A Cry In the Night (2 page)

The walls were white pine, unknotted, silk-smooth and covered with paintings. Numbly Jenny walked from one to the other of them. The cabin was a museum. Even the dim light could not hide the exquisite beauty of the oils and watercolors, the charcoals and pen-and-ink drawings. Erich had not even begun to show his best work yet. How would the critics react when they saw these masterpieces? she wondered.

Some of the paintings on the walls were already framed. These must be the next ones he planned to exhibit. The pole-barn in a winter storm. What was so different about it? The doe, head poised, listening, about to flee into the woods. The calf reaching up to its mother. The fields of alfalfa, blue-flowered, ready for harvest. The Congregational Church with worshipers
hurrying toward it. The main street of Granite Place suggesting timeless serenity.

Even in her desolation, the sensitive beauty of the collection gave Jenny a momentary sense of quietude and peace.

Finally she bent over the unframed canvases in the nearest rack. Again admiration suffused her being. The incredible dimensions of Erich's talent, his ability to paint landscapes, people and animals with equal authority; the playfulness of the summer garden with the old-fashioned baby carriage, the . . .

And then she saw it. Not understanding, she began to race through the other paintings and sketches in the files.

She ran to the wall from one canvas to the next. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Not knowing what she was doing, she stumbled toward the staircase leading to the loft and rushed up the stairs.

The loft sloped with the pitch of the roof and Jenny had to bend forward at the top stair before she stepped into the room.

As she straightened up, a nightmarish blaze of color from the back wall assaulted her vision. Shocked, she stared at her own image. A mirror?

No. The painted face did not move as she approached it. The dusky light from the slitlike window played on the canvas, shading it in streaks, like a ghostly finger pointing.

For minutes she stared at the canvas, unable to wrench her eyes from it, absorbing every grotesque detail, feeling her mouth slacken in hopeless anguish, hearing the keening sound that was coming from her own throat.

Finally she forced her numbed, reluctant fingers to grasp the canvas and yank it from the wall.

Seconds later, the painting under her arm, she was
skiing away from the cabin. The wind, stronger now, gagged her, robbed her of breath, muffled her frantic cry.

“Help me,” she was screaming. “Somebody, please, please help me.”

The wind whipped the cry from her lips and scattered it through the darkening wood.

I
t was obvious that the exhibition of paintings by Erich Krueger, the newly discovered Midwest artist, was a stunning success. The reception for critics and specially invited guests began at four, but all day long browsers had filled the gallery, drawn by
Memory of Caroline,
the magnificent oil in the showcase window.

Deftly Jenny went from critic to critic, introducing Erich, chatting with collectors, watching that the caterers kept passing fresh trays of hors d'oeuvres and refilling champagne glasses.

From the moment she'd opened her eyes this morning, it had been a difficult day. Beth, usually so pliable, had resisted leaving for the day-care center. Tina, teething with two-year molars, awakened a half-dozen times during the night, crying fretfully. The New Year's Day blizzard had left New York a nightmare of snarled traffic and curbsides covered with mounds of slippery, sooty snow. By the time she'd left the children at the center and made her way across town
she was nearly an hour late for work. Mr. Hartley had been frantic.

“Everything is going wrong, Jenny. Nothing is ready. I warn you. I need someone I can count on.”

“I'm so sorry.” Jenny tossed her coat in the closet. “What time is Mr. Krueger due?”

“About one. Can you believe three of the paintings weren't delivered until a few minutes ago?”

It always seemed to Jenny that the small, sixtyish man reverted to being about seven years old when he was upset. He was frowning now and his mouth was trembling. “They're all here, aren't they?” she asked soothingly.

“Yes, yes, but when Mr. Krueger phoned last night I asked if he'd sent those three. He was terribly angry at the prospect they'd been lost. And he insists that the one of his mother be exhibited in the window even though it's not for sale. Jenny, I'm telling you. You could have posed for that painting.”

“Well, I didn't.” Jenny resisted the impulse to pat Mr. Hartley on the shoulder. “We've got everything. Let's get on with hanging them.”

Swiftly she helped with the arrangement, grouping the oils, the watercolors, the pen-and-ink sketches, the charcoals.

“You've got a good eye, Jenny,” Mr. Hartley said, visibly brightening as the last canvas was placed. “I knew we'd make it.”

Sure you did! she thought, trying not to sigh.

The gallery opened at eleven. By five of eleven the featured painting was in place, the handsomely lettered, velvet-framed announcement beside it:
FIRST NEW YORK SHOWING, ERICH KRUEGER
. The painting immediately began to attract the passersby on Fifty-seventh Street. From her desk, Jenny watched as people stopped to study it. Many of them came into
the gallery to see the rest of the exhibit. Not a few of them asked her, “Were you the model for that painting in the window?”

Jenny handed out brochures with Erich Krueger's bio:

Two years ago, Erich Krueger achieved instant prominence in the art world. A native of Granite Place, Minnesota, he has painted as an avocation since he was fifteen years old. His home is a fourth-generation family farm where he breeds prize cattle. He is also president of the Krueger Limestone Works. A Minneapolis art dealer was the first to discover his talent. Since then he has exhibited in Minneapolis, Chicago, Washington, D.C., and San Francisco. Mr. Krueger is thirtyfour years old and is unmarried.

Jenny studied his picture on the cover of the brochure. And he's also marvelous-looking, she thought.

At eleven-thirty, Mr. Hartley came over to her. His anxious fretful look had almost disappeared. “Everything's all right?”

“Everything's fine,” she assured him. Anticipating his next question she said, “I reconfirmed the caterer.
The Times, The New Yorker, Newsweek, Time
and
Art News
critics are definitely coming. We can expect at least eight at the reception, and allowing for gatecrashers about one hundred. We'll close to the public at three o'clock. That will give the caterer plenty of time to set up.”

“You're a good girl, Jenny.” Now that everything was in order, Mr. Hartley was relaxed and benign. Wait till she told him that she couldn't stay till the end of the reception! “Lee just got in,” Jenny continued,
referring to her part-time assistant, “so we're in good shape.” She grinned at him. “Now please stop worrying.”

“I'll try. Tell Lee I'll be back before one to have lunch with Mr. Krueger. You go out and get yourself something to eat now, Jenny.”

She watched him march briskly out the door. For the moment there was a lull in the number of new arrivals. She wanted to study the painting in the window. Without bothering to put on a coat, she slipped outside. To get perspective on the work she backed up a few feet from the glass. Passersby on the street, glancing at her and the picture, obligingly walked around her.

The young woman in the painting was sitting in a swing on a porch, facing the setting sun. The light was oblique, shades of red and purple and mauve. The slender figure was wrapped in a dark green cape. Tiny tendrils of blue-black hair blew around her face, which was already half-shadowed. I see what Mr. Hartley means, Jenny thought. The high forehead, thick brows, wide eyes, slim, straight nose and generous mouth were very like her own features. The wooden porch was painted white with a slender corner column. The brick wall of the house behind it was barely suggested in the background. A small boy, silhouetted by the sun, was running across a field toward the woman. Crusted snow suggested the penetrating cold of the oncoming night. The figure in the swing was motionless, her gaze riveted on the sunset.

Despite the eagerly approaching child, the solidity of the house, the sweeping sense of space, it seemed to Jenny that there was something peculiarly isolated about the figure. Why? Perhaps because the expression in the woman's eyes was so sad. Or was it just that the entire painting suggested biting cold? Why
would anyone sit outside in that cold? Why not watch the sunset from a window inside the house?

Jenny shivered. Her turtleneck sweater had been a Christmas gift from her ex-husband Kevin. He had arrived at the apartment unexpectedly on Christmas Eve with the sweater for her and dolls for the girls. Not one word about the fact that he never sent support payments and in fact owed her over two hundred dollars in “loans.” The sweater was cheap, its claim to warmth feeble. But at least it was new and the turquoise color was a good background for Nana's gold chain and locket. Of course one asset of the art world was that people dressed to please themselves and her too-long wool skirt and too-wide boots were not necessarily an admission of poverty. Still she'd better get inside. The last thing she needed was to catch the flu that was making the rounds in New York.

She stared again at the painting, admiring the skill with which the artist directed the gaze of the viewer from the figure on the porch to the child to the sunset. “Beautiful,” she murmured, “absolutely beautiful.” Unconsciously she backed up as she spoke, skidded on the slick pavement and felt herself bump into someone. Strong hands gripped her elbows and steadied her.

“Do you always stand outside in this weather without a coat and talk to yourself?” The tone of voice combined annoyance and amusement.

Jenny spun around. Confused, she stammered, “I'm so sorry. Please excuse me. Did I hurt you?” She pulled back and as she did realized that the face she was looking at was the one depicted on the brochure she'd been passing out all morning. Good God, she thought, of all people I have to go slamming into Erich Krueger!

She watched as his face paled; his eyes widened, his
lips tightened. He's angry, she thought, dismayed. I practically knocked him down. Contritely she held out her hand. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Krueger. Please forgive me. I was so lost in admiring the painting of your mother. It's . . . It's indescribable. Oh, do come in. I'm Jenny MacPartland. I work in the gallery.”

For a long moment his gaze remained on her face as he studied it feature by feature. Not knowing what to do, she stood silently. Gradually his expression softened.

“Jenny.” He smiled and repeated,
“Jenny.
” Then he added, “I wouldn't have been surprised if you told me . . . Well, never mind.”

The smile brightened his appearance immeasurably. They were practically eye to eye and her boots had three-inch heels so she judged him to be about five nine. His classically handsome face was dominated by deep-set blue eyes. Thick, well-shaped brows kept his forehead from seeming too broad. Bronze-gold hair, sprinkled with touches of silver, curled around his head, reminding her of the image on an old Roman coin. He had the same slender nostrils and sensitive mouth as the woman in the painting. He was wearing a camel's hair cashmere coat, a silk scarf at his throat. What had she expected? she wondered. The minute she'd heard the word
farm,
she had had a mental image of the artist coming into the gallery in a denim jacket and muddy boots. The thought made her smile and snapped her back to reality. This was ludicrous. She was standing here shivering. “Mr. Krueger . . .”

He interrupted her. “Jenny, you're cold. I'm so terribly sorry.” His hand was under her arm. He was propelling her toward the gallery door, opening it for her.

He immediately began to study the placement of his paintings, remarking how fortunate it was that the last
three had arrived. “Fortunate for the shipper,” he added, smiling.

Jenny followed him around as he made a meticulous inspection, stopping twice to straighten canvases that were hanging a hairbreadth off-center. When he was finished, he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Why did you put
Spring Plowing
next to
Harvest?”
he asked.

“It's the same field, isn't it?” Jenny asked. “I felt a continuity between plowing the ground and then seeing the harvest. I just wish there was a summer scene as well.”

“There
is,”
he told her. “I didn't choose to send it.”

Jenny glanced at the clock over the door. It was nearly noon. “Mr. Krueger, if you don't mind, I'm going to settle you in Mr. Hartley's private office. Mr. Hartley's made a luncheon reservation for you and him at the Russian Tea Room for one o'clock. He'll be along soon and I'm going to go out now for a quick sandwich.”