Sunrise Box Set

Chapter 1-7

“Oh, yeah, that sounds a lot better.” He turned to me. “Got any more of that paint left, or could you match it?”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

That issue settled, Chris took a good look at our lighting and asked about the various wattages and types of lights we could use in our tracks. He asked who was responsible for the hanging and lighting. I told him that I’d taken over that from one of our Alliance members when I came on board.

“Jerome does the work, and I, uh, supervise. Frankly, I’ve only worked with him on one exhibition this summer and the one you see hanging here now, but I think he could probably do it by himself.”

We talked some more about their preferences concerning the upcoming show of their works. It was nearly three P.M. when we were finished.

They said they wanted to go downtown and check out some of the shops in our antiques and art district. I told them I had made seven o’clock reservations at Raintree, my favorite of the downtown restaurants, and explained to Christian how to get there.

A little over four hours later we had our drinks in front of us and had placed our order.

“So, did you two buy anything on your shopping expedition?”

“No,” Brad said, “but we were sorely tempted.”

After a bit I asked, “How long have you guys been together?”

Chris looked at Brad to see if he was going to answer me. When he nodded toward Chris, the smaller man said, “Ever since we were students at UVA. Brad and I took a class together spring of freshman year. I invited him for coffee afterward, and it was love at first sight.”

I was interested that he’d used that phrase, “at first sight.”

Chris must have noted my reaction. “You know, Whitney, blind people use visual references in their speech just like sighted people. For example, they might say, ‘It’s good to see you,’ or, ‘I’ll see you later.’”

That prompted another question.

“Brad, when I asked earlier if you’d always been sightless, you said you’d tell me this evening,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking again.”

“No, I don’t mind. And the answer is no. I was in an auto accident while I was in high school. Damage to the optic nerve cost me my sight. The accident was the other guy’s fault, and I got a settlement from his insurance that paid for most of my university expenses.”

“To get back to my story,” Chris said, “I fell for this guy that day in the coffee shop. We spent as much time together as we could for the rest of the term. We both enrolled in summer school and shared an apartment. We’ve been together ever since.”

Brad went on to tell me that they both had day jobs. He worked at the telephone switchboard of an old-fashioned hardware chain, one that hadn’t yet installed one of those fancy phone menu systems everyone hates so much. Christian managed a chain bookstore in a mall. Both of them hoped eventually to make their living from their art. Chris said they were hoping their upcoming show at Sunrise would help them become better known in our area.

I said I thought with the exposure their exhibition with us would bring, they could count on becoming better known here. I added that I hoped we could sell lots of their pieces, too.

We busied ourselves with our food for a minute or two. Then Brad said, “You know, Whitney, I don’t think I could make it without Christian. I could manage to do things like shop for groceries and cook if I had to. It’s with my sculpting that he’s invaluable. Not to mention that I love him.” His hand had been resting beside his plate on the table. Christian put his hand on top of it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” I said. “How in the world do you do portraits?”

“I feel my subjects’ heads.”

“You’ve seen slides of some of his pieces,” Chris said. “But wait until you see the real things. He’s uncanny. He has an incredible memory, and he can translate what he feels into a clay model with amazing accuracy. Then, of course, we make molds and cast the heads in metal, usually bronze. What I love best, though, are the heads he does with no model. His imagination, his mind’s eye, is fantastic. You’ll see quite a few of those pieces when we bring them back for the show.”

“Oh, you’re bringing them instead of shipping them?”

Brad said, “Those busts weigh a lot, you know. We have a van and a trailer. For shows no more than a day’s drive, it’s cheaper to deliver them in person than to ship them.

“I hadn’t thought of that. It will be great to have you both back with us. I hope you can be here while we set up your show and then be present on the evening before the official opening for our reception. Our patrons will be eager to meet you both.”

“Sounds like fun. We’ll be glad to,” Brad said. I noticed that Christian was looking at him with pure love on his face. I wondered if I’d ever experience that kind of love. More than anything else in this world, that’s what I wanted. But I realized my chances of finding it were slim.

* * * *

It was the first Thursday in November. The previous show had been taken down and the unsold items shipped back to their owners. Christian and Bradley had arrived the night before and had spent most of the day supervising the setting up of their exhibit. Jerome and I did most of the work, though Chris certainly wasn’t above lending a hand when one was needed. By two o’clock the job was done, and I was really pleased with the new exhibit. Chris’s acrylics were vivid, powerful pieces, and he was delighted with the way three of us had arranged and lighted them.

What blew me away, though, were Brad’s busts. I had never met any of his real life subjects, but their portraits in bronze or in some cases clay were impressive. There was a certain impressionistic quality about them, but each piece was individualized so that one immediately had the sense of a real person. Perhaps more surprising, however, was the fact that the ones done from his imagination were equally real, equally impressive. I responded to each of the busts by thinking, Oh, I’ve seen somebody like that! Or Oh, I’d like to meet that person.

Jean, bless her, had come to work at eight-thirty dressed for the reception at five, knowing she’d not be able to get home later to change. But she promised to hold the fort while Jerome, Brad, Chris, and I went to our respective places to shower and change. Well, Brad wouldn’t have needed to, but he left and came back with Chris.

We all got back to Sunrise about 4:30 for the reception which began at five P.M. The hostess committee had set up an impressive array of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. At one end of a separate table was a bowl of punch, served up by one of the committee ladies. At the other end was a selection of red, white, and pink wine, served on this occasion by Jon Baker. Jon looked good in a tan blazer, brown trousers, with a rust shirt and tan tie. I told him he looked positively autumnal.

Jerome had changed into khakis and a blue Oxford button down shirt. He looked so hunky, when I thanked him for all his hard work and for coming back, I really wanted to eat him up.

Jean was there, too, chatting with people, making sure there were plenty of brochures about the Telford/Fields exhibition, generally taking care of more things than I even knew about, I’m sure. I often told her she was the brains behind Sunrise and I was simply the front man.

Fiona McWhorter, chair of the gallery committee, was there to greet people. She and I stood in the foyer and welcomed our guests. She, of course, knew more of the arrivees than I did, but it was pleasant to realize that after five months at Sunrise, I knew a goodly number of the people who came in.

We had a wonderful turnout. The reception ran from five to seven. The first to arrive were retirees, some of whom wanted to see the exhibit and then get home and put their feet up. Others, mostly couples, would have a drink or two—or several—and then go somewhere afterward for dinner. The ones who showed up after six were the professionals and their spouses, sometimes also professionals, who had just gotten off work and were on their way home or to a later dinner somewhere.

There was general enthusiasm for the works of both artists, but Brad’s sculptures were clearly a big hit. He and Chris were both busy all evening shaking hands and chatting with patrons. At six, I was able to get everyone’s attention while I welcomed them all and introduced the artists. There was a round of applause, after which Brad and Chris were even busier.

Shortly after I’d done the introduction, Father Gary from Holy Trinity came up to me. He had a glass of chardonnay in his hand, and he had someone with him, someone I’d never met. The guy was an inch or two taller than me, which would put him about 5’10” or 5’11”. About my age, he had what my grandmother used to call strawberry blond hair. Not red exactly, but reddish blond. His eyes were blue and rather deep set. He had a longish nose and angular features. He was good looking in his way. What put me off, I think, were the Armani suit and expensive shoes. As I stood there in my khakis and Joseph Bank blazer, I felt shabby. He reminded me of my brothers.

“HI, Father. Thanks for coming! Have you had a chance to look at the show? Have you met the artists?”

Gary laughed. “Yes, and yes. I’m really taken by Telford’s busts. And I’ve met both men. They’re obviously family, and they’re both charming.” Then he turned to the man who’d been standing beside him and smiling. “Whitney Pell, here’s someone who asked to be introduced to you. This is Chave MacPherson, a member of the vestry at Holy Trinity.” He pronounced it like Fearson, not Furson.

We shook hands. He smiled. There was a nice twinkle in his eye, but I tried to ignore it. I wanted to be polite, but this guy just turned me off. His clothes said money. He was too smooth. And he hadn’t even said anything yet.

“Hi, Dr. Pell. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and welcoming you to Stafford. Father Gary tells me that you go to Holy Trinity.”

“Call me Whitney, please. And I’m happy to meet you, too. Yes, I go to Holy Trinity. Tell me, Chave, do you hail from the Raleigh-Durham area? I know there are MacPhersons there.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “You must be from that area, too.”

“Yes, I am.” I wanted to change the subject. “I take it that you’ve met Chris and Brad. How do you like the exhibit?”

“I’m enchanted by Chris’s work. Brad’s wonderful, but I think his things are attracting a lot of attention because he’s blind. I must tell you, there are some pieces of Fields’ work that I’d like to have. In fact, I’ll probably talk to Jean about at least one of them before I leave this evening.”

“Wonderful! I’m glad that someone recognizes Chris’s talent. I was afraid most people would be so impressed by Brad’s work they’d overlook Chris’s.”

Just about then, more people came in, and I had to excuse myself to greet them. As I was shaking hands and saying hello, it came to me that I’d never even asked MacPherson what he did. Oh, well. I’d have to see what Jean knew about him. He looked like a potential contributor to the Alliance, if he wasn’t already.

Fiona and her husband along with another Board member and his wife were taking Chris and Brad to dinner after the reception. When, about seven-twenty the last of the attendees had left, Jean handed me a slip of paper. I was able to tell our visiting artists that we’d already sold one of Chris’s pieces and three of Brad’s. I hugged each of them, thanked them for allowing us to display their work and for being there, and said goodbye, as they were going back to Richmond the next morning. Each one had missed two days of work as it was.

After that group left, I hugged Jean and thanked her for all the things she did that I knew about and that I didn’t know about. I shook Jerome’s hand and asked if he’d like to go some place for dinner. He smiled an embarrassed smile and told me he already had plans.

“Oh, well, another time soon, then. And, Jerome, thanks, man, for all you’ve done. You and Jean are the ones who keep this place going. Don’t think for a minute I don’t realize that.”

Again, he looked embarrassed, and grinned. “I like my job here, Whitney. I’m glad you are okay with the way I do it.”

“More than okay,” I told him. “I’m glad to have your help.” He sort of ducked his head and left.

Jean had locked up her office and came back to the lobby. “That went well, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it was great. Thanks again for everything you do, Jean.”

“No problem, boss. It’s days like this that make me realize how much I like my job.”

“Even though this has been a killer day, getting ready and everything?”

She grinned. “Yep.” She paused a moment. “I see you met Chave MacPherson.”

“Uh huh.”

“George tried for a couple of years to get him on our Board, but he always said he was too busy. You might want to give it a try.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“He’s a junior partner in the most prestigious law firm in town, Gates, Brownlee, and Estes. Everyone says he’s a comer. He seems to be making lots of money. I hear he’s interested in music and art.” She grinned. “And he’s single.”

“You can’t be serious! As if I’d be interested in him!”

“Why not? He’s good looking.”

“Jean, dear, he’s probably straight. Besides, I don’t think I like him. He’s not my type. I’ll follow up on the idea of getting him on the Board if he’s persuadable, but as for my being interested in him, forget it.”

“Okay, Whitney. Get him on the Board. We could use his contacts, influence, and money. But when you wind up in bed with him, I promise not to say I told you so.”

I practically sputtered. She hugged me and said, “Goodnight, boss. You’ll take care of locking up?”

She left and I locked up. I had been too busy schmoozing the guests to have any of the refreshments, so I was hungry. I was too drained to go to a restaurant. I went home, pulled out some frozen lasagna and nuked it. I made a salad and ate at the breakfast table.

It had been quite a day. I loved my new job. But here I was, after being in a crowd of a couple of hundred people. They’d all gone off and done something interesting, maybe exciting. And here I was alone at home. I loved my beautiful house. But I needed to share it with someone.