"That's it," I say softly.
He blinks, look up at me, as if I've interrupted some deep thought.
"What did you say?"
"That's it." I nod at the tusk. "That's your favorite thing in here." He doesn't have his father's appreciation for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and excited him as a child.
His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash, the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.
"You're wrong," he says. "It's a remarkable piece, to be sure, but I'm afraid you're incorrect."
I don't believe it. I stare at him, trying to catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Calder he prefers to show me.
"No. You're wrong. You can deny it if you want, but that piece means something to you."
"I never said it didn't," he replies. "It's a charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it from a museum."
He's cheated, and I know it. He might act indifferent, but it's obvious that he has some sort of emotional reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it, there's nothing I can do. I won't press the issue. This whole game was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as I might be, I have a job to do.
"Well," I say. "If this isn't your favorite, which is?"
The question seems to knock the last of the shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me back toward the center of the room.
When he stops, we're standing in front of a round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the opposite of any choice I would have made. It's small, probably only a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of bright red cuts across the canvas.
If I'm being honest—and I have a strong appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying something—it’s one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't know what to make of it.
"It's… interesting," I say finally. This has to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he knew I'd never even consider it. It’s cheating, pure and simple, and he’s not even being subtle about it.
"You don't seem impressed." His voice is thick with amusement. "Or is it just that I've surprised you?"
"It's very different than what I expected you to pick," I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better from another angle. "Why this one?"
He steps up behind me, so near that I can feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't touch.
"What do you see?" he asks. His breath stirs my hair.
I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and give Calder the perfect opening to press his own case against me. All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our students and sponsored artists create.
But it was probably Calder's father that purchased this piece, not Calder himself, and I generally trusted the late Wentworth's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting that I don't.
"It looks like a sun," I say finally. "A muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun." I tilt my head. "Or a hopeless woman's."
"My, but that's a depressing interpretation," he says. "Is that all you see?"
"It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me what you think."
"Mmm." His hand brushes against my hip. "I'm afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that can't be expressed in concrete images or terms."
"Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you mean," I say.
"Yes, smartass," he growls in my ear.
I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play along.
"And which 'primal' emotion do you think this painting depicts?" I ask.
"Well." He reaches around me, indicating the left side of the painting. "This bit here—the strokes are short and angry. And as you follow them around," —he gestures with his hand, pressing closer to me with the motion—"they get shorter, more agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration."
His chest is flush against my back. I can feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night. My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate and stay in control.
"So you believe this piece represents frustration," I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.
He gives a low chuckle. "To an extent, yes. But look." He shifts, indicating the red slash at the center of the painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. "If the outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this part?"
I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly, just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.
"I—I guess the center's the opposite of frustration," I say, noting the softer, curved lines.
"You could say that. The cause of the frustration, maybe, but also its cure."
I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding slowly downward.
Easy, I tell myself. Stay in control.
"But why is this one your favorite?" I press.
"Mmm." His warm breath rushes across my ear. "Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through you?"