech. This must be a frequently asked question.
Marta signaled to a waiter and pointed to her glass, never taking her eyes off Callie.
“The difference between their side of the family and mine,” Marta continued, this time less rehearsed and more conversational, “is that we have a great deal more fortitude and daring. But we who dared to keep our original spelling would have missed a great commercial opportunity in the story of Hester Prynne. We wouldn’t have seen the tragedy in that tale. Each of us would have worn that scarlet letter as a red badge of courage.”
Paul choked on his wine. His mother shot him a look.
A long silence followed. Callie realized that, beyond the literary references, Marta had made some kind of inside joke, and that she’d missed it. Not an uncommon occurrence for Callie, given how she’d grown up. She was relieved when the waiter came to take their dinner orders.
The meal was as expected, with a choice of roast beef, salmon, or chicken, but the salad course was served at the end, European style. The dinner conversation settled into predictable small talk, learned from years of etiquette classes and cotillions. Callie felt lost.
Fortunately, the inside jokes stopped. Paul asked the usual “Where did you grow up?” questions most people asked when meeting for the first time.
“New Orleans first,” Callie said. “Then Northampton, Mass.” She didn’t mention Salem.
“That must have been a big cultural adjustment.”
“I was very young when we moved. I don’t remember much about Louisiana.”
The waiter put down dessert plates, a combination of chocolate mousse and madeleines. Paul waved his away. “I’ll have a brandy instead, please.”
The waiter looked as if he were about to protest but then caught Marta’s eye. She nodded.
“Certainly, sir,” he said.
“Would you like something?” Paul asked Callie, his hand touching her forearm. “Brandy, or something else?”
“I’m all set,” Callie said.
Paul’s hand lingered for a long moment before he removed it and continued the questions. Where had she gone to school? How had she decided to become a music therapist? And what the heck was music therapy, anyway?
She tried to match him question for question, but he was far better at the dance. At one point, Callie noticed the two perfumed women glancing in her direction. Then they fell immediately into an animated conversation. What were they saying about her? She was relieved when the auction began.
The first item up for bid was a painting, a fishing shack at the water’s edge donated by Racket Shreve, a much-admired local artist.
“It’s beautiful,” Callie commented, noting the play of light and wind on the water of what looked like an early version of Salem Harbor under a moonlit sky.
Paul concurred. “Shadow and light.”
“Two hundred, do I hear two fifty?” the auctioneer barked. “Two fifty, do I hear three?”
The bidding closed at more than a thousand dollars. The next item offered was a small painting by H. L. Barnes, a historically accurate rendition of one of the merchant vessels that had sailed out of Salem during the 1800s. This painting brought even more.
The third painting was much smaller than the other two. Callie had noticed it displayed on the way in. Smartly, Marta had set up the auction items just inside the entrance to the ballroom, so you had to pass by them on the way to your table. Callie had admired each of the three paintings as she passed. While the first two were beautiful, this one had stopped her in her tracks, though she wasn’t sure why. It was an old portrait done in oil, a beautiful woman with an owl on her shoulder.
“This painting was donated from the collection of Ann Chase. Artist unknown. Titled: Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom, Medicine, and Music,” the auctioneer said. “Note the owl sitting on her shoulder. As we all know, the owl is a symbol of wisdom.”
The auctioneer held up the portrait for viewing. But it was a far smaller painting than the other two, and difficult to see, even from the front tables. As a result, the bidding got off to a rough start.
“Do I hear a hundred dollars? Come on, people, a hundred dollars is a steal for a beautiful painting like this.”
Finally someone held up a paddle.
The auctioneer went on, getting the bidding to $190 before it stopped.
“That’s ridiculous,” Paul muttered, raising his paddle and speaking loudly. “Five hundred dollars.”
Really, Callie thought. It was a beautiful painting, but five hundred dollars, without blinking an eye?
“Sold.” The auctioneer quickly handed the painting off to his assistant, gesturing in Paul’s direction, and moved on.
Several high-ticket items followed: a week at a New Hampshire summerhouse was snapped up. A New York foodie weekend complete with a breakfast very near Tiffany’s inspired a hot bidding war; a wine tasting and food pairing for ten at a local restaurant hosted by the Whiting family’s sommelier had people in a frenzy.
Emily Whiting didn’t bid on any of the items. Callie kept a rough tally in her head, and, when the auction ended, she estimated the evening had raised more than $50,000 for the shelter.
The assistant approached the table, breaking into a smile when she saw Paul. She held out a clipboard for him to sign and a credit card receipt. “I’ll hold her for you at the back table,” she told him and smiled flirtatiously. “You can pick her up on your way out.”
“Oh, bring her to me, please,” he said. “She’s too pretty to sit at the back table all by herself.”
The girl blushed and headed off to fetch the painting.
Callie was shaking her head.
“What?”
“?‘She’s too pretty to sit at the back table all by herself’?”
“She is.”