THE THREE OF US pile into Amber’s Lexus to go to Unnecessary Objects. I’m in the back with Lily in her car seat. She is as jolly as ever. I jiggle a rattle in front of her. She giggles and reaches for it.
“I’m glad we had our little talk,” Amber says, turning around to face me. “I’m feeling a lot better.” Talk? It was more like a monologue. But somehow, listening earned me some kudos.
A few moments of silence as she turns left, right, then onto the highway. Then, out of the blue, she says, “I know Ben’s been difficult the past couple of weeks.”
Ah. This could get interesting.
“I hate to say it, Carol—and I’m only tellingyouthis—but I’m kind of glad he’s going away for a while.”
Wait. What? I try to sound casual as I lean forward and ask, “Where’s he going?”
“Florida.”
Florida? The man who rang the doorbell might’ve had Florida plates on his car.
“Ben goes every few months, usually right before a new show,” Amber says. She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “He’s got some buyers down there,” she adds, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “He likes to give them a preview of the work.”
“So they get first shot at it?”
“Exactly.”
“Ever meet any of them?” I ask.
“Nope. Never,” she says, confirming what his first wife, Sherry, told me. “Ben likes to keep his business and his home life separate.”
Yes,I think,except when he comes home pissed and frustrated and takes it out on his wife and kids.
“Funny that he doesn’t bring you with him,” I say. “You’re the art expert.”
She laughs. “Yes, but nothiskind of art. I did my senior thesis on Vermeer. Not the sort of artist in Ben’s wheelhouse.”
A thesis on Vermeer. So she’s not an airhead; she’s a bright, sensible woman who has let herself be bullied (maybe that’s too harsh a word) or dominated (does that sound too mean?) or—well, let’s just saymarginalizedby apowerful man. Not the first woman to find herself in this position. Add that to the anxiety of new motherhood with a somewhat unwanted baby, and I can understand the cracks in her self-esteem.
We pull into the store’s valet parking area and Amber hands her key to a young attendant in a kelly-green uniform. Actually, there are a bunch of them. It looks like a convention of elves. Elf number two helps us get the collapsible stroller out of the trunk. He unfolds it and I strap Lily in. She’s as happy as ever. The elves salute as we walk away.
“Look at this sweet little sofa,” Amber says as soon as we’re inside. I look. It has a sweet little price tag of $8,500. “Could you use this in your room?” she asks. Has she not been up to my little nine-by-twelve space in a while? Or maybe ever? The only way this love seat would work is if I kept it on the bed.
“Tell me more about mounting a show,” I say, playing dumb again. “You mentioned that it’s complicated.”
“Yes. Well, you have to start months in advance to find the right artist. Oh, isn’t this lovely?” she asks. She holds a small stained-glass vase up to the light. Prisms of green and blue reflect on the wall. “This would be so pretty in your room, don’t you think?”
It looks like Tiffany glass. It probably breaks like Tiffany glass. So, on my wobbly oak dresser? I don’t think so. “But you were saying: months in advance?”
“First you select the artist. Then you have to negotiate the contract with lawyers and agents and decide whichpieces to show. Oh, look—crushed velvet throw pillows!” She throws a few of them in her shopping cart.
“So once they decide on the pieces…?”
“Then there’s all the shipping and crating and insurance to arrange.”
We make a sharp left into the carpet department. “Your floors will get awfully cold in winter,” she says. “You need something to keep your feet warm.” I guess she never noticed that I wander around the house in bunny slippers.
“I like this Bokhara,” she says, running her hand along the tufts of one of the hanging rugs. “What do you think?”
“Sure,” I say. She could show me a bag of manure and I’d agree it would make a nice end table. It’s her taste, her credit card, her house. Besides, I don’t intend to be living there long.
Slowly, as we wend our way to the Bath Shop to look at fancy silver-topped jars to hold unfancy things like cotton balls and Q-tips, she tells me more about mounting a show. All the art has to be photographed for the press release and catalog. The gallery has to be repainted and lit to highlight each piece. Then a curated handful of content influencers must be hired so they can get the word out on social media.
“And Ben does all this?” I ask.
