Dear Dad,
I hope you are all right and your confinement is not proving to be too difficult. Yes, it will allow you to catch up on your reading. I've sent you several books that I thought might interest you. I hope they arrived safely.
I'm writing this letter aboard an over-night train heading to Paris. I had a rather strange experience today. As you know, I was in Cannes on the Côte d'Azur or the French Riviera as the tourist like to call it. The purpose of the visit was to deliver a paper on the rise of early Renaissance architectural ideals in late medieval France. After the lecture, while deep in academic thought, I took the wrong bus and instead of returning to my hotel ended up on a nude beach. Needless to say, I rather stood out wearing a navy business suit and carrying my briefcase. I was certainly over dressed for the occasion.
Never the less, I plodded along, taking advantage of the serendipitous opportunity to enjoy a little sun and sea breeze not to mention some interesting insights into the human condition. I was just considering dumping the sand from my Oxfords and making for the promenade when a beautiful women wearing a smirk and suntan oil accosted me.
“You're either terribly eccentric or completely and hopelessly lost.” Her voice was deep and husky and rather pleasing. Needless to say, dad, as a lesbian, I found other areas pleasing as well, but I won't dwell on those aspects at this time and especially when writing my father.
I pushed my glasses farther up my nose to give me time to reflect on a witty answer, but having a rather short nose and little wit, I was forced to fall back on the truth. “I must seem a little out of place, but in my world I'm hardly an eccentric. Nor am I complete and hopelessly lost. I do know I'm in Cannes, France and presumably on the coast.”
She laughed. Either truth was amusing or she was laughing at me. “Come on, Honey-Bear, I'll take you back to your den before you get in trouble.”
I tried dignity. After all, a person who has achieved the lofty heights of full tenure cannot be called a Honey-Bear, at least not in public. “I suspect, I'd be in more trouble taking a bus with a woman wearing nothing but a few freckles.”
“Naughty, you shouldn't have been looking. My clothes are over there. Come on.”
Why I plodded after her I have no idea. I would like to say it was love at first sight, but the view as I followed behind was of a full moon rising over Venus and thoughts of the purity of love were not foremost in my mind. As you might recall, Dad, I'm short and my hour glass figure has had its own personal Big Bang since I turned thirty and is quickly expanding towards planetary size. My mystery companion was a half a head taller and built like a model. I was panting by the time we reached her change hut not from desire, although I will admit that wasn't completely absent, but mostly from wading through dry sand on a hot day with a heavy briefcase. I waited and caught my breath while she changed.
I was obliged to catch my breath again. She came out dressed in red in what I believe is called a sundress that flattered her honey-coloured tan considerably. She wore a rather large white hat, sandals and carried a matching Gucci purse. “So where were you going Honey-Bear?”
“Doctor Bentley Miller, Professor of Medieval History, Toronto. I was actually enjoying a stroll along the beach having inadvertently taken the wrong bus. May I ask your name?”
“Rachel de Beers. Strolling on a nude beach in a pant suit!” She laughed and shook her head in disbelief, took my arm and tugged me to the stone steps leading to the promenade. “You're lucky you didn't get arrested.”
“Arrested! I was the one with all my clothes on!”
“Exactly, my little pervert. Now where were you going before you decided to take a stroll on a nude beach?”
I have to admit, her arm tucked in mine felt rather nice. “Actually, Rachel, I was going back to my hotel to pick up my luggage. I'm taking the afternoon train to Paris and renting a car to Chartres.”
She stopped in front of what I was to learn was a white Lamborghini, Adventador, but at the time I thought was an alien space craft on landing wheels. “I'll take you. You haven't got a chance of getting there by yourself. You'll get lost again.”
I looked at the car and smiled. “Where would we put my luggage?”
You won't need luggage.” She smiled, I though, rather wickedly and opened the car door for me to crawl down into the interior cockpit.
I hesitated. “I don't know you. Why would you want to go to Chartres Cathedral?”
She smiled. “Is that where we are going? I haven't been in a church in years. As for why, I was terribly bored and then I saw you. You amuse me.”
“Ms. De Beers. I don't think we run in the same circles. I have research I wish to do and as much as I'm grateful for your kind offer, I don't think I should be a very good antidote for your boredom. Besides, I have my train pass already.”
Rachel's eyes got bigger. “Quick get in the car, here come the Police National. They won't be anywhere near as understand as I am about your absent-minded behavior.” I'm given a push in and the wing or door or hatch was closed after me. Rachel ran around the car, leapt in and we took flight. Total terror prevented me from any form of communication until we arrived at the train station.
“You can open your eyes now,” came an amused voice into my self-imposed darkness.
“Did we miss the bus, the man on the bike and that collection of scooters?” I asked releasing the death grip I seemed to have developed on the briefcase in my lap.
“By a hair each time,” Rachel responded proudly, unfolding as her lean figure emerged from the car.
“There IS a God,” I mumbled, as I struggled out the other side. “As much as I'm grateful for the exhilarating flight, you do realize that my luggage is back at the Hotel de Provence?”
“I'll have it sent over. Come on, we have time for afternoon coffee before the train leaves.” I trot along in her wake. Rachel has a way of parting crowds like Mosses had with water. Normally, I find I get elbowed and tread on a good deal at railway stations. Not Rachel, she was talking on her ear piece as she stalked ahead, people scattering on all sides of her. I consider my schoolroom French fairly adequate, but Rachel's rapid fire commands left me a bit confused. Either she had ordered someone to bring my luggage to the railway station or she told someone that a giraffe was fornicating in a suitcase.
I'm sure all this time you have had tears in your eyes from laughing realizing instantly who Rachel de Beers was. I will admit that I was slow on the up take. It was only as we past a news stand and I caught the front page of a Tabloid that I came up short. Rachel Socks the Sheik! Good Lord! I hurry to catch up and find myself sitting at the best table and being waited on with polite and diligent service. Am I still in France? Normally, I am totally invisible to wait persons.
“You are Rachel de Beers?” I ask once we have been served our Café Noir and chocolate covered almonds.
“Yes. And you're Doctor Bentley Miller, Professor of Medieval History, Toronto.” I'm sure I'm being laughed at this time.
“THE Rachel de Beers. Artist, heiress and scandalous woman by all accounts. The one who was having the relationship with the Sheik, but seems by the Tabloid headline, to have ended the relationship rather abruptly.”
Now she is definitely laughing at me. “Yes, that de Beers. Are you horrified?”
I smile and what pops out of my mouth next did horrify me. “Only to the extent that I wanted to get to know you better, but it appears you favour Sheiks.”
“A Sheik and several of his wives,” she winked at me and I felt the heat rising up my face. Good Lord, I was out of my depth, Dad!
An hour later, I'm put on the train by Rachel. She took me by the face, kissed both cheeks and then planted a passionate kiss on my lips before walking away. Stunned is the only word I can use to describe my feelings. I barely remembered to get on the train. Oh well, just two ships passing in the night, but what a luxury liner!
Your Conservative Daughter, Bentley
Dear Dad,
I'm sorry you are not finding the food up to standard, but one has to make allowances. It is after all not a holiday. At least it is wholesome and nourishing.
I am in a complete state of shock and euphoria. I have acted totally irrational and spontaneous and it will most likely be my downfall. Let me start from the beginning. I slept on the train and arrived in Paris rumpled and with Neanderthal tendencies. A latte and a croissant at a standing café transformed me into a nearly civilized human being. At the Montparnasse Station, one can pick up a train to Chartres nearly every hour, so it wasn't long before I was on my way again.
Imagine my surprise when arriving in Chartres, having gathered my luggage together and made my way out to the Place Pierre Semard, to find a grey Porsche Boxster parked illegally on the side walk. Rachel was leaning on its hood looking radiant, refreshed and immaculate. She wore tailored slacks and a silk shirt that although casual probably cost as much as my yearly salary. I have never understood how some women can manage the art of always looking perfect. Wrinkles and dirt seem to be attracted to my being and if I don't get eight hours sleep in a comfy bed, I'm not fit to be in polite society.
I get a radiant smile. “Bonjour, Doctor Bentley Miller, Professor of Medieval History, Toronto.”
I park my wheeled suitcase and heft my knapsack up on my shoulder. “Good morning, Rachel de Beers, artist, heiress and scandalous woman. Are you stalking me?”
“Of course.” She pushed herself off the hood of the car and steps over to me, kissing me on both cheeks, but not following through with another passionate kiss. I admit, Dad, to being disappointed. “Are you ready to go to Chartres Cathedral?”
“I am. I'm not sure you are. You might be struck dead by a lightning bolt on the threshold. Besides,” I add, looking at yet another mean machine, “I still don't think there is enough room for my luggage. How did you get here?”
“By helicopter of course.” She shrugged, as if this should have been perfectly obvious to me.
My eyes grew wide as I imagined chaos in the skies. “My God! You didn't fly it did you?
“No, I slept. Are you ready?” She signaled to a man standing stone faced by the station wall and instructs him to take my luggage to the hotel.
“This is high handed,” I protest as my knapsack is lifted from my shoulder.
My comment is ignored as Rachel opened the car door and chuckled. “I hardly recognized you in blue jeans and a shirt. I think of my Honey-Bear in a navy pant suit.”
“I am NOT a Honey-Bear and certainly not YOUR Honey-Bear. Sorry to disappoint, but this is my usual uniform. I'm a university prof not a business woman. You will drive at the speed limit and follow all the traffic rules, won't you?” I get into the car and sink with pleasure into the creamy leather seat.
“No,” she laughs and getting in, we take off. The acceleration forces me back against the seat. I hang on for dear life and hope for a miracle.
A life time later or maybe a few minutes, we pulled into a parking spot in front of the cathedral. I closed my mouth that had formed a silent scream and exhaled. “I must be developing a death wish. I didn't screamed in terror as you cut off that tourist bus and drove around the no parking pylons.”
Rachel just shrugged and got out of the car. I followed her on shaky legs. She stood hands on hips looking at the façade of the cathedral. “We are here. It's yet another old building. Impressive, but it's outlived its time.”
You can imagine, Dad, how I reacted to that flippant statement. Emotion boiled up inside and I stalked over and took hold of Rachel by the shoulders. That's no easy feat when you're substantially shorter, but a massive feeling of injustice to Chartres had made me feel ten feet tall.
“Philistine! How can you call yourself an artist? I want you not to say a word or do anything scandalous until I've finished talking. Understood?”
Rachel nodded and smiled.
I turned her around so she was facing the façade of Chartres once again. “Chartres, to anyone who knows anything about art history, that one name evokes passion. Close your eyes.”
Rachel did so with a laugh. “Don't take advantage of me now.”
I frowned, irrationally annoyed that she felt she could make jokes about my prowess. I might be short and rotundly conservative, but I have never had any complaints from my partners. “We'll discuss that statement at a later date,” I informed her. “Now with your eyes closed, I want you to imagine that you are a peasant living in a wattle and daub hovel a hundred miles from here. You have never been more than five miles from your home, but a week ago you set out on a great pilgrimage to come to Chartres and to see the very gown the Virgin Mary wore when she birthed the boy Jesus. You have watched the massive towers looming off in the distance, getting larger each day to your eager eyes. And now you stand right outside. The tallest object you have ever seen is a tree. These towers are three times taller. Open your eyes and look up.”
Rachel did so, looking, I was glad to observe, suddenly serious and intense. “Chartres has burned a number of times. The last time, the people stood in total despair outside the ruins, defeated and disillusioned. Then one man stepped forward and lifted a stone and started to repair the foundation. Another joined him and so on until all the community was singing, working and praising God, as they rebuilt His cathedral. That is the power of faith, of humanity and of hope. Irrational at times, yes, but also magical. It seeps from these walls.”
Rachel smiled down at me. “Just these walls?”
Feeling a little caught out by my own words, I take a step back and regroup. “Well, no, not just these walls. Notre Dame is a fine example too. There's many such buildings in Europe built with such passion, but these walls are special. The portico over this archway demonstrates what I mean best. Remember the beauty of the Greek and Roman sculptures and now see how small and stilted these figures are? They are crude, simplistic and without character. The lost individuality of the Dark Ages. Now look below, these figures of saints and kings are individualistic. They seem to be straining to escape the stone. Humankind is emerging from the Gothic Age and reaching for the Renaissance. It's the triumph of enlightenment over ignorance, of order over isolation. The Renaissance will bloom in Italy, but here in the high Gothic of Chartres you see its birth.”
Rachel hugs me and gives me a big kiss on the lips. I'm horrified. Lesbian kisses, in public! In front of the cathedral! I turn beat red, dad, and smirk with delight. “Control yourself, woman,” I order and she laughs.
I clear my throat and continue my lecture pretending that my feet were actually touching the ground and my heart wasn't soaring. Am I pathetic or what, dad?
“So we peasants walk inside and suddenly we are surrounded by light, the light of God. The closest thing on earth to the feel of heaven. The walls tower over us not as solid confining mass, but as paths of light to the heavenly host. One hundred and seventy six stain glass windows fill the space with colour and light and for us illiterate beings, recount the stories of the bible. Our eyes are drawn forward and up to the massive rose window behind the altar. This is God's place on earth and we stand in ecstasy at His majesty.” I turn towards Rachel and growl. “So not just another old building, but a work of art encapsulating a whole new philosophy that will lead us out of the Dark Age to the Renaissance.”
Rachel smiled with delight. “I believe Abbot Sugar wrote in the 1100s, ‘the dull mind rises to truth through that which is material and in seeing this light is resurrected from its former submersion.'”
My mouth dropped open and I snapped it shut with annoyance. I'd just been led into making a complete fool of myself. “You set me up.” I turned on my heel and walked over to the side nave to hide in the shadows and mutter rude remarks to myself.
Rachel sought me out and pulled me against one of the towering pillars that bear the weight of the ribbed arches. “You, Doctor Bentley Miller, Professor of Medieval History, Toronto are an academic snob, but I love you anyway. You are my Honeybear, and I love your passion and devotion.” Before I can protest she was kissing me. Actually, it went well beyond kissing to groping. Yes, right there in the cathedral. It was a height of passion and ecstasy that I had never reached before and it had nothing to do with faith and everything to do with baser desires I blush to admit.
I was saved from complete debauchery by the arrival of the first bus load of tourists and we pulled apart breathlessly. “Come,” she gasped and I followed her like a lost puppy dog back to our hotel room.
Your Corrupted Daughter, Bentley
Dear Dad,
This is a warning and explanation in case the other guys give you a rough time if they come across any tabloids. The paparazzi have struck. You will find several photos of yours truly in the arms of that notorious woman, Rachel de Beers, in the tabloids this week. Yes, I'm naked. Fortunately, my face is behind Rachel's right breast. I can explain although you won't believe me.
I'm not sure what the chairman of my department is going to think, but I suspect it won't be good. It's not that he minds publicity of any sort, or has anything against lesbians (there are two of us in the department), nor does he care about my moral standards. What will upset him is that I've clearly known de Beers for some time and haven't put the touch on her for a donation. He will feel wounded and betrayed.
I am now in England. We are on the run from the paparazzi. Dad, I'm engaged. I've always maintained that marriage would cramp my style and undermined my research time. I now stand before you a true hypocrite of love wearing a grin like the Cheshire Cat and with my clothes on, you'll be glad to know. Having had my prowess questioned at the door of Chartres and my libido heightened to distraction within the sacred walls itself, one thing very quickly led to another when we got to the hotel. But that has nothing to do with how I became engaged or photographed naked. That is another story entirely.
We were in Paris and after a night of passion, I was recovering in a gold gilded tub of hot, scented water in Rachel's suite of rooms. Rachel had climbed out a few minutes before, wrapped herself in her housecoat and gone to open the door for room service. Suddenly, I heard her scream in fright and the sound of struggling. I was out of the tub in an instant and realized that I'd left my terry cloth housecoat on the bed. I grabbed the first weapon at hand and charged out to find Rachel using a Louis the Fourteenth chair to keep a knife welding burglar at bay. He looked at me with some surprise and laughed. Rachel's face darkened and she raised the chair to hit him.
“No! Not the antique furniture!” I exclaimed and heaved my weapon at his face. It was an open bottle of perfume that had been sitting on the counter. As I hoped, it got him in the eyes and he staggered back trying to wipe his eyes clear and succeeding instead in making the situation worse. I charged forward brought my knee up and got him square in the family jewels. He went down on his knees sucking in air and I used the opportunity to knock him out with the cut glass perfume bottle. The room now had the overpowering, if fragrant, scent of perfume and blinking back tears, I crossed the room and flung the French doors to the balcony open.
As soon as I turned back, Rachel was in my arms sobbing pathetically. “There, there, it's all right.” I said, feeling quite smug with my efforts. “It's all over now.”
“No, it isn't. The chair's a reproduction, but the perfume is Clive Christian Imperial Majesty,” she wailed.
I patted her back reassuringly. “We'll get another bottle from Clive.”
Rachel who was now half crying and half laughing developed the hiccups. “It's two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a bottle.”
“For perfume?!” My head reeled. I was mentally calculating if I could pay off that debt before I retired and realized the answer was no. “I can't afford to repay you. I'll have to marry you and pay the debt off in service.”
Rachel leaned back to look at me and hiccupped. “That's the strangest proposal I've ever had. Yes, I accept.” She kissed me soundly before I could protest that my light hearted remark might have been taken more seriously than I meant. It was probably around this time that my naked ass was photographed through the French doors by an energetic paparazzi who had shinnied up a drain pipe.
Your Sex Slave Daughter, Bentley
Dear Dad,
It's great to be back in Canada. I was so pleased we were allowed to have our wedding at your place. Rachel was delighted to meet you. My stature has gone up considerably in her mind knowing that my father is serving time for art theft. She feels having prison guards witness our marriage certificate gives her considerable status among her more cutting edge friends. As she has said several times since, “You can't be as stuffy a Honey Bear as you seem, if your father is a famous art thief.” I have protested that I thought you were a traveling art appraiser until Interpol caught up to you, but she insists that I couldn't be THAT naive. Please don't enlighten her to the fact that I was just that clueless. She does request that you leave her art alone, but if you don't reform, she has a number of people on a list who she would be delighted to see lose their art collections some night.
I have bought a small, two bed room house in Rosedale, Toronto. With my salary, cashing in all my savings, selling several of my undergraduate students into the white slave trade and working weekends as a greeter at Walmart, I should be able to make the mortgage payments. Rachel informs me as well as the palatial hotel suite she owns in Paris, there is also a beach home in Malibu and a condo on Central Park in New York. I have promised her that we'll visit them my next summer holiday. Considering my mortgage, I might have to hitch hike to get there.
Rachel has taken over the back sun porch overlooking a ravine as her studio. She tells me it has a perfect northern light. Something I didn't have to pay for! I have got use to coming home and finding my wife with naked women. She tells me they model for her. She has been taking her art far more seriously since we set up house.
My friends and colleagues have been lining up to meet her. My boss, Twain Dean ( Twiddle Dee, as Rachel calls him) is in love with her. She gave him a donation for the department that could have bought Versailles and now he won't have to kiss trustee ass for the rest of his career. He's become quite insufferable. Rachel is in the business of corrupting souls. Watch yourself!
The department has posted a betting chart for how long the marriage will last. The outside is a year, but I see the majority of ticket holders have signed up for one to three months. Rachel says it's forever. I'm hoping so, but her track record (also posted) is six months. She's been married twice before once at seventeen and once at twenty-two. They were merely men, she justified while mixing me a stiff drink after her confessions. Seems her relationships with women (three) have lasted longer. I'm not sure I'm ready for truth in marriage. It's not that I care about her past. I'm just embarrassed that mine is not as exciting.
You Mortgaged Daughter, Bentley
Dear Dad,
I thought Glen Rutter in History might have been the winner of my marriage poll yesterday. He had signed on at one month and four days. As I've said, I'm used to finding my wife with naked women, but I am not used to finding my wife with a naked woman in her arms.
“I can explain,” she smiled over Linda shoulder as I came up short in the doorway. Linda is one of the models my wife uses regularly – as a model that is.
“I hope so,” I said, putting down my brief case. “I don't own a gun and I think I'm too short to reach up and strangle you.”
“Linda is having a crisis,” Rachel explained patting her model's naked back.
“Me too,” I sighed. “I'll make tea. Linda put your robe on and stop crying on my wife's shoulder. She's getting slobber spots.”
It turned out that Linda's partner is abusive. Over tea, we discussed possible plans, outcomes, goals and benefits, rejected most, reanalysis some and came to some conclusions. I suggested a safe house and social work intervention. Rachel suggested a month's stay in Paris for Linda and her sister. Naturally all at Rachel's expense. That seemed to brighten everyone up and Linda trotted off to talk to her sister.
“You are a soft touch,” I accused my partner.
She shrugged. “My great grandfather made money on armaments, my grandfather on rebuilding Europe and my father on manipulating the stock market. I'm spending it on good deeds which is better than self-indulgence, I find. That was really very tedious after a while.”
“Marriage to me has made you a more stable and noble person?” I admit that thought fluffed me up some.
Rachel came over and sat on my lap. “Silly. I'm just as wild as ever.” She then proceeded to prove it!
I think, Dad, that we are making strides as a married couple. I have insisted that Rachel drive according to the traffic laws of Ontario and she has insisted that I go on a diet. I figure when you hit the stage that you are making each other perfectly miserable and are still happy as a couple, then you have something positive going.
Have you noticed that diet is a four let word comprised mainly of the word ‘die”? Rachel has charmed everyone I know into watching me like a hawk. I was just about to bite into a donut in the staffroom the other morning when it was pulled from my salivating mouth by my administrative assistant, Clare.
“Bad, Historian!” she chastised. She pointed to my foodless office. “Go. Sit.” Well, okay, her actions weren't quite that direct, nor her words so abrupt, but dieting is a dog's life. It's made worse because Rachel is still smiling which means she continues to drive like a maniac behind my back.
Your Long-suffering but Happy Daughter, Bentley.
Dear Dad,
Today is a milestone. I have been married for six months. There have been some upsets, the naked woman in my wife's arms, the paparazzi hiding in our bathroom, my wife's failed attempt at learning to cook, the paparazzi lined up outside the restaurant we now frequent, Rachel's appearance in traffic court for twenty-seven unpaid tickets. (It seems she felt they should be optional), and the paparazzi photos of us weekly in the tabloids. (Can you tell I've lost twenty pounds?) Over all though, we've settled into quite a hummy and happy life style. Rachel has even resigned to driving the Smartcar and leaving her Ferrari in storage.
A crisis, however, was reached yesterday. Rachel looked up from her latest creation and glanced over to where I sat reading papers in the corner. I have taken to joining her after dinner in the studio while we both work.
“I have been thinking about names. Why are you called Bentley?” she asked.
Naturally, I attempted to evade the issue. “I had to be called something. Hey you, is confusing in a crowd.”
Her eyes narrowed, the paint brush was cleaned and she made a bee line for my seat. Rachel recognizes evasion better than anyone being such a master at it. She sat in my lap. “The truth.”
I sighed. “Dad was very fond of his Bentley.”
He named you after his car?” Her mouth was twitching as she fought back her laughter.
“No. He named his favourite pigeon, Bentley, after the car and no I am not named after the bird.”
Rachel snugged closer and chuckled. “I can hardly wait to see where this story is going. Your father is so creative.”
“Yes and incarcerated. Let us not forget where uncontrolled creativity can lead. Bentley, as in cars, suitcases, pigeons and diapers.”
“Diapers?”
“Modes for transportation. My father was into gem smuggling before he acquired a taste for art.”
Gales of laughter ensued, that I was a smuggling mule at the tender age of six months amused her greatly. Needless to say, my evening was not spent in quiet study.
Which brings me to the main news of the week. Over breakfast this morning, as I sipped tentatively on a life giving cup of caffeine, Rachel broached a subject that left me choking and gasping.
“Let's get pregnant.”
<gasp, cough, choke, gurgle etc> What?” I managed to get out as I endeavoured to get coffee off my lap and lungs.
“Pregnant. I want to have babies.”
“BabieS!”
“I thought we'd start with one, but we really should have two. One with your egg and one with mine. I've already picked out the perfect donor clinic. Say yes, please.”
“Shouldn't we start with a puppy to see if we are responsible parents?” I protest.
“A dog would be good too. I like Mastiffs. Please say yes to having babies.”
Yes,” I smile, “but I'm not getting pregnant. I've only just lost weight.”
Rachel came and sat on my lap, kissing me soundly. “I'll carry the baby for you, my sexy Honey Bear. I do expect you to do your part to make a baby with me each night. We'll fall back on science when we're ready,” she joked.
“I think I can live up to my matrimonial responsibilities,” I smiled, pulling my wife closer. So, Dad, by next year, you will, hopefully, be a grandfather. The whole idea of parenthood has left me feeling quite dazzled.
It's wonderful news that your parole has been approved at long last. We will be there to pick you up next month if you don't mind your photo in the Tabloids. Rachel is thinking of opening her own gallery. She wants to talk to you about managing it for her as long as you promise not to steal her work or sell hot merchandise through her gallery. Give it some thought.
My letter to your present abode finds me,
Your happily married daughter, Bentley
Return to Main Page