The Wedding Wish

as appreciative arts patrons flooded the main gallery. “Thanks for giving me this chance.”
    “There’s no one who deserves it more than you,” Elizabeth said. “You have promise, Isabel, and a keen eye. Not just as an artist but as a curator too.”
    Isabel hoped that was true. While she wanted to pursue her own art, she also understood she’d need to put bread on the table. Curatorial practices was not a bad field, and one to which she was establishing entrees from the likes of Elizabeth and several of her contacts, to whom Elizabeth had been kind enough to introduce her.
    “Oh look!” she told her teacher. “There are my parents.”
    “Why don’t you go on over and say hello?” Elizabeth urged.
    Isabel carried her glass of Chablis in their direction, feeling every bit the sophisticate that she’d aspired to be. Imagine! Her own opening! And at a well-known gallery besides. Just because it held a university affiliation didn’t make it any less important. Competition in the arts was keen these days, and Isabel knew it. She was just so very grateful to have been given this opportunity to make some meager inroads.
    “Mom, Dad,” she said, crossing to them with an open-armed hug. “Thanks so much for coming.”
    “We wouldn’t have missed it,” her dad said.
    Her mom smiled fondly. “We’re so proud of you, Isabel.”
    Kip nodded. “Yes. We are.”
    “Come on and let me get you both a glass of wine. Then I’ll show you around.”

    Kip laid another small sandwich on his plate and surreptitiously surveyed the art before him. There sure seemed to be a lot of nudies here. Then again, that had been passing for art since the old days. He chomped on the tiny triangle and wrinkled his nose. Why did this taste like he’d just sampled a salad with ranch dressing?
    Trudy, who walked ahead, her armed linked in Isabel’s, smiled over her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Kip. Going for the whole-wheat veggie sandwiches. Very sound.”
    Kip stared down at the offending crudité in horror. No wonder it was so terrible. It was good for him! He quickly scanned the room, then slid his sandwich remains onto a passing tray, which carted off dirty dishes. Isabel shared a laugh with her mom, then glanced back at him.
    “Finished already? That’s great, Dad. Why don’t you go and get some more?”
    Yeah, maybe he’d do that. He’d spied some meatballs in the buffet that looked a lot more his speed.
    “And load up on the meatballs!” Isabel chirped as if reading his mind. “They’re vegan!”
    Kip stopped halfway to the buffet table and grunted. He knew they should have stopped to eat before coming here, but Trudy had protested there’d be plenty of food. Like any of this healthy stuff counted. The line ahead of him moved along, and Kip spotted something intriguing. To his delight, it was a vat of miniature hotdogs drenched in what smelled like a delicious bourbon sauce. “Those aren’t tofu?” he asked the caterer, who was resetting the tea lights beneath the various pans.
    “One hundred percent all beef.”
    Kip sighed with relief and piled his plate high, thinking if this was what it took to get through the night without his stomach grumbling, he’d do it. Isabel still had to give her speech introducing the guest artists, and he supposed that afterwards, he and Trudy would be expected to mingle some more. He poked a wiener with a toothpick, then popped it in his mouth. Mmmm, succulent. A split-second later he nearly spit it back out, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was Robert! In the all-together. Just as naked as the day he was born, the colorful canvass centered right behind the hot dogs, of all things. Miniature hot dogs, Kip reminded himself. He carted his plate toward the canvas to get a closer look, realizing that Robert’s attributes more than measured up. Kip set down his plate on a nearby cart, suddenly losing his appetite.
    “Wonderful, isn’t it?” A woman wearing a name tag that read Elizabeth asked him. “I believe that’s Isabel’s most promising work.”
    “Isabel?” Kip felt the blood drain from his face.
    “She’s our featured artist tonight,” the woman explained, “and this exhibit’s curator.” She studied him a moment, her face lighting up. “Say, aren’t you Mr. Miller?”

    “Your father’s taking an awfully long time getting his food,” Trudy told Isabel. “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.” Just then a couple of arts patrons approached,