Part 10 (1/2)
”Nine years now.”
”You a collector?”
He grinned. ”Hardly. Only some small oils and a few watercolors. Nothing substantial.”
”I've been told your talents lie in organization. The administration speaks highly of you.”
”I love my volunteer work. This place is special to me.”
A noisy group of teenagers poured in from the mezzanine.
”Were you educated in the arts?”
He shook his head. ”Not really. I earned a BA from Emory in political science and took a few graduate courses in art history. Then I found out what art historians make and went to law school.” He left out the part about not getting accepted on the first try. Not from vanity--it was just that after thirteen years it really didn't matter any longer.
They skirted the edge of two women admiring a canvas of St. Mary Magdalene.
”How old are you?” the reporter asked.
”Forty-one.”
”Married?”
”Divorced.”
”Me, too. How you handling it?”
He shrugged. No need to make any comment on the record about that. ”I get by.”
Actually, divorce meant a spa.r.s.e two-bedroom apartment and dinners eaten either alone or with business a.s.sociates, except the two nights a week he ate with the kids. Socializing was confined to State Bar functions, which was the only reason he served on so many committees, something to occupy his spare time and the alternate weekends he didn't have the kids. Rachel was good about visitation. Any time, really. But he didn't want to interfere with her relations.h.i.+p with the children, and he understood the value of a schedule and the need for consistency.
”How about you describe yourself for me.”
”Excuse me?”
”It's something I ask all the people I profile. They can do it far better than I could. Who better to know you than you?”
”When the administrator asked me to do this interview and show you around, I thought the piece was on the museum, not me.”
”It is. For next Sunday's Const.i.tution Const.i.tution magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits.” magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits.”
”What about the curators?”
”The administrator says you're one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on.”
He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. ”How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable. The kind of guy you'd want to be in a foxhole with.”
”The kind of guy who makes sure your estate gets handled right after you're gone?”
He'd not said anything about being a probate lawyer. Obviously, the reporter had done some homework. ”Something like that.”
”You mentioned foxholes. Ever been in the military?”
”I came along after the draft. Post-Vietnam and all that.”
”How long have you practiced law?”
”Since you know I'm a probate lawyer, I a.s.sume you also know how long I've practiced.”
”Actually, I forgot to ask.”
An honest answer. Fair enough. ”I've been at Pridgen and Woodworth thirteen years now.”
”Your partners speak highly of you. I talked to them Friday.”
He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. ”n.o.body mentioned anything about that.”
”I asked them not to. At least until after today. I wanted our talk to be spontaneous.”
More patrons filed in. The chamber was getting crowded and noisy. ”Why don't we walk into the Edwards Gallery. Less folks. We have some excellent sculptures on display.” He led the way across the mezzanine. Sunlight poured past the walkways through tall sheets of thick gla.s.s laced into a white porcelain edifice. A towering jewel-toned ink drawing graced the far north wall. The aroma of coffee and almonds drifted from an open cafe.
”Magnificent,” the reporter said, looking around. ”What did the New York Times New York Times call it? The best museum a city's built in a generation?” call it? The best museum a city's built in a generation?”
”We were pleased with their enthusiasm. It helped stock the galleries. Donors immediately felt comfortable with us.”
Ahead stood a polished red-granite monolith in the center of the atrium. He instinctively moved toward it, never pa.s.sing without stopping for a moment. The reporter followed. A list of twenty-nine names was etched into stone. His eyes always gravitated to the center: YANCY CUTLER.
JUNE 4, 1936-OCTOBER 23, 1998.
DEDICATED LAWYER.
PATRON OF THE ARTS.
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM.
MARLENE CUTLER.
MAY 14, 1938-OCTOBER 23, 1998.
DEVOTED WIFE.
PATRON OF THE ARTS.
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM.
”Your father was on the board, wasn't he?” the reporter asked.