Free The Collectors by Lesley Gowan

Gulliver’s Travels huge. She had a pained expression on her face as she looked down at the house. A tiny man seemed to be holding the door open for her and tapping his watch, as if he were annoyed with her for being late.
    “She likes to tell a story with her paintings, and I always enjoy that,” Jeanne said. “But what’s even more amusing is listening to people looking at her work and coming up with sometimes ludicrous interpretations of what she intended.”
    “Such as?”
    “This piece was in Danni’s thesis show and I heard someone say she thought the artist was married to a man with a very small penis.”
    “Ah.”
    “Naturally, everything consequently looks small to her.”
    “The artist, Danni? Is she married?”
    “No, that’s the funny part. She’s old school lesbian feminist, even though she’s only thirty or so. She was a classmate of Adele’s last year. I think they were friends. I’m not sure.”
    I sipped my wine and stole a look at Jeanne as we moved along one wall of the gallery. I wondered if I should tell her about the warning from Adele, but something told me not to. My mother’s advice, I suppose. Don’t say anything if you think it’s possible it will make things worse. In this case, I just didn’t know.
    I linked my arm through hers and I could feel her squeezing me closer. I tried a different approach.
    “If she’s old school lesbian feminist, and I don’t want to stereotype here, she probably didn’t respond to Adele’s overture to bring her home to you.”
    “I don’t think Adele even tried.”
    “Does she have a labrys tattooed on her neck or something? Why would Adele approach me and not Danni?”
    Jeanne looked amused. “You sound defensive, Laura. What are you worried about?”
    “I don’t know exactly. I’m just wondering if I have some look that says, ‘spank me.’”
    “Listen, you have to get over the idea being submissive puts you in some kind of down position. It doesn’t. And if you think only certain people like what you like, you’re wrong. All kinds do. I’ve tied up plenty of feminists. Hell, I’m a feminist. Aren’t you?”
    I wanted more of exactly this kind of conversation, but it was cut short, as usual. A tall woman in leggings, a purple tunic, and beat-up Frye boots walked up to us and gave Jeanne a kiss on the cheek.
    “Danni, this is my date, Laura. Laura, this is the artist, Danni Prine.”
    Danni shook my hand vigorously and then told Jeanne she was a lucky woman. I liked that. I liked Jeanne calling me her date. Danni looped her arms through ours and pulled us off to a corner.
    “I need a five-minute break from talking about my paintings,” she said. “My jaw aches from having to smile so much.”
    “You and your high-class problems,” Jeanne said.
    “Yes, thanks to you.” Danni looked at Jeanne with affection and turned to me. “Did you know Jeanne made all of this possible?”
    “What are you talking about?” I asked. Jeanne looked down at her shoes, obviously uncomfortable.
    “She introduced herself at my MFA show and provided me the means to work for a year to prepare this show. She paved the way for me to get into this gallery. She’s my patron, my Medici.”
    Jeanne took the opportunity to walk away and start talking to a man she knew nearby, which made Danni laugh. I was dumbstruck.
    “She hates hearing people say nice things about her,” Danni said. “But she’s an unusual and generous person. She’s been a patron to quite a few artists who she found promising and needed some help.”
    “It’s wonderful,” I said. And I meant it. “It’s impossible for most artists to support themselves in the States. Jeanne tells me you were in graduate school with a friend of mine, Adele.”
    “Yeah, I haven’t seen Adele for quite a while, but she’s another one who gets some help from Jeanne. And she needed it bad. I think when Jeanne came across her she was getting evicted from her apartment and thrown out of