Egg had captured the imaginations of investors. If the stock sustained its current rise, Clifford stood to become a very wealthy man.
Clifford shuddered slightly, remembering how upsetChurchill’s board of directors had been when Caroline and John ultimately had chosen Sotheby’s for the sale of their mother’s possessions. But that upset had turned to rage when that sale turned into the media event of the decade, with resulting sales of over thirty-four million dollars—so much more than Sotheby’s highest estimates.
The next year, Princess Diana had selected Christie’s to sell seventy-nine of her dresses because she wanted to raise money for cancer and AIDS research. Three-and-a-quarter million in sales, and priceless goodwill and publicity for Christie’s.
Clifford stroked his dark, bearded chin, remembering that miserable time. To add insult to injury, Churchill’s had experienced a severe downturn in business after each of those sales. Those with estates to dispose of, or treasures they wanted to sell, chose Sotheby’s or Christie’s, not Churchill’s. They liked thinking their things were being sold by the same people who were good enough for England’s princess and America’s queen.
It was a vicious circle. The choicest merchandise was consistently consigned to the competition, and that merchandise drew better crowds of bidders, which drew higher prices and more publicity. Churchill’s was drowning. Clifford sensed that he was very close to losing his job. As the only African-American to rise to the presidency of a major auction house, he knew that his every move was under the microscope. He didn’t want to fail.
Then, a lifeline—Churchill’s chance to auction the fabled Moon Egg. Clifford had seized the opportunityhungrily, and capitalized on it by scheduling the auction at the same time the long-anticipated “Riches of Russia’s Romanovs” exhibit was being featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After viewing the Russian treasures at the Met, those with the means and inclination could buy their own souvenir of Russian history and culture around the corner at Churchill’s. To keep the excitement going, Churchill’s would be featuring auctions with Russian themes all month.
A knock at the office door interrupted Clifford’s reverie. Meryl Quan entered, carrying her ever-present clipboard. Now only twenty-four, Meryl had graduated from Vanderbilt University with a fine-arts degree, then packed herself off to London to enroll in Sotheby’s Works of Art course. For the next nine months, she’d immersed herself in the study of paintings and decorative art. When she’d moved to New York, she’d found her first paying job as a floater at Churchill’s.
Meryl tackled the entry-level job enthusiastically, working the floor, answering telephones, doing whatever anyone asked of her. With her keen mind and positive attitude, she impressed everyone she worked for. When it came time to choose another assistant, there had been general agreement that Meryl Quan, though young, should get the position.
Clifford regarded the woman. Her shiny black hair glowed in the sunlight that streamed through the office window overlooking Madison Avenue. Her dark eyes peered from almond-shaped openings. Clear, smooth skin; straight nose; even, white teeth behind a delicately shaped mouth. All that and brains, too.
God, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had my job one day
.
“Nadine Paradise called. She wants to know more about the brooch she bought at the Fabergé auction.”
Meryl Quan was eager to go over details of the sale with Clifford Montgomery. Clifford half listened, a smile of satisfaction on his face as he perused the rest of the
Journal
.
“That was the enamel-and-sapphire crescent pin, wasn’t it?”
Meryl nodded. She admired Clifford’s file-cabinet mind. It amazed her how well he could recall the buyers and sellers of so many of the items auctioned off at Churchill’s. But then again,
Clifford shuddered slightly, remembering how upsetChurchill’s board of directors had been when Caroline and John ultimately had chosen Sotheby’s for the sale of their mother’s possessions. But that upset had turned to rage when that sale turned into the media event of the decade, with resulting sales of over thirty-four million dollars—so much more than Sotheby’s highest estimates.
The next year, Princess Diana had selected Christie’s to sell seventy-nine of her dresses because she wanted to raise money for cancer and AIDS research. Three-and-a-quarter million in sales, and priceless goodwill and publicity for Christie’s.
Clifford stroked his dark, bearded chin, remembering that miserable time. To add insult to injury, Churchill’s had experienced a severe downturn in business after each of those sales. Those with estates to dispose of, or treasures they wanted to sell, chose Sotheby’s or Christie’s, not Churchill’s. They liked thinking their things were being sold by the same people who were good enough for England’s princess and America’s queen.
It was a vicious circle. The choicest merchandise was consistently consigned to the competition, and that merchandise drew better crowds of bidders, which drew higher prices and more publicity. Churchill’s was drowning. Clifford sensed that he was very close to losing his job. As the only African-American to rise to the presidency of a major auction house, he knew that his every move was under the microscope. He didn’t want to fail.
Then, a lifeline—Churchill’s chance to auction the fabled Moon Egg. Clifford had seized the opportunityhungrily, and capitalized on it by scheduling the auction at the same time the long-anticipated “Riches of Russia’s Romanovs” exhibit was being featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After viewing the Russian treasures at the Met, those with the means and inclination could buy their own souvenir of Russian history and culture around the corner at Churchill’s. To keep the excitement going, Churchill’s would be featuring auctions with Russian themes all month.
A knock at the office door interrupted Clifford’s reverie. Meryl Quan entered, carrying her ever-present clipboard. Now only twenty-four, Meryl had graduated from Vanderbilt University with a fine-arts degree, then packed herself off to London to enroll in Sotheby’s Works of Art course. For the next nine months, she’d immersed herself in the study of paintings and decorative art. When she’d moved to New York, she’d found her first paying job as a floater at Churchill’s.
Meryl tackled the entry-level job enthusiastically, working the floor, answering telephones, doing whatever anyone asked of her. With her keen mind and positive attitude, she impressed everyone she worked for. When it came time to choose another assistant, there had been general agreement that Meryl Quan, though young, should get the position.
Clifford regarded the woman. Her shiny black hair glowed in the sunlight that streamed through the office window overlooking Madison Avenue. Her dark eyes peered from almond-shaped openings. Clear, smooth skin; straight nose; even, white teeth behind a delicately shaped mouth. All that and brains, too.
God, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had my job one day
.
“Nadine Paradise called. She wants to know more about the brooch she bought at the Fabergé auction.”
Meryl Quan was eager to go over details of the sale with Clifford Montgomery. Clifford half listened, a smile of satisfaction on his face as he perused the rest of the
Journal
.
“That was the enamel-and-sapphire crescent pin, wasn’t it?”
Meryl nodded. She admired Clifford’s file-cabinet mind. It amazed her how well he could recall the buyers and sellers of so many of the items auctioned off at Churchill’s. But then again,
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