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  She dropped the postcard into the wastebasket. Thinking about Lou’s work was supposed to take her mind off Ed, but no such luck. Was she going to go home and draw bald spots on grid paper? Damn Ed. Damn all the artists who seemed to be clouding her own vision.

  No, the artists were no problem; damn all the men who seemed to be clouding her vision. Truth was, she’d been thinking about Ed since their first meeting. She remembered wanting him to like her immediately. It was almost a sexual, or at least sensual, feeling. She hadn’t expected Ed’s touch to remind her of her sexual bald spots. She thought she’d matured since she’d moved to the city fifteen years ago, that she’d be able to handle a relationship now, but her growth was all in her mind. Her body still remembered the way things used to be, and reacted according to conditioning. She would have frozen at the touch of any male hand.

  She glanced at her watch and saw ten minutes had passed. That should be long enough for Ed to have gotten to his car and driven off, or at least to have walked a few blocks away, if he actually did decide to explore the area. She made a quick tour around the gallery, following the same route he’d taken. When she’d first begun working here, they had often had concurrent shows by as many as four artists, and were able to present each piece appropriately. But drawings didn’t take up the room paintings did, they didn’t present nearly as many problems with hanging, or lighting. Regardless of what the gallery’s mission statement said, in her own art she viewed drawings as preludes to larger works.

  She locked up and treated herself to a cab uptown, deciding to pay herself back from petty cash. She was anxious to be alone in her own apartment—maybe she’d curl up in bed and read a while. She picked up a ham sandwich at the corner bodega; she couldn’t deal with stopping in a coffee shop tonight. By seven o’clock she was undressed. It was too warm for flannel pajamas, especially pajamas with feet, but she put them on anyway, watching in dismay as her big toes poked through the soles. She’d looked all over town to find these and didn’t relish the prospect of shopping for new ones, hurrying past the cosmetic counter at Bloomingdale’s before they sprayed her with perfume.

  She left all the animals on the bed and positioned herself among them, propping her head on the turtle’s back. She took two bites of a sandwich and found herself wondering what her parents were eating. Marilyn had said years ago that Jana’s difficulties in relating to men most likely had something to do with her parents. “Maybe you felt excluded from their sexual relationship,” Marilyn suggested. Jana had rejected that theory; it was hard to think of her parents as being sexual creatures, all but impossible to imagine them in bed together. “If you must know, it probably has more to do with a seventy-year-old doctor I met when I was away at summer camp,” Jana might have answered, but that wasn’t an experience she could talk about, even with Marilyn.

  She tossed the other animals off the bed, clung tight to Leroy, and picked up a book. Leroy had been the first in her collection of stuffed animals, and he was still her favorite; the others were smaller, less cuddly. She lay back, the three-foot lion almost as big as her own body, his front legs crossed on her chest, one back leg soft and warm between her thighs. Keeping her arms at her sides, she twisted a corner of the sheet between her fingers. “Never tell anyone about how we do this,” she whispered in his plush ear. “It will be our secret.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Last Meeting

  “TOO BAD Ed is a grants officer, instead of a member of the panel that approves the grants,” Natalie muttered the next day. “We’d have it made.”

  “What makes you say that?” Jana asked, staring at an enormous stack of papers Nat had left on her desk that morning.

  “I think he likes you.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He offered you a ride back here, didn’t he?”

  “He was just being helpful. He said he had to see someone downtown,” Jana lied.

  “Ed is a corporation man—he can’t spare time to be ‘helpful.’ He likes you.”

  “It was nothing more than a friendly gesture. He’s considerate.”

  “Why do you immediately dismiss the idea that a guy might be interested in you?”

  “I don’t know if he’s interested or not; I don’t always pick up those signals. But if The Paperworks Space is depending on me to sleep our way to grant money, then we’re in big trouble,” Jana said in her usual effort to joke about her virginity.

  Natalie wasn’t laughing. She walked over to Jana’s desk, positioning herself directly in front. “That’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is that you can’t continue running away from men. Ed’s not an artist—maybe that will help you to relax and be yourself with him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jana mumbled.

  “No it’s not. Your figure’s almost as good as it was when we first met, if you spruced yourself up a bit, you could look every bit the femme fatale. You don’t have to make a huge effort—you could just get some colorful scarves, maybe a gold bangle. Even if Ed’s only casually interested, I bet he’d totally flip next time he sees you.”

  “When we first met …” Jana muttered, remembering. Fifteen years ago Natalie had been twenty-eight, newly divorced, and into her earth-mother role. It seemed natural for her to befriend Jana, a timid kid two years out of high school she’d met in a painting class. One Saturday when she had nothing better to do, she called Jana and suggested they meet for lunch. Later they went back to her place, and she spent an hour painting Jana’s face. The makeup made her feel like a clown, but in those days Jana was willing to accept anything Nat said as gospel: she was older and more familiar with the art world. Now they were equals, professionally, but Natalie’s determination to “cure” her virginity continued to rankle. Sometimes Jana could let Natalie’s stream of advice rush over her head, but this wasn’t one of those times.

  “Why don’t you get your hair done?” Natalie continued. “Or better yet, let me set it for you. We can do it tonight. We’ll go shopping, grab some dinner, come back to my place, and I’ll fix your hair.”

  “Nat, please. I appreciate all you’re trying to do, but I’m simply not interested.”

  Not quite pouting, but with all the excitement drained out of her, Natalie settled in at her desk. She looked up some numbers in the Rolodex, made a few notes on scrap paper. She got up and sharpened her pencil. “Are you certain you want to spend the rest of your life alone?” she asked, stopping at Jana’s desk on her way back. When Jana didn’t respond, she continued probing: “You seem confused lately. I’ve watched your reactions when people come into the gallery. If you see a couple hugging or flirting, your whole body tightens up. I think you’re jealous.”

  “Maybe I am jealous, but it’s not rational.”

  “Rational?” Natalie scoffed, then unloaded a little bomb. “I bet if you got involved with someone it would help your painting.” She took a step back and turned away, allowing the statement its full effect.

  Jana glanced at Natalie towering over her, then realized she no longer cared about anything her friend thought might “help her painting.” Nat had become too much of an administrator, looking only at the finished works; she was no longer close to the artistic process. “I hope I never get to that point,” Jana told herself. Until now, working at The Paperworks Space had prevented her from forming distorted impressions. She was convinced that working in a situation where she was forced to judge art, to separate potential from mediocrity, had forced her to look at her own painting more critically as well.

  And painting was still her main focus. Fifteen years ago, it had been the nucleus of her friendships. It was what solidified her bonds with both Natalie and Marilyn. People were expected to change, but still … Natalie had never been the most dedicated painter in the world, but these days she’d given up the pretense of having a canvas always stretched and ready. And Marilyn, whose commitment to her work used to be an inspiration to Jana, had spent the better part of the past ten years on
textile design. Marilyn’s interest in textiles had begun as a way to make extra money when she was pregnant; “domesticating myself,” she’d jokingly called it. Then, staying home with the baby, she looked around the apartment and became more aware of fabrics interacting in her life. As much as Marilyn might insist that her painting had always been rooted in design and this medium offered just as much opportunity for self-expression, Jana could see through that guise. She had to protect herself against such drastic changes; it was her single-minded attention to painting which had kept her so clearly on the same course all these years. All the more reason not to think too much about Ed, or any other man.

  She let her eyes as well as her thoughts wander, trying to decide how to end this conversation with Natalie without one of them getting upset. She chewed on the eraser of her pencil the way she’d done as a kid, then tapped the wet tip on the desk. Directly in front of her, the Rolodex was open to Bill Fitch, president of the gallery’s board of directors. “We’re not going to get any calls made if we stand around here talking all afternoon,” Jana said. “We promised Frank we’d speak to our board and get back to him with suggestions for prominent artists to include in the exhibition. I purposely came in early today to get started on that.”

  “They’ll come up with someone,” Nat mumbled. She was no more anxious than Jana to play phone tag with their board members, presenting this compromise with APL as a successful negotiation, then asking them to call in all their favors.

  “I’m glad one of us has confidence in our board,” Jana said. “We’ve never asked for anything like this before.”

  “We selected our board members because of their influence and connections. A situation like this is precisely what they’re there for.” They both picked up phones and started dialing.

  Jana called Larry Rivers, whom they’d added to their board last year because of his connections in the international art world. At first Larry seemed reluctant to help but finally agreed to speak with a young artist who’d been included in the Whitney Biennial for the past several years, and whose recent shows in New York had gotten widespread attention. He was an Abstract Expressionist who used handmade paper as his medium, “drawing” by molding the still-wet pulp. It was stretching the issue to consider his “landscapes” environmental commentary, but Jana wasn’t in a position to quibble. “He apprenticed with me ten years ago,” Larry said. “I was the one who introduced him to galleries in Germany and Switzerland. If it hadn’t been for those shows, his work wouldn’t have been readily accepted by the New York art scene. We’ve stayed on friendly terms—I have a feeling he’ll do anything to keep it that way.”

  Natalie spoke with Bill. As one of the top vice presidents at Nationbank, as well as an art patron, he had engineered Nationbank’s purchase of several large paintings over the past ten years. If anyone on their board was owed favors, it would be Bill. And as board president, he’d gone with Natalie the first time she’d presented the proposal to APL, so he was more involved in this project than the other board members. He’d see it as his responsibility to come up with a renowned artist who’d be willing to participate.

  A cautious person who thought things over carefully, then spoke with what bordered on a Southern drawl, Bill took even longer than usual to reply to her request. And when she heard his response, she understood his caution. “I don’t suppose Matt Fillmore would be appropriate, would he?” Bill asked.

  Matt Fillmore was one of the last names Natalie had expected. “Well, he does use drawing as his major medium,” she said. “And it would be an understatement to say that his work’s environmentally concerned.” She’d seen a show of his last fall, and two drawings stood out in her mind. One depicted a road race being run at Three Mile Island, the other showed garbage floating along the Hudson next to the Circle Dayliner. “Do you think he’d be willing to let us include his work?”

  “I suspect so,” Bill said. “He’s a friend of my wife’s brother, and I’ve known him socially for many years. It was through my instigation that he got the mural commission for Nationbank’s Dallas headquarters two years ago, so it also wouldn’t be the first time his work has had corporate backing.”

  “In other words, you think he knows how far he can push a sponsor?”

  “I think he’ll make direct statements about obvious trouble spots, but for the most part his work offers subtler commentary.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s the trouble spots that stick out in my mind,” Natalie said. “Those are also his strongest pieces.”

  “The question is: are there any trouble spots in APL’s recent past?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “I can’t recall any, either. APL uses nuclear power, of course. The general public doesn’t realize it, but large cities wouldn’t be able to function without some forms of nuclear energy. But I don’t recall them having any accidents or near misses.”

  “Let’s just hope it stays that way,” Natalie said. When Bill asked if she wanted a few days to think it over, she jumped at the chance. Not that there was much to think about—Matt Fillmore was probably the most appropriate artist around—but the more people she could draw into making this final decision, the less the burden would rest on her shoulders. And Jana was curator, after all; it should be her decision.

  “I guess we don’t have much choice, do we?” Jana stated more than asked. “We knew when we first talked about a show of environmentally concerned art that we might be dealing with some heavy issues, and the board agreed with us that it was important, right?” They waited two days, and spoke to the other board members. They threw Matt’s name out, and everyone’s reaction was pretty much the same as Bill’s had been: his work’s certainly appropriate; let’s hope for the best. No one came up with a better suggestion.

  Bill spoke with Matt Fillmore, then had Jana call and give him the particulars. “He seems like an easy-going guy,” Jana said out loud as she put the phone down. Larry Rivers called on Thursday afternoon to say the artist he’d suggested was willing to participate. Natalie thought she was being optimistic by promising to get back to APL with the names of these artists in three weeks; as it turned out, they had all the material together, including bios and letters of interest from the artists, by the end of the following week, and they arranged a meeting for the following Thursday. “This ought to be the last meeting with Frank, Ed, and Marsha,” Natalie prayed, delicately crossing her fingers. “After this it will be up to APL’s board of directors.”

  Natalie had appointments in midtown on Thursday morning. She wanted to go over the bios with Jana before the meeting, to double-check which aspects of these artists they should stress, so they met in a little coffee shop around the corner from the APL building. They were standing in the short line, waiting to be seated, when Ed walked in, alone. Before Jana could catch her breath and smile, she heard Natalie inviting him to join them. For a moment Jana wondered if Nat had planned this accidental meeting, then decided it wasn’t possible. Her boss might be a hopeless romantic, but she also had innate business sense; when contradictory aspects of her personality came into conflict, the level-headed executive won out.

  Jana stared at the white tile wall their table was set against. This place looked more like a bathroom than a coffee shop, and sorely lacked the individuality one found in coffee shops in Soho or the Upper East Side. She raised her fork and watched the tile catch its reflection. Ed, sitting across from them, seemed to be going out of his way to talk with Natalie, telling her how much he’d enjoyed touring the gallery, asking questions about individual drawings. Jana was beginning to think maybe she and Nat had misinterpreted Ed’s romantic interests.

  She looked across the table to catch Ed rubbing his eye, trying to push a contact lens back in place. “Excuse me,” he said to no one in particular. He left the table and headed for the men’s room.

  “Get it fixed?” Jana asked when he came back.

  “For the moment, at least. Once those things start moving arou
nd in my eye, I’m usually in for a full day of trouble.”

  “Ever lose one?”

  “No, but I’ve ripped them. I did that the first week I had them.”

  “That’s the sort of thing I’d probably do.”

  “Before I got them, all my friends were telling me how wonderful soft lenses were. Now all I hear are their horror stories.”

  “I’ll bet. I’d be terrified at the thought of putting something in my eye. Besides, I like having my glasses as a shield.” Small, gold granny glasses; she’d worn them long before they were considered fashionable.

  “As do I,” Ed laughed. “I’ve never broken the habit of pushing my glasses up on my nose when I’m absorbed in thought, even though they’re no longer there.”

  They finished the meal in silence, but it was an easy silence, miles away from the tension that had filled the car two weeks ago. Soon plates were pushed aside; Ed stubbed out his Camel in a flimsy tin ashtray. He ground the butt into the tin, anxious to catch every last spark. Jana glanced at the potato chips left on his plate.

  Ed noticed. “Help yourself,” he said, pushing the plate toward her. “But I warn you, one potato chip has twelve calories. I keep close track.” He stood up and playfully tightened his belt a notch.

  Jana took one chip. She had her hand halfway toward a second, then pulled back and pretended to hunt around in her purse for something. If they didn’t get out of here soon, they’d be late for the meeting.

  The meeting itself took less time than lunch had taken. Frank got right down to business, so pleased with the luster these new artists would bring to the exhibit that he seemed to overlook Matt Fillmore’s highly charged political stance. He probably knows the name but not the work, Jana realized.