Gavin McKeen opened his front door and welcomed a middle-age couple into his home in suburban Connecticut, just outside of Hartford. He and his wife, Lydia had restored the historical home years earlier. During the renovation, they had a den attached to the back of the house, overlooking a scenic pond on the property. But they soon converted the large room to an art studio so Gavin could work from home.
"Right this way," urged Gavin, opening the French doors and gesturing for them to enter. "The standard frame is included in the price of the piece, but I offer a variety of premium frames. I have a catalogue if you'd like to see the choices."
"Thank you," offered the stylish woman in a haughty tone. She peered down her nose at the painting, resting on an easel in the center of the well-lit room. Her cheek scrunched as she placed her reading glasses on her nose. "It's quite charming," she blustered, "but I thought I remembered it being a bit more...vibrant when I saw it at the exhibit."
"Perhaps I should give you a moment to talk it over," acknowledged Gavin.
"We'd appreciate that," said the woman's well-dressed husband, rubbing his chin as he looked the painting over.
Gavin stepped out, closing the studio doors behind him. Without hesitation, he scurried to the adjacent broom-closet door and swung it open.
"Don't be a sleaze," scoffed Lydia, his wife of fifteen years.
Rolling his eyes, Gavin grumbled, "Let me handle this." He stepped into the closet and ducked under the shelf, then removed a plywood section of wall in the back and set it aside. Reaching into the shaft of a defunct dumbwaiter, he slid open a twelve-inch square port at eye-level on what used to be the back wall of the old home. Turning sideways to fit, he stuffed himself tight in his tiny spy-booth and gazed into the studio through a one-way glass window, cleverly disguised as a beveled bronze mirror. Barely able to move his arms in the cramped quarters, he flicked a rocker switch to turn on the hidden microphones and turned up the volume dial at his side.
"I love it, David!" exclaimed the woman. "I wanted this painting the moment I saw it! I'm surprised he hasn't sold it yet."
"It's as good as yours, sweetheart," he replied. "But let's make him a bit more realistic on the price. We'll shoot for three thousand and settle for thirty-five. If he doesn't take it, we'll pay full price...I promise. Just follow my lead."
"Yes!" grunted Gavin under his breath as he slithered out of the shaft. Pumping his fist, he stepped out of the closet to find Lydia standing barefoot with her arms crossed. She wore a blue and white striped knit top that hung over the waistline of her black yoga pants. Her full red hair framed her sparkling hazel eyes with a brilliance he once found irresistible. But he hadn't taken the time to gaze into them in years, and he wasn't going to begin in the middle of making a sale.
"It's unethical to spy on people," she complained.
"These jerks knew the price was four-thousand when they called this morning. They plan to offer me three. That's what I find unethical. It's a matter of principle."
As he stepped out, Lydia reached onto the closet shelf and pulled down her shiny flat shoes with bows. "Think maybe you could give me a portion of your plunder to buy some new shoes?" she asked.
"Why?" he asked sarcastically. "Who do you need to look good for?"
"Never mind," she griped, hooking a finger behind her heel to push into her well-worn shoe.
Gavin exuded confidence as he stepped back in the art studio. "So, David and Cheryl," he boasted, "I'm sure you remember the price is four-thousand firm. What did you decide?"
Fifteen minutes later, Gavin and Lydia watched from the front porch as the semi-satisfied couple placed the painting in the back seat of their Volvo. Gavin folded the four-thousand dollar check and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "Tell ya' what," he bragged, "I honestly believe that in the course of evolution, vaginas have learned to communicate. Let's face it, that one did all the talking."
"I still think it's creepy," complained Lydia out of the corner of her mouth. She offered a twiddle-wave as they drove off. "If mine could talk, I'd use it to sell that God-awful portrait of your sister's friend with the big hair."
"I didn't paint that to sell," he argued. "That's a special piece."
"A special piece of what?"
"I've had offers on it," he insisted. "A guy who called after the last open house said he'd give me fifteen grand, but I want twenty. I doubt your vagina can shout that loud."
"Careful what you bargain for," she warned. "I might still have some charm left."
"You're putting a lot of faith in a forty-year-old honey pot. I'll believe that when I see it."
"Through your secret mirror?" she asked in a sardonic tone. I think you're afraid I can."
"I get it now," accused Gavin. "This goes back to my affair with Brigit. You want permission to have some tawdry encounter to get back at me."
"You gave me permission four years ago, the night after I found out from her husband. Remember? Or were you too busy begging me not to leave you?"
"Did you ever...you know?" he asked as a sudden pang of anxiety pressed on his solar plexus.
"I'm not saying. You said you'd never ask me to tell."
Gavin sighed, wishing he had never made that bargain. His one-night affair with an old friend from college was hardly worth the effort. After a minor argument with Lydia grew into a sour kerfuffle, Gavin ran into Bridget at an art exhibit. More accurately, she stumbled up to him, lamenting the fact they never hopped in the sack together.
