Simone laughed. “This is my friend, Gregor. I think Penelope is only entranced by his eyes. Nothing else, Timothy. She is as faithful as . . .” Simone rolled her eyes then finished it, “Old Faithful in Yellowstone!” Then she laughed again. “Not that I’m suggesting you are old, my dear. You are a mere sprout of green, a bud just waiting for the sunshine.”
“Enough, Simone,” Gregor growled, shaking his head. “I didn’t come to hear someone slaughtering a delicate poetry reading.”
If first impressions could be trusted, I was pegging Gregor in the likes only men category. I’d already theorized that Simone was in the opposite camp, having observed that she liked to touch the fanny of her favorite employee, and Shannon seemed to like that touch as much as Simone. This was the first time I’d ever seen Simone with a man in tow, other than with Timothy, and he’d assured me that the two of them were just good friends, childhood friends.
Gregor was eyeing my dress. “Turn around, Miss Penelope. Let me see that gorgeous gown.”
I unfastened myself from Timothy’s embrace and twirled. Gregor was nodding. “Superb,” he said. “Utterly divine.”
“Simone picked it out,” I told him. “I agree. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”
“Only on you, my darling,” Timothy interjected. “Now, what do you think of the gallery, Simone? Is it everything you imagined?”
“Don’t crow so loudly,” Simone needled him. “Of course, it’s marvelous. I knew it would be. Don’t you agree, Gregor?”
Gregor’s opinion went unstated because he had edged away from our chat to move closer to a very Renoir looking piece. In the artist’s painting, the river water sparkled with patches of white, and the characters on a boat, although they wore modern day dress, were standing on a flatbed boat as it drifted meanderingly down the river. It was definitely an impressionistic painting, but I thought it copied Renoir’s La Genouillere too much. The same tiny-leafed willow tree obscured the upper left side, providing shade for those assembled.
“Is this not a Renoir?” Gregor asked, turning back to face Timothy.
“Christopher Tuma is the artist. He is a local and most surprisingly, he’s a senior citizen who has just begun dabbling in oils. I thought this piece showed incredible promise.”