“Yes,” Vivian said, going for demure. “Miss Ashwood said they were snapped up by one of her clients.”
Winston’s brows rose in a parody of amazement. “Congratulations. I suppose it’s not surprising that there are a few people here in Burning Cove who are comfortable with your sentimental greeting card approach to your subjects.”
It seemed to Vivian that the entire room was holding its breath. She gave Winston a steely smile and reminded herself that the last thing she wanted to do tonight was escalate the situation into a scene that would embarrass Joan.
“Lucky me,” she said evenly.
Satisfied, Winston smirked and started to turn away.
Nick spoke into the breathless silence. “I don’t know much about art but I’m not surprised that the images from your Men series are outselling those old-fashioned pictures of naked women on the other side of the gallery.”
Stunned horror leveled the room. Winston looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes stopped smoldering.
“You’re right,” he said with a savage smile. “You don’t know much about art. It’s always a good idea for a man to know his limitations.”
“What I know,” Nick said, “is that the images in the Woman in the Window series remind me of the collection of dirty postcards I found in Uncle Pete’s attic. He said he picked them up in Paris on his way home from the Great War.”
“Your uncle evidently taught you everything you know about art, which amounts to absolutely nothing,” Winston shot back.
The scene was getting out of hand. Vivian was torn between laughter and outright panic.
Pete materialized out of the crowd. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes that looked very familiar. There was a remarkably similar glint in Nick’s eyes.
“Someone mention my name?” Pete asked.
“We were discussing dirty postcards and your name came up,” Nick said.
Pete got a reminiscent look. “I do have a nice collection up in the attic. Those pictures of naked ladies on the other side of the gallery remind me of some of those postcards.”
The entire room was electrified now. Winston turned on Joan.
“I expected to encounter a more sophisticated clientele here tonight,” he said.
“Eye of the beholder and all that,” Joan said. She spoke in soothing tones. “Don’t worry, Winston. I have clients clamoring for your pictures. Now, why don’t you get a glass of champagne and mingle. I see a crowd of admirers gathering around your pictures. This would be an excellent opportunity for you to explain the artistic values of pictorialism.”
“Right.” Winston exhaled a theatrical sigh. “I suppose it is my job to help educate the masses.”
Satisfied that he’d had the last word, he stalked toward the far side of the gallery. The crowd parted for him. He was soon surrounded by a gaggle of admirers.
He had apparently forgotten about Ginny. For a moment she just stood there, stricken. She finally pulled herself together and fixed Vivian with an unreadable look.
“I apologize for the scene my friends just made,” Vivian said. She shot Nick and Pete a quelling glance and turned back to Ginny. “That was uncalled-for.”
Ginny blinked and then she started to smile. The smile turned into a mischievous laugh.
“No apologies necessary,” she said. “He had it coming. Between you and me, I thought the pictures looked a lot like dirty postcards, too. But I told myself I was working for a real artist so it had to be real art.”
“You are working for a real artist,” Vivian said. “Winston really is brilliant in his own way.”
“Do you really think so?” Ginny looked unsure.
“I’m positive,” Vivian said. “His style is different from mine, that’s all.”
Pete snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “A glass of champagne, ma’am?”
Ginny brightened. She took the glass and emptied half of it in a single swallow. She smiled at Pete.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime.” Pete cleared his throat. “Would you care to tour the pictures on display with me? I’m sure you know a lot more about art than I do.”
Ginny’s smile got a few watts hotter. “It would be my pleasure.”
She slipped a graceful hand around his arm. Pete escorted her through the crowd.
Vivian groaned. “I’m sorry, Joan.”
“Don’t be,” Joan said, radiating satisfaction. “There is nothing more entertaining than a loud argument about what constitutes true art. You’ll notice that no one is walking out the door. Mr. Sundridge and his uncle have guaranteed that this show will make tomorrow’s edition of the Herald. My gallery will be the talk of the town tomorrow.”
Vivian shot Nick another ferocious glare. “I just hope they didn’t hurt your gallery’s reputation.”
“Nope, not a chance,” Joan said. She gave Nick a speculative look. “Out of curiosity, do you really think that Miss Brazier’s Men will outsell Winston’s Woman in the Window series?”
“Damned if I know,” Nick said. “I was being honest when I said I didn’t know much about art. All I can tell you is that it’s clear from Bancroft’s pictures that he doesn’t really like women. If they have secrets, he doesn’t care about them. He shoots them the way you’d shoot a doll or a statue. Vivian cares about her subjects and it shows. She knows they all have secrets and she knows how to make sure the viewer understands that, too.”
Joan nodded. “I agree.”
Vivian thought about that for approximately thirty seconds.
“And therein lies my problem,” she said. “You know what? I think Fenella Penfield and Winston Bancroft are right.”
Joan and Nick both looked at her.
“What do you mean?” Joan said.
“I do try to capture something real and personal about my subjects. I’m not going for an idealized composition or lighting. I’m not creating an abstract vision that must be appreciated on purely aesthetic grounds. I’m interested in hinting at a subject’s secrets because those secrets are what make us human.”
Joan laughed again. “Got news for you. A lot of people would call that art. I certainly do. And here is what I know for certain: I can sell it.”
Chapter 50
Burning Cove
A few days later . . .
Nick picked up the bottle of champagne that he had just opened and filled the two crystal flutes.