My nervous twitching only popped out another of Timothy’s dimples, as he smiled at me like he was utterly fascinated by my actions.
“You are a delight, my sweetness,” he said.
Eventually the dinner passed with some kind of fruit torte brought out. I figured if I even tasted it, I’d be sick. I shook my head when Timothy tried to feed me a bite.
“I’m full,” I said. “I can’t.”
I know there was a whole conversation going on between Timothy, Ed, and Judy. I vaguely listened now and then but commented little. I tuned in only when I heard that Timothy had just bought a new art gallery in the downtown area. Caldwell Fine Arts it was to be called.
And then mortification set in. I’d been discussing art with a connoisseur. Apparently, a rich connoisseur. “I’m so sorry I babbled on with my inexpert opinions as if I knew something about art. You must think me a fool.”
Another breathtaking smile, a pat on my hand, and reassurance followed. “Your sentiments are as worthy as any art museum professional. You have emotion in your heart. You dip into the soul of the artist and feel. That should be the cornerstone of any great expert, my dear.”
Maybe so, but it didn’t keep me from suspecting that my words had been amateur hour at a children’s art class. “I really know nothing. I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Sh,” he said. “I enjoyed our discussion. In fact, you’ve convinced me that I need to buy at least one Turner for my little neophyte Gallery. We must expose our city to the passion of darkness and chaos.”
The man was smiling into my eyes. The deep soul-searching of his intensity was vacuuming up every thought I had inside of me. I couldn’t open my mouth to argue. I could barely think.
Timothy reached out, took up my hand, and turned it over. “You were made for me, my Penelope.” Then, once more he kissed the soft part of my palm, and argument was the furthest thing from my mind. I dissolved into a new kind of air-floating amoeba, one dependent on pure sensation and in total disconnect from both surroundings and reality.