Oscar: Patron of the Arts
Chapter 12 - Oscar
The tap-tap-tap of Oscar’s walking stick and glossed leather Chelsea boots broke the soft murmur of the art patrons as he entered Galerie D’Art de Giselle. Bejeweled necks craned for a glimpse, heels squeaking as the crowd turned, and voices stilled.
“I have heard compliments on the pieces you’ve chosen for my office, Emma. The Caravaggio was particularly a hit with the investors. Tyne may call you. Your art history degree has served you well.” Oscar smiled as Emma led him further into the gallery. Their arms linked, her hand on the new suit jacket she’d insisted he wear if she couldn’t talk him out of his jeans and into a proper suit. His arm crushing against the thicker linen of her long-sleeved dress. Her own steps silent in her ballet flats.
“Thank you, sir.” Emma said and nodded to a few attendees, her winning smile on display. Someone raised their hand in greeting. Oscar didn’t let go of her arm, but she replied with a wave of her own. Then she bowed her head, her lips close to his ear. “The Donovans are here, sir. I don’t know which of the Alexander pieces they’re after, but you may wish to stake your claim.”
“The Donovans, you say?” He scoffed. “Their tastes are too juvenile for some of the pieces I prefer.” He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “I’m sure you can find a piece or two to fit my aesthetic. I trust your judgement. And if the Donovans get in the way.” He shrugged. “You know what to do.”
““I do, sir. And with the utmost discretion, of course,” Emma whispered. “The gallery owner is quite lovely. French, I think.”
“Mr. Duncan.” The woman with a lilting French accent took his hand in hers. “Welcome to my gallery and our showing tonight. I am sure Miss Alexander will be delighted by your presence.” Oscar quickly pulled back and slipped his cane from his wrist to his hand.
“Miss …?” Emma said.
“Renault. Like the car,” answered the gallery owner. “But please, call me Giselle.”
“Of course, thank you.”
Oscar squeezed Emma’s arm. “I would like a private audience with Miss Alexander,” he said. “From visitors to my office,”—he tilted his head to Emma— “as well as from my decorator with an art historian background, I understand Callie Alexander’s work is fitting to my tastes and though I have acquired a few pieces here and there, I want to meet the woman who digs deep.” His fingers tightened around Emma’s arm, “Or so I’ve been told.”
Giselle sucked air through her teeth. “I will ask her.” A rustle of fabric as she stepped back to search the room in her white silk pantsuit.
“Is she here?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan. She’s currently with another patron.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Donovan.”
“Who wouldn’t recognize talent if it bit her on the nose.”
“Mr. Duncan,” Giselle’s voice raised slightly.
Tapping Emma’s hand, he turned to her and said,“Emma, find Miss Alexander, and bring her here.”
“I may not have to,” she whispered.
“Mr. Duncan. Oscar,” Giselle said. “Perhaps you would like to see some of the paintings first? I think you’ll find this entire show much to your liking, sir, based on the pieces you’ve acquired of hers previously. Callie has entered her macabre phase, and I must say, it is chilling.”
“Of course. Emma, tell me what you see. Your opinion of these new pieces. I’ll find space for one or two more, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir,” Emma said, her voice steady.
Giselle guided them to the first piece. “This one is—”
“One of my favorites,” Callie said “It drew every inch of me into it. Sweat. Soul. Blood.” Oscar shifted toward the sound as she spoke.
“Mr. Duncan, may I present Miss Callie Alexander?”
“No introduction needed, Giselle,” Callie said. “I recognized Mr. Duncan immediately.” Callie shifted her gaze from Giselle to Oscar. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“And yours.”
The patrons’ hushed voices rippled through the gallery. The scents of champagne, wine, and canapes mingled as servers worked their way through the crowd. One server approached with a tray of champagne. The three women each picked up a glass and took a sip. Oscar did not.
“Oscar, would you like a drink?” He nodded, and Emma took the last flute from the tray.
“I must attend to our other guests, Mr. Duncan. Callie. If you’ll excuse me,” Giselle said and took her leave. Oscar moved his shoulders back and stood up straight. Callie brushed his shoulder as she stepped forward.
“Tell me about the painting that took your blood,” Oscar said. “You said it was your favorite. Why?”
Callie cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly. “The image flowed. The colors chose me, and in the end, it was like a dream.”
“Like a dream.” Oscar smiled and stepped closer. “Sounds like something I must possess.”
©Lisa Rogers. This story has been written from my head by my hand for more years than I care to count. Completed December 2024. All Rights Reserved.
Welcome, new readers and subscribers! If you’re just catching up, I’ve posted the links to the first eleven chapters below.
Chapter 1 - The Silver Feather
Chapter 2 - Lucien’s Visit
Chapter 3 - Callie
Chapter 4 - Oscar
Chapter 5 - Shades of Crimson and White
Chapter 6 - Dreamweaver Training Begins
Chapter 7 - The Mark of Callie
Chapter 8 - Dreams for Sale.
Chapter 9 - Dragons and Dreams
Chapter 10 - What the Warriors Knew
Chapter 11 - Haunting Callie
I have gone back-and-forth ad nauseum about whether or not to serialize this book and have decided to rip off the Band-Aid(tm) or plaster, if you prefer.
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