he leapt, he’d hesitated, and was lost.
And so was the painting, lost to him.
Disappointment washed over him, along with a paradoxical sense of relief. He wouldn’t have to part with twelve thousand dollars, wouldn’t have to seek out a framer, wouldn’t have to pick a spot and hammer a nail into the wall.
But, dammit to hell, he wouldn’t own the painting.
Of course there were others. This was the one he’d picked, the old tree trying to get through one more winter, but the choice hadn’t been all that clear-cut, because he’d responded strongly to all of Declan Niswander’s work. If he couldn’t have his favorite, well, it wasn’t the end of the world. How hard would it be to find one he liked almost as well?
Not hard at all, as it turned out. But it would be equally impossible to buy any of the other works, no matter how much he liked them, because every single painting in the gallery had been given the red dot treatment.
He stared at the desk until the girl looked up from her book. “Everything’s been sold,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“It’s great for you people,” he said, “and I suppose it’s great for Mr. Niswander, but it’s not so great for me.”
“You were in yesterday afternoon, weren’t you?”
“And I should have bought the painting then, but I wanted to sleep on it. And now it’s too late.”
“Things happen overnight in this business,” she said. “I always heard that, and here’s an example. When I went home last night there were only two paintings sold, the ones that were purchased the night of the opening. And when I came in this morning there were so many red dots I thought the walls had measles.”
“Well,” he said, “at least I’ve got the rest of the month to look at the paintings. Who bought them, anyway?”
“I wasn’t here. Look, suppose I get Mr. Buell? Maybe he can help you.”
She went away and Keller returned to Niswander’s trees, trying not to notice the plague of red dots. Then a man appeared, the willowy young chap who’d introduced Niswander at the opening. Up close, Keller could see that Regis Buell wasn’t really as young as he appeared. He looked like an aging boy, and Keller wondered if he might have had a face-lift.
“Regis Buell,” he said. “Jenna informs me we’ve disappointed you by selling out to the bare walls.”
“I’m the one with the bare walls,” Keller told him.
Buell laughed politely. “What painting was it? That you had your heart set on.”
“Number nineteen.”
“The old horse chestnut? A splendid choice. You have a good eye. But I have to say they’re all good choices.”
“And they’ve already been chosen. Who bought them?”
“Ah,” Buell said, and clasped his hands. “Mystery buyers.”
“More than one?”
“Several, and I’m afraid I can’t disclose any of their names.”
“And they all came through at the same time? I was here yesterday and there were only two paintings sold.”
“Yes, just the two.”
“And today they’re all gone.”
“Ah. Well, I had a private showing last night, after we’d officially closed. And, as a matter of fact, some of the work was already sold when you saw it yesterday. The red dots weren’t in place yet, but several paintings had in fact been spoken for.” He smiled winningly. “I don’t believe Jenna told me your name.”
“I never gave it to her,” Keller said. “It’s Forrest.”
Buell smiled prettily, and Keller immediately regretted the name. “Mr. Forrest,” Buell said. “No wonder you respond to trees.”
“Well,” Keller said.
“You know, there’s always the chance a purchaser will change his mind.”
“And back out of the deal?”
“Or consent to an immediate resale, especially if he’s offered an incentive.”
“You mean if he can make a profit?”
“It happens all the time. If you wanted to make an offer, on the horse chestnut or indeed any of the works, I could relay it
And so was the painting, lost to him.
Disappointment washed over him, along with a paradoxical sense of relief. He wouldn’t have to part with twelve thousand dollars, wouldn’t have to seek out a framer, wouldn’t have to pick a spot and hammer a nail into the wall.
But, dammit to hell, he wouldn’t own the painting.
Of course there were others. This was the one he’d picked, the old tree trying to get through one more winter, but the choice hadn’t been all that clear-cut, because he’d responded strongly to all of Declan Niswander’s work. If he couldn’t have his favorite, well, it wasn’t the end of the world. How hard would it be to find one he liked almost as well?
Not hard at all, as it turned out. But it would be equally impossible to buy any of the other works, no matter how much he liked them, because every single painting in the gallery had been given the red dot treatment.
He stared at the desk until the girl looked up from her book. “Everything’s been sold,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“It’s great for you people,” he said, “and I suppose it’s great for Mr. Niswander, but it’s not so great for me.”
“You were in yesterday afternoon, weren’t you?”
“And I should have bought the painting then, but I wanted to sleep on it. And now it’s too late.”
“Things happen overnight in this business,” she said. “I always heard that, and here’s an example. When I went home last night there were only two paintings sold, the ones that were purchased the night of the opening. And when I came in this morning there were so many red dots I thought the walls had measles.”
“Well,” he said, “at least I’ve got the rest of the month to look at the paintings. Who bought them, anyway?”
“I wasn’t here. Look, suppose I get Mr. Buell? Maybe he can help you.”
She went away and Keller returned to Niswander’s trees, trying not to notice the plague of red dots. Then a man appeared, the willowy young chap who’d introduced Niswander at the opening. Up close, Keller could see that Regis Buell wasn’t really as young as he appeared. He looked like an aging boy, and Keller wondered if he might have had a face-lift.
“Regis Buell,” he said. “Jenna informs me we’ve disappointed you by selling out to the bare walls.”
“I’m the one with the bare walls,” Keller told him.
Buell laughed politely. “What painting was it? That you had your heart set on.”
“Number nineteen.”
“The old horse chestnut? A splendid choice. You have a good eye. But I have to say they’re all good choices.”
“And they’ve already been chosen. Who bought them?”
“Ah,” Buell said, and clasped his hands. “Mystery buyers.”
“More than one?”
“Several, and I’m afraid I can’t disclose any of their names.”
“And they all came through at the same time? I was here yesterday and there were only two paintings sold.”
“Yes, just the two.”
“And today they’re all gone.”
“Ah. Well, I had a private showing last night, after we’d officially closed. And, as a matter of fact, some of the work was already sold when you saw it yesterday. The red dots weren’t in place yet, but several paintings had in fact been spoken for.” He smiled winningly. “I don’t believe Jenna told me your name.”
“I never gave it to her,” Keller said. “It’s Forrest.”
Buell smiled prettily, and Keller immediately regretted the name. “Mr. Forrest,” Buell said. “No wonder you respond to trees.”
“Well,” Keller said.
“You know, there’s always the chance a purchaser will change his mind.”
“And back out of the deal?”
“Or consent to an immediate resale, especially if he’s offered an incentive.”
“You mean if he can make a profit?”
“It happens all the time. If you wanted to make an offer, on the horse chestnut or indeed any of the works, I could relay it
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