It was nearly five in the afternoon when Bette returned home on Sunday. When she pulled into the driveway, the smile was still plastered on her face.  It was the first time she had spent hours without contemplating her relationship with Tina since that fateful night.  Eileen Strickland had kept her laughing and the gossip had been free flowing and juicy. 

After getting out, Bette tilted the back of the seat forward.  She reached behind and gingerly pulled out a large canvas.  She had been surprised when Eileen had insisted that Bette walk her to her car to pick up a gift.  When Eileen pulled the canvas out of the trunk, she commanded Bette to view the work only after she returned home.  Bette was like a child barely able to contain herself before opening birthday presents.    She walked the painting to the side door, her arms spread wide to handle the immense work.  Placing the painting at the door, she unlocked it, then heaved the panting into her arms again and walked inside.

Bette carried it into the living room, kicked the coffee table aside, and leaned the painting against the sofa.  The painting was wrapped in a thick, cotton blanket that Bette peeled away. Stepping back, Bette smiled and shook her head in amazement.   No question, she would have to return this exquisite painting; it was a gift she simply couldn’t accept.  Bette took a seat in a chair opposite the painting and stared at it.  Her mind fell into the lines and curves of the painting.  The artist’s choice of bright yellow and vibrant red showed bold and audacious.  She wasn’t the first person to see the great talent in the work. 

The phone was ringing, but Bette was so lost in the work that she hadn’t noticed at first.  She ran to pick up, noticing that the number was Eileen’s.

“Hello,” she said.  “Are you insane?”

Eileen laughed loudly.  “So I take it you woke that little painting up, took its blankey off?”

“Seriously, are you nuts?  There is no way in ***** I’m accepting an original Alexander Calder from you.  You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, dear, I’m perfectly sane.  Here’s the thing:  I had this very wealthy great aunt, I mean filthy, nasty rich.  I know what you’re thinking, hey Eileen, you said you were a starving artist.  Well, I was back then.  I’d ask my aunt to float me a few bucks now and then and she’d laugh and say ‘you’re no Picasso, Eileen.  I knew Picasso.  I slept with Picasso.  Yeah, she slept with Picasso like I’ve been getting it on with George Clooney for the past four months.  Okay, it’s true that my battery-operated love toy is named George Clooney, but it’s hardly the same.  Anyway, you’re no Picasso, no Gaughin.  You’re no Wyeth or Pollack or whomever came to mind.  Constant criticism and no dough.  So, all those years, I was doing my art, she’d make fun of me.”