One-Night Man

“Playing with a penis shouldn’t put you to sleep, dear.” Auntie Q’s lilting voice broke the late-night quiet.

Rocking back on her heels, Lennon swung a weary gaze toward her great-aunt. Auntie Q—Quinevere McDarby to the rest of New Orleans’s society—stood silhouetted beneath the arched entrance, surveying the exhibition hall as grandly as a fairy queen.

And that’s exactly how Lennon thought of her. With her white hair and brilliant blue eyes, Auntie Q was petite, quintessentially feminine, and had been as exquisite in her youth as she was darling in her dotage.

“It’s so late nothing can keep me awake, Auntie.”

“The right man could.”

Too tired to argue, Lennon said, “You should be resting.”

“Why? I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on my sleep when I’m dead. Until then…” At Lennon’s stricken look, Auntie Q tutted reassuringly. “Shh, dear. I went online to check the weather report. If I didn’t, you would have, and I want you to finish your to-do list so the bachelors and I will have your undivided attention during the gallery opening.”

“I’m all yours this weekend.”

The cheeky old girl winked. “You should say that to a man sometime.”

Lennon only smiled, not up to another debate about her love life or lack thereof, and attempted to steer the subject toward the million and one things still left to do before the reception tonight. “What’s the forecast?”

“Cool Gulf breezes for the next two days, if I care to trust the weatherman. I don’t. I’ve arranged a contingency plan in case the weather doesn’t cooperate and we have to move the reception out of the sculpture garden.”

“Good idea, but I’ve got my fingers crossed the weather will be fine.”

She’d said a few prayers, too. Lennon wanted this weekend to come off without a hitch. The opening of the Joshua Eastman Gallery—the newest addition to New Orleans’s largest art museum—represented two years of Auntie Q’s hard work, a memorial to the man she’d loved for most of her life.

“Great-uncle Joshua would be touched that you’re opening the gallery to showcase his antiquities collection.” Sinking back onto the floor, Lennon glanced up at the portrait that hung above the display case.

Great-uncle Joshua peered down at her boldly from the canvas, a handsome man with deep green eyes and striking black hair. He’d sat for the portrait during the prime of his life, long before Lennon had been born, and she thought he looked like a real-life romance hero. As a romance writer, she was qualified to make that assessment.

Auntie Q followed her glance, her wizened expression softening as she gazed upon the man she’d loved in life. “He bequeathed me his collection specifically to keep me busy after he passed, otherwise he’d have opened this gallery himself. I’m sure he’s up there right now, throwing roadblocks in my way every time he doesn’t like one of my decisions.”

“Roadblocks?”

Auntie Q waved a thin hand impatiently, sapphires and rubies flashing when her rings caught a gleam of light from the after-hours lighting. “There’s simply no other explanation for why the painters painted the decorative arts exhibition hall the wrong colors. I mean, really, dear. Each and every paint can mislabeled? The project supervisor getting the flu just as the painters were about to start the project? And I’d have never been out of town if not for the opportunity to acquire that exquisite Italian Renaissance majolica dish that Joshua had been trying to purchase for a decade. All Joshua’s doing. He hated the bold colors I chose to offset the collectables.”

Frankly, Lennon thought the natural tones now gracing the walls of the exhibit better suited the collection of rock crystal vessels, ivory carvings and gilt and silver miscellany. But if Auntie Q believed Great-uncle Joshua sat up on a cloud critiquing her decorating choices, who was Lennon to argue?

“You made the right choice conceding to his wishes then,” she said. “The hall looks great.”

“It does indeed. All in all, I think he’s pleased.”

“And so are a lot of people in New Orleans. You’re giving the art world an invaluable contribution.”

“Not everyone is happy.” She held up an envelope, which Lennon, in her exhaustion, hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh, no. Not another one.”

“I’m afraid so, dear.”

Lennon didn’t need to open the envelope to discern the thoughts of the harsh critics who’d opposed the gallery’s opening. She and her great-aunt had already had a few unpleasant run-ins with protestors. “Well, I still don’t understand the trouble.”

“Every collection has detractors.” Auntie Q gave a shrug, though Lennon knew each negative comment struck her hard. “The point is to showcase Joshua’s collection. He wanted people to embrace our collective erotic art history. ‘Don’t need a royal family to enjoy the royal family jewels,’ he always said.”

That he had. As a young man, Great-uncle Joshua had earned his fortune importing and exporting antiquities; throughout his later years, he’d become a collector and philanthropist. As far back as Lennon could remember, memories of her great-aunt and -uncle had always involved exciting treasure hunts to track down artwork and collectibles from all over the world.

That their idea of treasure included all forms of erotic artwork throughout history was a detail Lennon had become acquainted with only in adulthood.

“Are you sure you’ve chosen the right work of art to display beneath Great-uncle Joshua’s portrait, Auntie?” Leaving the glass display case on the floor, she pushed herself to her feet and eyed The Promise skeptically.

Auntie Q glided into the room. Meeting her halfway, Lennon plucked the letter from her grasp, tucked her finely boned hand in her own and led her back toward the portrait.

“Georgia Devine is an up-and-coming young artist,” she said. “Joshua loved boosting new artists’ careers. That’s why I’m exhibiting this piece.” She walked the few steps to a wall display that featured an exquisite seashell-and-pearl necklace. “This is a Reina Price original. I just acquired it last year when she opened her own gallery.”

Lennon didn’t think there was any comparison between the huge sculpture beneath the portrait and the necklace designed to resemble a woman’s genitals in soft pastel shades.

“This is a gorgeous piece,” she said, moving closer for a better look at the fine detail. “I mean really gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind seeing this artist’s other work.”

“We’ll go together, dear. After the opening.”

Lennon nodded. “This piece would be perfect beneath the portrait. It’s beautiful, tasteful, not…well, crude.”

“Crude?” Auntie Q glanced back at the sculpture as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “That gorgeous white marble? Think of yin and yang. The Promise symbolizes the wholeness of the universe, the sun and the moon, the unity of man and woman. What’s crude about it?”

The sheer proportions, for one thing. The blatant suggestion of oral foreplay, for another. Not that Lennon would try explaining that to Auntie Q. A waste of breath. She didn’t have anything against oral sex per se, but seeing it so deliberately displayed, almost flaunting… “I prefer the subtler pieces, I suppose.”

“The sculpture makes you uncomfortable because you haven’t seen a penis in a while.” Before Lennon could comment, Auntie Q tugged her hand. “Come on, let’s find you a man.”

They walked the few steps to the foyer adjoining the entrance hall. A dozen easels flanked the arched entrance, displaying promotional photos of the bachelors to be auctioned off during the gallery opening.

Auntie Q studied the photos, a respectable assortment of candid gazes, carved jaws and arresting smiles. “Any thoughts on whom you’ll bid for?”

Oh, she’d had thoughts all right. Lennon took a deep breath and waited until her great-aunt had turned her assessing gaze back before admitting, “Actually, I’ve been giving the bidding a lot of thought. Not only will the auction raise funds for the collection, but it’s an opportunity to find Mr. Right.”

Auntie Q’s face suddenly became wreathed in smiles and excitement. “Mr. Right, Lennon? Really? Are you finally going to allow yourself to fall in love?”

Lennon nodded. “I’ll be thirty in May. I’ve finished college, traveled the Continent with Mother and established my writing career. It’s time to settle down.”

“Are you talking about marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Marriage would be delightful, but don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? Shouldn’t you be in love with a man before deciding to marry him?”

“That’s where the auction comes in.” Taking a deep breath, Lennon chose her words carefully. “These are the most eligible bachelors around. They’re all reputable, self-made men, from the best families. Where better to find a husband?”

That laser-blue gaze narrowed. “And where does love fit in?”

Lennon faced her great-aunt squarely. “My definition of love differs from yours a bit, Auntie. To me, love doesn’t necessarily include what you always call ‘grand passion.’”