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The sun is setting as I approach the two-sided whiteboard set up outside the entrance.
Renowned Georgian artist Sam Baldwin is featuring his ‘Four Seasons in a Small Town’ collection tonight from 7 to 9 PM. Hors d'oeuvres provided by The Blue Heron.
It’s already five after eight as I swing that glass door open and slide inside. I’ve heard nothing but high praise for The Blue Heron and Violet Dean. The menu is dominated by Southern favorites with a classic French flair. And since I skipped dinner to work out, then took a shower before coming here, I’m starving.
When the trays of hors d’oeuvres go sailing by, both savory and sweet aromas are too much for me to decline and I snatch a couple up. Elegant crystal flutes of champagne follow in short order, so I seize one of those, too. I nibble and sip, and wow, these are delicious—hence all the raving I’ve heard.
Makes perfect sense.
This finger food is some sort of mini deviled-crab-cornbread-muffin type of thing, and they’re so scrumptious that when one of the servers meanders by again, I reach out for two more. I take in my surroundings as I finish off my champagne, setting the empty glass on a passing tray as I exchange it for a full one.
As I tip it back, I scan the room. There are far more pieces of artwork filling the walls, along with a handful of sculptures on pedestals staged strategically around the room. These are so different from that mediocre and frankly boring crap Sam had been painting the other day that I wonder which are his and which are from the other artists he mentioned.
Then, I notice business card-sized placards next to each work. The painting right in front of me has this card beside it:
Samuel R. Baldwin
‘Untitled,’ 2022
Acrylic on canvas
These placards are next to every painting on this section of wall, and as I amble about, I see that probably eighty-five percent of these pieces are his. There’s only a small portion that aren’t, along with the sculptures. Those are by someone named Jamie Gonzalez.
That’s a lot of canvasses for a single person to paint.
Moreover, they’re all done in varying styles. His seasonal series might fall flat for me due to its dull coloration, but these others are magnificent. There’s a series focused on animals as subjects that look so real that I could basically touch the canvas and feel honest-to-goodness fur or feathers. They’re remarkable. I admire one of a cat and a dog curled up together around an outdoor spigot with a morning glory wrapped around the pipe. The purple shades of the flower and the stripes and spots on the animals make the whole picture come to life.
If it was allowed, I might just try to pet them to see if that fur is as soft as it looks.
I blink at my champagne flute, which is again empty. Maybe I drank that a bit too quickly. Or maybe that was my third champagne rather than my second. The room isn’t spinning, exactly, but it’s not holding perfectly still like it should, either. But I’m fine. No worries here. I feel pretty amazing, actually.
I’m wearing my version of high-end clothes in the form of a solid pale-green sundress and tan flats—I always wear freaking flats—but as I take another step, I teeter sideways. I check the hardwood floor for inconsistencies that might’ve made it uneven but find none.
Whatever.
Another tray of champagne hovers nearby, so I change out my empty for a full again. I never spoil myself, and this opportunity is too good to pass up. I wander over to a bunch of object studies, the type that feature a single item on a table or stool. There’s a pair of gardener’s gloves done so intricately that I feel like I could pull off a miniscule piece of lint, and a baseball inside of an old glove that seems ready to throw.
I’m back by those nudes I saw the other day. I hadn’t planned to return to this section, but something about the risqué temptation of it all calls to me. I haven’t been laid in far too long, and while I enjoy my time with my vibrator, a battery-operated foam latex lover isn’t the same as the real thing.
Another woman stands about five feet away from me, examining the charcoal sketches. I lean toward her, nudging her with my elbow.
“Impressive, huh?”
She makes a humming sound, then says, “Quite. The technique is first-rate.”
We’re both peering unashamedly at the one of the guy with the shadowy junk, so I snort-laugh. “Sure, but I’m talking about getting in between the sheets with someone like that. Doubt he’d disappoint. Am I right?”
Apparently, she doesn’t agree because she hightails it away from me, but I find that more hilarious than off-putting.
“Amanda,” comes a voice, a male one, and I stop slapping my knee long enough to absorb that none other than Samuel R. Baldwin—the master artist himself—is addressing me. And man, he’s handsome. Annoyingly so.
A wry expression creases his face. “I’m annoyingly handsome?”
Crap on a cracker, I must’ve said that aloud.
“I’m just mumbling to myself. How’s your show going?”
“Excellent,” he replies, ogling me up and down. Or I think he is. For some reason, the room that remained motionless up to now has begun heaving like a naval vessel. I extend an arm out to steady myself, and he takes it. “You all right?”
