Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
M axi paced the empty gallery, her soft-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. It was the first day of Winter Prelude, and the clock was ticking down to tomorrow’s opening. She glanced around at the barren walls that were crying out for art. But maybe, just maybe Elana Brussels would be the answer to her prayers. Muriel had suggested her, and Muriel had a good eye for talent.
Just as she was in the middle of this thought, the front door creaked open, and in walked Elana. The woman was an interesting ensemble of colors and textures. She wore a patchwork skirt of various fabrics, paired with a knitted sweater featuring every shade of blue imaginable. A rainbow of bangles adorned her wrists, clinking softly as she moved. Her hair was a wild, untamed curling mass, punctuated with random small braids adorned with tiny seashells.
The woman looked around uncertainly, a frown creasing her face as she noticed how empty the gallery was. Her gaze stopped on Maxi, and she smiled.
“Ah, you must be Maxi.” Elana beamed, offering a hand decorated with paint-splattered nails. “So pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Elana,” Maxi replied, shaking her hand cautiously. “So, what kind of artwork do you specialize in?”
“Well,” Elana began, her eyes twinkling, “I create Christmas-themed artwork, but with a local Maine flair.”
Maxi felt a moment of hope. That sounded perfect for the Winter Prelude event. “That sounds intriguing,” she encouraged.
Elana’s eyes brightened even more as she opened a large portfolio bag. “Allow me to show you,” she said, pulling out several pieces wrapped in tissue paper. She carefully unwrapped the first, revealing what looked like a Santa Claus figure—except, upon closer inspection, Maxi realized that Santa was actually assembled from lobster claws.
“This one I call Santa Claws ,” Elana said, grinning.
Maxi blinked. The piece was kitschy, to say the least. The red lobster claws had been arranged in the shape of Santa’s arms, legs, and head. The shell of the lobster tail made the body. And it emitted a faint aroma that Maxi couldn’t ignore: it smelled like old, sour seafood.
Elana unveiled the next piece, this one featuring a Christmas tree made entirely out of the ends of the lobster tails, adorned with miniature buoys as ornaments. “And this,” she declared, “is O Lobster Tree .”
Maxi suppressed a sigh. This was decidedly not what she had in mind for her gallery’s Winter Prelude showcase.
“The art has a unique scent because it’s authentic,” Elana added as if reading Maxi’s thoughts. “Smells like a real Lobster Bay Christmas, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, yes.” Maxi forced a polite smile. “Very authentic.”
Elana went on to show her more in the same vein—a lobster-shell Rudolph and a miniature nativity scene made out of tiny lobster legs.
“Wow, these are certainly unique,” Maxi finally managed to say, trying to maintain her composure. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Elana looked pleased. “So, what do you think? Perfect for your showing, right? Muriel said you wanted something holiday themed but with a cultural flair, and what could be more cultural here in Maine than lobster?”
Maxi hesitated, searching for the right words. These pieces were undoubtedly unique, but they were not the elegant, refined artwork she had envisioned for her gallery. And she’d wanted something cultural that people could learn from, that would show how holidays were celebrated in a different time or a different place. How could she let Elana down gently?
“You know, Elana,” she began cautiously, “your work is certainly one of a kind, but I’m not sure it’s the right fit for this showing. Thank you for showing it to me, though.”
Elana looked a bit deflated but nodded understandingly. “Well, art is subjective, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Maxi sighed inwardly. “It certainly is.”
As Elana packed up her lobster-claw creations, Maxi’s mind raced. She was back to square one, and time was running out.
Maxi stood in the center of her art gallery, surrounded by empty walls that echoed her own sense of defeat. Her fingertips traced the edge of her cell phone, contemplating the awkward calls she might have to make. Should she ring up Priya or Gerard and plead for them to showcase their art on such short notice? The weight of potential failure pressed on her; the last thing she wanted was to let Chandler down.
Maxi sighed and moved toward the window, carefully peeling back a corner of the paper covering the glass. Outside, Winter Prelude was in full swing—children were laughing, couples in bright scarves and pom-pommed hats strolled arm in arm, and shops were bustling with holiday shoppers. The atmosphere was so jubilant, so hopeful, contrasting sharply with the emptiness of her gallery.
Then her eyes caught sight of the charity tent a little way down the street. Probably the only person doing worse than her was Claire. She was in the tent, awkwardly sharing the space with Sandee.
Perhaps she should go over and lend Claire some moral support. In Lobster Bay, community meant everything, and right now, one of her best friends was in the trenches.
Taking a last glance at her vacant gallery, Maxi grabbed her coat and scarf. “Who knows,” she mused aloud to the empty room, “maybe a bit of goodwill can turn both our days around.”