New York - The Novel

flow, it seemed to her that it could be improved if they had more examples of certain periods of Keller’s work. She made a note of these, and she also did a rough of the catalogue. Charlie Master was going to provide the text, but she outlined half a dozen points that she thought should be included.
    The gallery had a good mailing list, but it occurred to her that if they had a list of collectors and institutions who’d acquired Stieglitz or Ansel Adams, then that would be useful. She made a note of this as well, asking if Charlie had any suggestions for how she could get this information. Then, having shown all the material to the gallery owner, she sent it to Charlie.
    Whether I seduce you or not, Mr. Master, she thought, this is going to be one hell of an exhibition. Then she waited.

    He did not fall in love with her at once. Ten days after he got the material, they met up at the little office near Columbia and spent a couple of hours going through the collection. Together they selected five more photographs for inclusion, and decided to leave out one of the previous selection.
    She was wonderfully efficient. But she was also humble. He liked that.
    “This is the first show I’ve organized for the gallery,” she told him, “and I have so much to learn. I’m really afraid of making mistakes.”
    “You’re doing fine,” he assured her.
    The following week they met at the gallery, and using a detailed diagram, she showed him how the show was going to look.
    “We won’t be certain until we start to hang the work,” he said, “but so far I think it’s looking good. Very good.” When she was out of earshot, he complimented the owner. “She seems to have a real talent,” he said.
    “She was here until ten the other night, going over mailing lists,” the owner told him. “You have to respect that.”
    A few days later, Charlie asked her to lunch, to meet a collector he knew. The collector was impressed.
    “She seems very good,” he remarked afterward. “And behind those glasses …” He grinned. “I see burning fires.”
    “You think so?” said Charlie.
    “You haven’t tried?”
    “Hmm,” said Charlie, “not yet.”
    Perhaps, he supposed, he could be her mentor.

    When it happened, it was by chance. He was walking back from a meeting one evening and realized he was close to the gallery. On impulse, seeing the lights on, he looked in. Sarah was there alone. She looked pleased when she saw him.
    “I was about to close up.”
    “I just happened to be passing. Thought I’d look at the space again.”
    “Go right ahead.”
    There were two rooms. He went into the second one, and stood there, looking around the walls.
    “You want more light?” she called.
    “No. Thanks. I’ll be getting home now. What are you doing this evening?”
    “Actually, I have a friend who’s in a little theater group. They’re putting something on this evening—I don’t even know what it is—but I promised I’d go.”
    “That sounds interesting.”
    “Maybe. Want to come?”
    He paused, hesitant. “It’s been a while since I went to a theater group.” He smiled. “Why not?”
    The theater was in the West Village. To be precise, it was a basement in a brownstone. There were two or three young people on the sidewalk. One of them had a mug of coffee. The door of the basement, however, was closed. There was a piece of paper pinned on it which said: “No performance tonight.”
    “Great,” said Sarah.
    “Maybe they didn’t have an audience,” said Charlie.
    “That doesn’t stop them,” said the man with the mug of coffee. “Julian was sick.”
    “What about Mark?” said Sarah.
    “He had a quarrel with Helga.”
    “Oh.”
    “Maybe tomorrow,” said the man, helpfully.
    “I’m so sorry,” said Sarah to Charlie. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”
    “The situation is familiar to me,” said Charlie easily. “Shall we get something to eat?”
    They walked through the Village, looking at cafés and restaurants. They found a small Italian trattoria, ordered Chianti and bowls of pasta. Charlie grinned.
    “I feel as if I were in my twenties again.”
    “Nothing wrong with that,” she said.
    While they ate, they talked about music. He told her where the best places were to hear jazz in the city. She told him about her luck in getting the apartment in the Village. After the pasta they had a crème caramel dessert.
    “Do you ever walk about in the Village?” she asked, when they were