beret was wrong for her, he decided. What she needed was a pointed hat. She looked like a witch, no question, but not an unattractive witch.
She cocked her head—now she looked like a witch trying to look like a bird—and looked frankly at Keller, then at the painting.
“There are a few artists who paint trees,” she said, “but it’s generally the same tree over and over again. But in Declan’s work they’re all different trees. So you really can imagine the forest. Is that what you meant?”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“Oh, sure you could,” she said, and a grin transformed her witch’s face. “Margaret Griscomb,” she said. “They call me Maggie.”
“John Keller.”
“And do they call you John?”
“Mostly they call me Keller.”
“Keller,” she said. “I kind of like that. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you. But don’t call me Griscomb.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Not until we know each other a great deal better than we do now. And probably not even then. But I wonder if we will.”
“Know each other better?”
“Because I’m good at this,” she said. “Chatting ever so engagingly with a fellow tree-lover. But I’m not very good at getting to know someone, or getting known in return. I seem to do better in superficial relationships.”
“Maybe that’s the kind we’ll have.”
“No depth. Everything on the surface.”
“Like a thin skin of ice on a pond in winter,” he said.
“Or the scum that forms on the top of a mug of hot chocolate,” she said. “Why do you suppose it does that? And don’t bother working out an answer, because Regis is about to introduce Declan, who will then Say Something Profound.”
Someone was tapping a spoon against a wineglass, trying to get the room’s attention. A few people caught on and in turn shushed the rest. Things quieted down, and the glass-tapper, a willowy young man in gray flannel slacks and a maroon velvet blazer, began telling everyone how pleased he was to see them all here.
“Regis Buell,” Maggie murmured. “It’s his gallery. No wonder he’s pleased.”
Buell kept his own remarks brief and introduced Declan Niswander. Keller had known what the artist looked like—there was a photo in the brochure, Niswander with his arms folded, glaring—but the man had a presence beyond what the camera revealed. Perhaps the paintings might have suggested it, because there was a passive strength to him that was almost arboreal in nature. Keller thought of the old hymn. Like a tree standing by the water, Niswander would not be moved.
Keller looked at him and took in the wiry black hair graying at the temples, the blunt-featured square-jawed face, the thick body, the square shoulders. Niswander was wearing a suit, and it was a black suit, and his shirt was black, and so was his necktie. And was that a black hanky in his pocket? It was hard to tell from this distance, but Keller was fairly sure it was.
He looked like his paintings, Keller decided, but his appearance was also somehow of a piece with the two pages of artsy twaddle in the brochure. The twaddle and the paintings hadn’t seemed to go together, but Niswander managed to bridge the gap between the two. Like a tree, Keller thought, tying together the earth and the sky.
And wasn’t that an artsy-fartsy way of looking at it? That’s what happened when you put him in a place like this, he thought. Next thing you knew he’d be wearing black.
Mourning, if all went well.
* * *
“I don’t know about this,” Dot had said the other day. “I probably shouldn’t even run this by you, Keller. I should stop right now and send you home.”
“I just got here,” he said.
“I know.”
“You called me, said you had something.”
“I do, but I had no business calling you.”
“It’s not the kind of work I do? What is it, addressing envelopes at home? Telemarketing?”
“Now there’s something you’d be great at,” she said.
She cocked her head—now she looked like a witch trying to look like a bird—and looked frankly at Keller, then at the painting.
“There are a few artists who paint trees,” she said, “but it’s generally the same tree over and over again. But in Declan’s work they’re all different trees. So you really can imagine the forest. Is that what you meant?”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“Oh, sure you could,” she said, and a grin transformed her witch’s face. “Margaret Griscomb,” she said. “They call me Maggie.”
“John Keller.”
“And do they call you John?”
“Mostly they call me Keller.”
“Keller,” she said. “I kind of like that. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you. But don’t call me Griscomb.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Not until we know each other a great deal better than we do now. And probably not even then. But I wonder if we will.”
“Know each other better?”
“Because I’m good at this,” she said. “Chatting ever so engagingly with a fellow tree-lover. But I’m not very good at getting to know someone, or getting known in return. I seem to do better in superficial relationships.”
“Maybe that’s the kind we’ll have.”
“No depth. Everything on the surface.”
“Like a thin skin of ice on a pond in winter,” he said.
“Or the scum that forms on the top of a mug of hot chocolate,” she said. “Why do you suppose it does that? And don’t bother working out an answer, because Regis is about to introduce Declan, who will then Say Something Profound.”
Someone was tapping a spoon against a wineglass, trying to get the room’s attention. A few people caught on and in turn shushed the rest. Things quieted down, and the glass-tapper, a willowy young man in gray flannel slacks and a maroon velvet blazer, began telling everyone how pleased he was to see them all here.
“Regis Buell,” Maggie murmured. “It’s his gallery. No wonder he’s pleased.”
Buell kept his own remarks brief and introduced Declan Niswander. Keller had known what the artist looked like—there was a photo in the brochure, Niswander with his arms folded, glaring—but the man had a presence beyond what the camera revealed. Perhaps the paintings might have suggested it, because there was a passive strength to him that was almost arboreal in nature. Keller thought of the old hymn. Like a tree standing by the water, Niswander would not be moved.
Keller looked at him and took in the wiry black hair graying at the temples, the blunt-featured square-jawed face, the thick body, the square shoulders. Niswander was wearing a suit, and it was a black suit, and his shirt was black, and so was his necktie. And was that a black hanky in his pocket? It was hard to tell from this distance, but Keller was fairly sure it was.
He looked like his paintings, Keller decided, but his appearance was also somehow of a piece with the two pages of artsy twaddle in the brochure. The twaddle and the paintings hadn’t seemed to go together, but Niswander managed to bridge the gap between the two. Like a tree, Keller thought, tying together the earth and the sky.
And wasn’t that an artsy-fartsy way of looking at it? That’s what happened when you put him in a place like this, he thought. Next thing you knew he’d be wearing black.
Mourning, if all went well.
* * *
“I don’t know about this,” Dot had said the other day. “I probably shouldn’t even run this by you, Keller. I should stop right now and send you home.”
“I just got here,” he said.
“I know.”
“You called me, said you had something.”
“I do, but I had no business calling you.”
“It’s not the kind of work I do? What is it, addressing envelopes at home? Telemarketing?”
“Now there’s something you’d be great at,” she said.
Similar Books
