(The opening scene is an event in the Bette Porter Gallery in Los Angeles, held five days prior to the trip to Paris in Chapter I.) 

 “So how did you break the ice with the Chairman, Bette?

Someone from the crowd of well-dressed men and women circled around the tall, elegant, and beautiful brunette called out, to prod her to share more about her latest story of conquest with them. They were enthralled, as always, by the woman’s magnetic charm and unique wit.  

“Well, I quoted something I’d heard from one of my dad’s friends when he was trying to loosen my old man up.”  She assumed a dead-pan tone, “Monsieur, do you know what happens when an invisible man marries an invisible woman?”

“Non.” Bette mimicked the voice of the Chairman.

“Their kids are nothing to look at, either.”  The crowd around her chuckled.

She continued with the story, “Well…he smiled, at least. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “you are quick on your feet aren’t you?”

“Merci, I replied.  But I knew that he would soon throw me something, since he is known to be crafty.  Before I could say anything else, he threw me one of those “why?” questions.”

The crowd leaned forward, as Bette paused.

”Why did the chicken cross the road? he asked me.”

“I had no idea where he was going with this, so I responded, “Why?”

“He said, “Don’t ask me, ask the chicken!”

The circle surrounding Bette groaned.  In the meantime, the noise the circle was making was attracting more people to the area, drawn in by the sound of relaxed laughter, and by curiosity about what the beautiful brunette was regaling her audience with this time.

“Yeah, I know, I know…So I quickly responded with a similar “why” question… and I asked, ”Ok monsieur, why did the rooster cross the road?”

Now the crowd was as curious as the Chairman might have been. “Why?” they asked in unison.

“To prove he wasn’t chicken!” Bette crowed, clapping her hands with delight as she said so.

“She could read the phone book to me and I’d still laugh… even if she, um, plays for the other team,” one of the men standing a few feet from the small crowd encircling Bette, whispered to his wife, as the crowd laughed with Bette.  His wife, no slouch herself in the looks department, laughed softly, and nodded. She couldn’t deny Bette had cast her magic spell on them long ago, when she first arrived in LA, an earnest, struggling young gallery owner, with a sharp eye for collectible art.