Appointment with a Smile (2 page)

“I am. I’m exhibiting here now, in fact.”

“I suppose I should have Googled you. But…”

“I know. There would have been no reason for you to look me up.”

“I would have liked to know that you’d succeeded with your art career.”

“It’s a very minor showing,” I said. “I wish I could tell you that I’m renowned.” I smiled at her, as always a little self-conscious about my slightly crooked teeth. “Do you have time for a cupper, as they say here?”

“I wish I did, but Samantha made plans. Maybe later in the week?”

“I’m staying at the Marshall Hotel.”

“I’ll phone,” she said. “I’ll look up the number in the book.”

I was about to give her my cell phone number, but she turned away from me and moved toward an arriving cab. I stood alone again. My best bet was that I’d never hear from her. And that meant I’d never again see Molly’s smile.

Chapter 2

 “Skies are pissing rain. Might keep the attendance down,” Fiona Revere said.

About thirty people milled around the deluxe, upscale art gallery.

“I almost wished they’d all go home so I could return to the hotel and rest,” I said to her, my devoted agent of twenty years.

“You worked hard all day getting this exhibit ready for tonight’s opening. Maybe you overdid it.” Fiona’s cadence with a slight accent was the same as one might hear from an Eastern Ivy League college woman. She had exaggerated airs. With her bright kiwi-green eyes, her thick cosmetically enhanced lips, and stylish strawberry blonde hair, she might have been going to a very elite cocktail party. She’d arched her thin eyebrows with the precision of a painter. Framed, those glowing eyes always hinted at a secret that she promised yet would never give up.

She’d had her slightly aquiline nose fixed once. Although she playfully denied it, she’d also had work done on her eyes and around her lips. She often joked she’d not look her fifty-five years, no matter what it cost. She’d selected a brightly splashed sheath dress of oranges, bronzes, and lime-greens. Her trim figure stood five-feet-eight inches, and she walked with an elegant, sensual gait: quick, yet smoke-like. Perhaps I used that description because she allowed the smoke from her cigarette to float behind her.

“I didn’t sleep well last night. It was more like I didn’t sleep at all. Maybe a couple of hours.” Seeing Molly had troubled me. “I think I’m running on adrenaline.”

“Shows are stressful. Last month one of my artists had a Cincinnati showing and very nearly went to the dirt hotel. Stroke. My first thought was that he was allergic to Cincinnati. Understandable.”

“You haven’t booked me for Cincinnati yet, have you?”

“Naw,” she said. “I’m saving that horror show for when you’re anesthetized. Or pissed off at me. But at least you’re smiling.”

“The coffee I had earlier might be helping. And it wasn’t stress over the show.”

She nudged me. “The couple looking at
Magic Guardians
seems interested. I’ll check.” She moved a step away and then turned. “You might join me in a moment or two and tell them it’s your favorite work.”

Fiona’s quick grin and wink were part of the reason I had been in her stable of artists for so long. She got me. She understood my inability to promote myself. She attempted to prod me toward marketing my work, but I resisted. The painting wasn’t my favorite, or it wouldn’t be for sale. My favorite painting was, and perhaps always would be,
Twilight with Molly.

Fiona and I were polar opposites. Although we were about the same height, the similarity of our looks ended there. Her coiffure was neatly sleek and trimmed to perfection, and my own short, graying blonde hair curled around my face. My eyes were hazel-colored; my lips were thin, just as my light-complexioned face was thin; all making me ordinary looking. Fiona wore designer clothes, while my clothing was whatever I found, wherever I located different come-together looks. She wore heavy, expensive perfume. I smelled only of soap. Her nails were long and perfectly manicured. Their color changed with her outfits. My nails were trimmed short enough for a nailbrush to keep the paint cleaned out from under them.

Also, Fiona was accustomed to extravagant, luxury living in New York. I lived in the center of America in less than opulent surroundings. With the help of surgeons, she looked younger than her age. I was a couple of months short of sixty and had allowed the aging process to have its way with me. She scratched her way up to fortune from the mean streets of New York City. I’d only painted and hadn’t come far at all. She was completely straight and chased mainly younger men. I was Sapphic and chased no one in particular.

We did have a few similarities. We both could be arrogant. She was the best artist’s agent on the continent where I lived and the one I was currently visiting with my exhibit. While I’d only had minimal success in the art world, I felt as though I was one of the best contemporary portraitists. Critics had called me a modern American realist. Although some of my subjects were not paintings of people, most were.

The exhibit gallery had started to fill. That would please Fiona. I hoped it would be enough for her so that I wouldn’t have to flit around making small talk with prospective buyers. She knew my philosophy: I’d gone through the agony and ecstasy to paint each canvas. Why was I also obliged to sell them?

She also knew the worst thing I could hear from a potential purchaser was how much I expected my work to appreciate. Appreciating monetary gains had never been high on my list of concerns. I hated discussing money. And secondly, I despised it when someone announced they’d purchased my work because it matched their décor. A time or two, for that very reason, I’d refused to sell my work.

Fiona pointed at her diamond-studded watch. She once stated in total sincerity that I’d helped pay for it. Although we’d laughed, I didn’t doubt for an instant that a percentage of at least one of my paintings had picked up a portion of the tab.

She led me to the small back office, lit up a cigarette, and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“Nearly ten o’clock. I’m sure
Magic Guardian
is sold,” she whispered as though it were confidential. “Three others went early. And
Myths and Memories
just sold. It has been a very good night. Very promising, as well. Oh, and I sold two by e-mailing photos to a buyer in Ireland. Who knew the Irish are big Danielle O’Hara enthusiasts?”

“Think it might be my last name?”

She answered with amusement in her voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised. At any rate, seven sales make it a very lucrative night. Keep circulating. I’ll finalize
Magic Guardian
.” She motioned toward the door. “Let’s go shift some paintings.”

I smiled briefly. “You can keep the cheese; just let me out of the trap.”

“Come on, you sweet Saph, work your crowd magic. Let’s strike while the fire seems to be heating up. After all these years you’ve been painting, you ought to know that art is a very shy blood sport.”

“I think this
Saph
would just like to remain unknown.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Max Parker approaching. “Going damned fine,” the gallery owner reported. He made a swipe at his thick black hair. He was well-groomed and dapperly dressed. Shorter than I, he stood as erect and tall as he could. He was equally as arrogant as Fiona—perhaps a bit more so than I. “Some of them haven’t heard of you and are falling in love with you.”

Fiona glibly agreed. “Yes. Max, I’ve told you for years that you really need to explore Danielle O’Hara’s work.”

“I thought you were hiding her from me.” He appeared delighted when he turned to me. “This has been a wonderful exhibit. I want to represent you exclusively in Europe.”

“Everyone will soon want that,” Fiona said in a teasing way. “Your public awaits, Danielle.” She looped her arm around my waist. “Go on out there and show yourself.”

The gallery representatives were attempting to finalize acquisitions. The time to close the doors had nearly arrived. Certainly gallery employees wanted to go home. Exhausted, I was more than eager to return to the hotel.

“I just purchased
Myths and Memories
,” a voice behind me said.

Turning, I saw a woman who looked to be in her thirties. She was a few inches over five-feet tall and slightly stocky, yet in an athletic way. Stylish, long, raven black hair pulled back to frame her round face. Rosy cheeks complemented her soft brown eyes.

“It’s one of my favorites,” I said. I could have easily cleared a polygraph test. The portrait was of Molly.

“I hate to bother you, but I was curious about what you were thinking when you painted it.” Her face was expressive with a trustful beauty about it.

“You’re not bothering me. I painted it last year around my birthday. I was slightly depressed over the thought that my next birthday, my sixtieth, would be one of those bookmark years. I painted a recollection of a woman important in my past.”

“Someone in your past?”

“Yes, thirty-plus years ago. Someone extraordinarily special in my life. Perhaps when a person ages, memories are allowed to become myths. Or perhaps the myths magically become memories.”

“Interesting concept,” she said softly. “Memories can be very painful. I can’t imagine attempting to capture the emotion on canvas.”

My joy dwindled. “I can’t imagine not capturing my remembrances of emotions on canvas. I sometimes wonder if it isn’t a way of reliving them—soothing the raw ends of those embattled nerves that time produces when unresolved.”

She studied me intently. “You’re called a contemporary realist. Agree with that description?”

“Pretty much, I do. Although I experiment, I always find realism more to my liking.”

“I see something unique in your work. Is there any singular aspect with which you approach a painting?”

Her pointed questions caught me off guard, but I felt compelled to answer. “I believe our sensory skills need to be inclusive within a work. Just to give an example. On a hot day, if you fan your face, each sensor within each portion of your skin feels the breeze. It’s the same with sight. When you first see a canvas in its entirety, you should be able to sense each part of it. It should be that alive for you, the viewer. I also never want to paint a stale work of art. I want it to be fresh for me so it will never be trite for you.”

“You very much do just that. I read your bio. You haven’t done much self-promoting in the past. But your genius for showing your subject’s soul is amazing.”

“Genius is a very large word. Admittedly, I haven’t attempted to promote my work as much as I should have or as much as my agent would have preferred.”

“I can tell from the subjects in your paintings that it’s a labor of love,” she said. “What other artists have inspired your work?”

“So many. The artist inspiring me most is Cecilia Beaux. She was an American society portraitist. Not so well known, but I believe her to be one of the finest.”

“What are you working on now?”

“Just doing some sketching. I’ll later convert a few of them to oil, and I’ll shove some in a huge trunk. I call it my scribble dumpster.”

“What are the themes of your latest sketches?” she asked.

“You conduct a very in-depth interview,” I said lightly. “I never know what I’ll be interested in capturing. It could be an emotional moment, something from my past, a street scene that reminds me of something. Last night I made sketches of a street market. A place where I spent a portion of yesterday afternoon.”

“London is an interesting city.”

“Do you live here?”

“I’m in London with my husband and mother. We spend vacation time each year in England. Some of my husband’s family lives here. And I love England.”

Fiona materialized by my side. She was now slightly infused with wine, as was her custom at showings. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Wesley. She purchased
Myths and Memories.
She was asking questions about it. I pointed her in your direction.”

With a self-conscious smile, I said, “Mine’s a simple secret. I attempt to paint who people are, rather than just what they look like.”

“Ms. O’Hara was kind enough to give me some insight about the painting,” Mrs. Wesley told Fiona. “It looks as if it’s closing time. Thank you for your commentary on the painting.”

“Thank you for your interest,” I said. “I hope you’ll enjoy
Myths and Memories
.”

“I purchased it as gift for my mother.”

“If it isn’t to her taste, I’ll be happy to have it exchanged for any of my other work. Your mother might not like this portrait.”

“I rather think she will. She might have been the model.”

A sudden and very icy chill darted through my body. I found my voice. “Are you Samantha?”

Chapter 3

When the show closed for the evening, Samantha Meade Wesley and I walked to a small, all-night coffee shop called Crumpets and Brew that I had passed yesterday. Although the rain had ceased, remnants of a misty fog lingered.

The smells of various roasts wafted up as we opened the door. Walls were forest green with a mahogany coffee bar. Small round tables, placed systematically in a rectangular space, completed the décor. Their gold-flecked plastic tops flickered as light hit them.

The menu offered sandwiches and a wide array of pastries. I was certain the cinnamon buns, drenched in frosting, could cause a sugar coma in three bites.

The bleakness from outside had followed us, but our conversation was pleasant.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” she said nearly timidly as we sat at a table. “And for answering my questions.”

I frowned. “And I have questions for you. Did Molly know you were attending my exhibit?”

“No, I didn’t tell her. In my defense, I wasn’t certain I would go. I walked by the gallery several times before I summoned the courage to enter. Through the window, I saw the painting and knew immediately it was she. I had to purchase it.”

“She had told you about me?”

“Yes. Mostly my biological mother, Pamela, mentioned you over the years.”