“Not at all. But I eat what I shoot.”
Mitchell relaxed a little. “Good, good; so do we. Always. So, what do you shoot?”
“Skeet,” Cole replied, and was instantly annoyed with himself for taking out his disdain for the rich and lazy on a man who wasn’t worth his time. Mitchell’s wife and daughter-in-law were surprisingly amused by Mitchell’s obvious discomfiture, but Delbert Canfield and his mother regarded Cole in wary, awkward silence after that. The Desmonds had been talking to each other about the sailing lessons they were taking and were unaware that anything unusual had transpired.
The ninth item had sold for $190,000, and the auctioneer’s voice suddenly rose with excitement, providing a welcome diversion for the occupants of the head table. “This next item needs no further description,” he said, beaming with anticipation as he strode to the center of the low stage. He swept the velvet draperies back, exposing the Klineman sculpture that Cole had donated, and a sigh of admiration and expectation rippled through the audience. Conversations broke off as would-be owners gazed at the huge bronze figure and decided how high they were willing to go.
“This is the moment many of you have been waiting for, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own this magnificent sculpture from a master who is lost to the world now. Bidding,” he said, “will begin at two hundred thousand dollars, and bids will be taken in five-thousand-dollar increments only.” His brows lifted, and a self-assured smile crossed his face as he gazed out upon the audience, letting the excitement build for a few moments; then he said crisply, “Who would like to open the bid—” A hand lifted somewhere in the audience and he nodded instantly. “Mr. Selfer has opened the bidding at two hundred thousand dollars. Do I have—yes, two hundred five thousand dollars from Mr. Higgins. And two hundred ten thousand dollars from Mr. Altour, thank you—”
“Two hundred and fifty,” Franklin Mitchell called out.
Cole suppressed a smirk at the idiocy that prompted an offer of $250,000 for a four-foot-tall hunk of metal that looked like bronzed bananas and body parts to him.
“Two hundred and seventy,” someone else shouted.
The auctioneer began to beam. He looked inquiringly to Mitchell.
“Three hundred,” Mitchell said, thereby sinking to new depths in Cole’s personal estimation.
“Three hundred thousand dollars, and we’ve only just begun!” the auctioneer enthused, gauging the heightened tremors of determination in the room with the accuracy of a human seismograph. “Don’t forget, this is for charity, ladies and gentlemen—”
“Three hundred and ten,” someone else bid.
“Mr. Lacey has bid three hundred ten thousand dollars,” he announced, then quickly added, “and Mr. Selfer has reentered the bidding.” He paused for the signal and nodded approvingly, “at four hundred thousand dollars! Mr. Selfer has bid four hundred thousand dollars! Do I have four hundred ten thousand dollars? Four hundred ten thousand dollars?” He searched the room. “Fair warning, ladies and—” He interrupted himself with another quick nod and smile to say, “We now have four hundred ten thousand dollars. We’re at four hundred ten thousand dollars. Do I have four hundred twenty thousand dollars?”
In the end, the Klineman went for $470,000. While the audience cheered, the delighted new owner wrote out his check and handed it to one of the auctioneer’s assistants; then he got up and went to the head table to shake Cole’s hand. The handshake was more than a mere gesture of gratitude; it was one of several traditions left over from long-ago White Orchid Balls, and it symbolized an acceptable transfer of ownership and responsibility at that moment from the item’s donor to its new owner.
As the new owner walked proudly away, the former owner looked at his watch and tried to hide his bored impatience by perusing the colorful brochure that cataloged the items being auctioned. There were four more major art items left, Cole noted, plus a dozen pieces of expensive jewelry and furs that were listed under the category “For the Ladies.” On the inside cover was a two-page explanation of the history and traditions of the hundred-year-old White Orchid Charity Ball, and Cole read the enthusiastic narrative with growing amusement.
According to the brochure, the early balls were never open to the public, but limited only to prominent Texas families. Among the interesting little insights included was the information that from the inception of the auction to the present day, those items meant specifically for the feminine gender, such as jewelry and furs, were always modeled by the ladies, for the ladies.
In an effort to atone for upsetting Mrs. Canfield and Delbert earlier, Cole laid down the brochure and gestured toward it with a forefinger. “Based on what I read in here, you have an interesting set of customs associated with this ball, Mrs. Canfield.”
Delbert’s mama looked wary but hopeful at his sudden change in attitude. She was at least eighty, with bluish white hair, the complexion of a china doll, and a bosom that was weighted down with ropes of pearls. “Many of them go back a hundred years,” she said.
Cole nodded encouragingly. “According to the brochure, items of special interest to women, such as jewelry and furs, are always modeled by other women who attend the auction, rather than simply being put on display.”
“There’s a delightful logic behind that tradition,” she told him, warming to her subject with girlish delight. “You see, in the early days of the ball, it was assumed that whatever jewelry or fur a lady chose to ‘model’ was something that she—and therefore the others at the ball—expected her husband to buy for her.”
“It sounds like a sort of gentle extortion,” Cole suggested with a trace of a grin.
“That’s exactly what it was!” she confirmed with shameless glee. “Oh, and it did run the prices of things up wonderfully for charity’s sake. Why, when Delbert’s father and I were first married, I chose an enormous ruby brooch to wear. Naturally, I assumed Harold would know the tradition, but he didn’t, and I didn’t get the brooch that night. I was ever so disappointed, and embarrassed, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Cole said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Not as sorry as Harold was the next day,” she countered with a gruff smile. “Why, I couldn’t hold my head up around my friends for an entire week.”
“That long?” Cole joked.
She nodded. “That’s how long it took Harold to find another ruby brooch in New York and have it sent here.”
“I see.”
With that, Cole ran out of small talk. He opened the brochure and scanned the remaining items, trying to calculate how much longer it would be before he could leave the ballroom
and return to the pile of pressing work spread out on a coffee table in his suite upstairs. Under the heading “For the Ladies,” he counted twelve items, all jewelry and furs. Next to each item were the words “Shown by . . .”
The last item in that category captured his attention. It was donated by a local jeweler and was being “shown by” Miss Diana Foster. According to the brochure, the item was “A splendid necklace and earrings of perfectly matched deep purple amethysts surrounded by 15 carats of fine white diamonds and set in 18-karat gold. From the collection of the late Countess Vandermill, circa 1910.”
Cole lifted his gaze from the brochure and looked at Diana. She was talking to Corey and looked perfectly composed, but she was noticeably paler than she’d been earlier. He knew how miserable she’d felt about making a conspicuous entrance, and he knew how much she must be dreading having to model that necklace.
Missy Desmond was looking at her own brochure and evidently reached the same conclusion. “Poor Diana Foster!” she exclaimed. “I wonder why she didn’t ask them to find someone else to model that necklace.”
Cole thought the answer to that was obvious: since Diana’s name was already in the printed brochure, she wouldn’t have been able to withdraw without calling it to the attention of one thousand people.
Across the table, Haley Mitchell, who had felt more than a little slighted that Cole Harrison had apparently recognized Diana Foster from their teenage acquaintance but not herself, watched his gaze stray yet again to Diana, and so did her husband, who’d been drinking steadily from the moment the meal began. Leaning sideways, Peter whispered, “Diana seems to have made a new conquest. Harrison can’t keep his eyes off of her.”
“Just like you can’t,” Haley snapped back, incensed that her husband had dared to mention Diana’s name to her and even more enraged because what he said about Cole Harrison was true. Turning to Missy Desmond, she said, “The reason Diana Foster didn’t let someone else model that necklace is because she couldn’t bear to pass up being in the spotlight, not even for five minutes.” She leaned forward and included her friend, Marilee Jenkins, in the conversation. “Have you noticed that tonight she’s playing the martyr? Just look at that brave little smile she’s wearing.”