Losing Clementine by Ashley Ream Page A

he asked. “You don’t want to pontificate on how the viewer’s experience completes your work? I could tell you how your latest piece was positively ovulating.”
    He smiled. His teeth were as white as the tablecloths and glowed in the dim light of the candles and strings of fairy bulbs. It was distracting, and it felt like he was flirting with me. It might have been the sort of flirting that all very attractive people do as their way of moving through life. He could have been flirting to garner praise the way waiters work for tips. Or he could be a smarmy little shit.
    â€œSo what do you do really?” I asked.
    â€œI’m a lawyer.”
    Two strikes.
    â€œWill you hold that against me?” he asked.
    â€œYes, but I will pretend I don’t because it’s your wedding night.”
    I looked over his shoulder like I’d spotted someone, which I hadn’t.
    â€œPlease excuse me for a moment. It was wonderful to meet you and congratulations.”
    â€œJeremy is a wonderful man,” he said, slipping both hands into his pants pockets and crinkling the hem of his jacket in the process.
    â€œYes, he is.” Somehow my words came out sounding more like a threat, which I suppose they were.
    I stepped away, picked up another glass of champagne from a tray and deposited the empty, and began wandering the tables, looking for my name card. People swirled around me in flowing dresses and gray and khaki slacks. Above the tree line, the spiral that topped the glass conservatory stood watch.
    I found my card in the back third of tables. In the center was a small urn of white and cream flowers with long, spiky bits of greenery like uncut grass coming out the top.
    â€œOh, God, Clementine, did you hear? Oh, this is me.” Susan Kimball, a ceramic artist, held up her name card, which placed her two chairs over. “I think we’re having dinner soon,” she said. “All the nibbles have disappeared.”
    Susan showed at the Contemporary, several blocks over from the Taylor. She made extremely large-scale pots with very narrow openings that looked to be melting the way chocolate does in bright sunlight. For a while, she’d been favoring greens and blues but had recently entered a warm period.
    â€œDid I hear what?” I asked.
    I looked around. The uniformed waiters had indeed evaporated, probably into the white tent tucked a discreet distance from the guests. I hoped there was more food in there—and champagne. I downed my second glass and set it next to my name.
    â€œWhat happened at the Taylor. Surely they called you.”
    Susan sank into her chair. I’d been seated not with the Art Institute group I had hoped for, many of whom had gone on to practical jobs involving cubicles and office baby showers, but at what looked to be the artists’ table, with a collector or two thrown in for our potential economic benefit. I recognized the name card to my left. He had bought something from me but not recently. I had the vague notion he worked in real estate. I would no doubt hear all about it tonight.
    â€œNo one called,” I said.
    Some sort of staff member walked to the heat lamp behind us and relit it. Instantly the air was twenty degrees warmer, and the goose bumps on my arms relaxed. I let my wrap droop off my shoulders.
    â€œOh my God, it’s all anyone is talking about,” Susan said.
    She leaned in toward me as though we weren’t entirely alone at the table. She’d pulled her brown hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, and there were small, shiny barrettes holding her bangs out of her eyes.
    â€œThey were vandalized. It was horrible.” Her eyes sparkled as if it were anything but. “They were showing Elaine’s work. You know Elaine. The vandals broke the front window late last night, threw paint on one of her pieces, and smashed it to bits. Can you believe it?”
    I opened my mouth, but she went right