ladies liked to play
Post Office?”
She laughed. “No, because the post office is on this street.
A couple of blocks down that way.” She pointed to her right. “Some of the bawdy
houses were quite grand, I understand, and they operated quite openly from the
late eighteen-hundreds until they were closed down in the fifties.”
“Where were the police all this time?”
“Taking bribes, I imagine,” Tess answered as they walked on.
“Or simply looking the other way. Underneath its genteel facade, Galveston was
a wild and wooly, wide-open town. Even during Prohibition and in the later days
when most of Texas was dry, liquor flowed freely here, and there were lots of
gambling clubs on the island that made a few of its residents rich. You should
hear Aunt Olivia tell about the Texas Rangers throwing slot machines into the
Gulf and raiding some of the fancier gaming rooms. She was incensed that the Texas
attorney general butted into the island’s business. Most people around here
simply winked and ignored the town’s vices and eccentricities. They still do.
Galvestonians are a tolerant lot.”
“Do you mean it’s still going on?”
Tess straightened her spine and feigned a wide-eyed look. “Why,
Mista Friday,” she drawled, “such things are illegal in Texas.”
They both laughed and, as they continued their walk, she
slipped her hand into his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers closed around hers and, as Dan looked at her, his eyes shone with
indulgent tenderness and an unspoken promise of things to come. It was a potent
look, and Tess felt almost giddy from it.
A few minutes later, they arrived at Sea Song Gallery, which
was on the Strand, two doors down from the Mermaid. Tess introduced Dan to
Nancy Vaughn, a slender black woman who was her partner in the gallery. When a
customer came in, Tess wiggled her fingers at Nancy and led Dan back to the
storeroom.
“These are the ones we have to hang,” she said, pointing out
a dozen large paintings and a half dozen smaller ones, still in their wrappings
from the framer. “Let’s do the big ones first.”
She and Dan worked well together. In half an hour they had
stripped off all the coverings and had tentatively placed the larger oils along
the walls and display flats. Tess went back to the storeroom for a pair of the
smaller watercolor pieces, and when she returned, she found Dan sitting on the
floor, staring at one of the canvases that leaned against a cream-colored wall.
“Dan?” He didn’t look up. She knelt beside him and touched
his shoulder. “Dan, is something wrong?”
As if in a fog, he turned to her. “Pardon?”
“I asked if something was wrong.”
He shook his head and turned back to the painting, a
three-by-five foot underwater fantasy of cavorting sea nymphs. “This is
magnificent. They’re all magnificent.” He waved his hand over the collection. “I’ve
never seen such an unusual combination of power and delicacy. I can almost hear
the musical sounds of the ocean and the nymphs’ laughter.”
Tess grinned as Dan rose and went from one to the other,
studying each of the paintings, about half of which were abstracts. “Good. You’re
supposed to be able to. It’s called the Sea Song series in honor of the formal
opening of the gallery.”
“This is a local artist?” Dan sounded surprised. “Tess,
every one of these paintings is museum-quality.” He peered at the lower right
corner of two of the pieces. “Who is it? The only signature I can make out is
something that looks like a fishhook.”
“It is a fishhook,” she said. “That’s the way he signs all
his work.”
“So it is a man. I couldn’t be sure. Something in the style
and power of the strokes told me it was, but I couldn’t imagine the same man
being able to express such delicacy and sensitivity.” He went back to sit
beside Tess in front of the underwater fantasy. “This one particularly
fascinates me. Something about the
Post Office?”
She laughed. “No, because the post office is on this street.
A couple of blocks down that way.” She pointed to her right. “Some of the bawdy
houses were quite grand, I understand, and they operated quite openly from the
late eighteen-hundreds until they were closed down in the fifties.”
“Where were the police all this time?”
“Taking bribes, I imagine,” Tess answered as they walked on.
“Or simply looking the other way. Underneath its genteel facade, Galveston was
a wild and wooly, wide-open town. Even during Prohibition and in the later days
when most of Texas was dry, liquor flowed freely here, and there were lots of
gambling clubs on the island that made a few of its residents rich. You should
hear Aunt Olivia tell about the Texas Rangers throwing slot machines into the
Gulf and raiding some of the fancier gaming rooms. She was incensed that the Texas
attorney general butted into the island’s business. Most people around here
simply winked and ignored the town’s vices and eccentricities. They still do.
Galvestonians are a tolerant lot.”
“Do you mean it’s still going on?”
Tess straightened her spine and feigned a wide-eyed look. “Why,
Mista Friday,” she drawled, “such things are illegal in Texas.”
They both laughed and, as they continued their walk, she
slipped her hand into his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers closed around hers and, as Dan looked at her, his eyes shone with
indulgent tenderness and an unspoken promise of things to come. It was a potent
look, and Tess felt almost giddy from it.
A few minutes later, they arrived at Sea Song Gallery, which
was on the Strand, two doors down from the Mermaid. Tess introduced Dan to
Nancy Vaughn, a slender black woman who was her partner in the gallery. When a
customer came in, Tess wiggled her fingers at Nancy and led Dan back to the
storeroom.
“These are the ones we have to hang,” she said, pointing out
a dozen large paintings and a half dozen smaller ones, still in their wrappings
from the framer. “Let’s do the big ones first.”
She and Dan worked well together. In half an hour they had
stripped off all the coverings and had tentatively placed the larger oils along
the walls and display flats. Tess went back to the storeroom for a pair of the
smaller watercolor pieces, and when she returned, she found Dan sitting on the
floor, staring at one of the canvases that leaned against a cream-colored wall.
“Dan?” He didn’t look up. She knelt beside him and touched
his shoulder. “Dan, is something wrong?”
As if in a fog, he turned to her. “Pardon?”
“I asked if something was wrong.”
He shook his head and turned back to the painting, a
three-by-five foot underwater fantasy of cavorting sea nymphs. “This is
magnificent. They’re all magnificent.” He waved his hand over the collection. “I’ve
never seen such an unusual combination of power and delicacy. I can almost hear
the musical sounds of the ocean and the nymphs’ laughter.”
Tess grinned as Dan rose and went from one to the other,
studying each of the paintings, about half of which were abstracts. “Good. You’re
supposed to be able to. It’s called the Sea Song series in honor of the formal
opening of the gallery.”
“This is a local artist?” Dan sounded surprised. “Tess,
every one of these paintings is museum-quality.” He peered at the lower right
corner of two of the pieces. “Who is it? The only signature I can make out is
something that looks like a fishhook.”
“It is a fishhook,” she said. “That’s the way he signs all
his work.”
“So it is a man. I couldn’t be sure. Something in the style
and power of the strokes told me it was, but I couldn’t imagine the same man
being able to express such delicacy and sensitivity.” He went back to sit
beside Tess in front of the underwater fantasy. “This one particularly
fascinates me. Something about the
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