Now You See Her (3 page)

It had been nice of Candra to set up the meeting. Other gallery owners probably wouldn't have overly concerned themselves with her. The big bucks were in primitive and modern art, not in the traditional style she preferred, but Candra was always looking out for Sweeney's interests, guiding business her way. She did that for all the artists whose work she displayed, from the lowest seller to the highest, with a natural warmth that attracted customers, probably making the gallery a ton of money every year. Not that Candra had to worry about money; Richard's wealth made the gallery's profit, or lack of one, unimportant.

At the thought of Richard Worth, his face sprang to her mind, accompanied by the usual uneasiness. She would have liked to paint him, but couldn't see
herself asking. His face was all hard angles and sharp eyes. She would never portray him in one of the double-breasted, three-thousand-dollar Italian silk suits he liked, though; she would put that face on the docks, or behind the wheel of a big truck. Richard Worth looked like a sweaty T-shirt kinda guy, not a Wall Street wizard.

He and Candra seemed like such opposites. Candra was lovely, aristocratic, with her sleek dark hair and chocolate eyes, but it was a bland sort of loveliness, the type possessed by thousands of women: attractive, but not remarkable. Her true charm lay in her friendly personality, which, like the vendor's sweetness, came from what lay behind the face. Richard's nature seemed molded in his bones, his tough, angled face a testament to the man. As a couple they seemed mismatched, though their marriage had lasted ten years. The times Sweeney had seen them together, she had gotten the impression that though they were standing side by side, it was merely by chance. Richard seemed too cold, too much a workaholic, to appeal to a woman of Candra's warmth, but who knew what went on between a couple in their private moments? Maybe he sometimes actually relaxed.

As Sweeney approached a corner, the traffic signal changed and the Walk sign lit. She had become accustomed to the convenience of never having to linger on any corners waiting for the signals to change. A few drivers seemed bewildered by the brevity of the green light, but that wasn't her problem. She almost smirked at them as she crossed the
street. She hated wasting time, and standing around on a street corner sure qualified as wasted time. She begrudged every moment away from her painting, so much so that even eating almost qualified as wasted time.

Not sleeping, though. She loved to sleep. One of her favorite things was to work late into the night, until she was exhausted, then to fall into bed, feeling that delicious heaviness as she lost consciousness, like falling into a hole. The only thing that made it better was if it was raining, too. The pleasure of going to sleep while listening to the rain was almost sensual.

These days, sleeping was an adventure, because with sleep came dreams. She had always dreamed in color, but now her dreams were almost painfully vivid, in lush, brilliant Technicolor. She was fascinated by the hues of her dreams, so intense and vibrant. When she woke she tried to reproduce those colors, only to find they didn't fit her work and she could never get them quite right anyway. They were wrong for the delicacy of her technique, for the precise brushwork that was her trademark. She loved the colors, though, and was disappointed on those mornings when her memory failed to dredge up any dreams at all.

She finished the hot dog, tossed the paper in the trash can, and ran a finger around her mouth to remove any leftover mustard. She didn't much like hot dogs, so she had to smother the taste with a lot of mustard. She supposed she could eat something she
did
like, but, well, the vendor was always there
and she enjoyed his face, and she didn't have to go out of her way, so getting a hot dog saved time. Not only that, now she wouldn't have to waste time eating once she got home.

People marched along the sidewalks, not talking—unless it was on their cell phones—and seldom making eye contact. Sweeney openly studied their faces, knowing they weren't likely to look at her and thus catch her looking at them. She ignored the occasional face that was too transparent. It was easy; being New Yorkers, even the ghosts tended to avoid eye contact.

The huge variety of faces in the city was a constant source of wonder and inspiration to her. Paris . . . well, Paris was okay, but even its name made her uncomfortable. She had seen too many pretentious artists, like her mother, make a big deal about painting in Paris, and Sweeney just didn't fit in with the art crowd there. Not that she fit in with the art crowd here, either, she reflected, but somehow in New York, she had more room, more a sense of being unseen. Candra's idea to relocate to the city had been brilliant. Though Sweeney could foresee a day when she would leave, for now she loved it.

Someday, the city would pall; all the places she had lived in had eventually bored her. She had never done any tropical landscapes and figured one day she'd feel the urge to go to Bora Bora, though on her budget she'd probably settle for Florida. After all, a palm tree was a palm tree. But for now she was still fascinated with faces, and right here was the best place to be.

The gallery was discreetly ensconced behind two double sets of glass doors, the outside set the bulletproof variety, at Richard's insistence. The lettering on the door was small and plain, announcing “Worth Gallery” and leaving it at that. There wasn't a curlicue in sight, which Sweeney appreciated. Ornate gilt lettering would have turned her stomach.

As usual, the first sight to greet anyone entering the gallery was Kai, which in Sweeney's opinion was a sight indeed. He was beautiful; that was the only word for him. She supposed he filled the function of a receptionist, but she wasn't quite certain what his official title was, or if he even had one. Judging from the way some of the female customers stared at him, it was enough for him just to be there; no other function was required. He had glossy, shoulder-length black hair and narrow dark eyes set above chiseled cheekbones, with lush lips that made her think he must have a Polynesian heritage, and strengthened her urge to paint palm trees. He did some modeling on the side and took art classes at night, which made Kai a very busy boy.

She suspected Kai and Candra had had, if not a full-fledged affair, at least a fling. Sweeney could be amazingly oblivious to everything around her when she was working, but painting portraits had made her acutely observant of faces and expressions, and a few times there had been a hint of intimacy between him and Candra. Nothing overt, just a flicker of expression, a brief meeting of gazes, a momentary possessiveness in Kai's manner. Candra would never wear her heart on her sleeve, but Kai wasn't as
sophisticated. Sweeney hoped he wasn't emotionally involved, because Candra would certainly never allow herself to reciprocate those feelings. Richard's bucks far outweighed Kai's beauty.

Kai left his seat behind the elegant Queen Anne desk from which he oversaw all entrées, coming toward her with a white smile and raised dark eyebrows. “Sweeney. Wow.” His gaze slid down her. “You're looking hot.” He had a faint accent, a melodious singsong quality that had to be Hawaiian. His expression was openly admiring.

A bit concerned, Sweeney glanced down at herself. This made two men who had, within the space of ten minutes, told her she looked “hot.” The simple scarlet sweater must pack more punch than she had realized. From now on, she would be more careful about wearing it. On the other hand, she adored the color.

“The McMillans aren't here yet,” Kai said, touching her elbow, his fingertips lingering on the inside of her arm. “Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”

This was the treatment he gave customers. Her concern edged toward alarm. Whatever mysterious power the color scarlet had, she didn't like all this male attention. Men were trouble, capital
T,
italicized, underlined. She didn't have time for men, especially not a smooth, twenty-four-year-old high-maintenance boy toy like Kai. She hadn't lived seven years longer than he had without learning a few things about herself, namely that she was one of those people who function better alone.

The tea sounded good, though.

“Earl Grey, one lump of brown.” Candra used the European custom of offering both brown and white lumps of sugar with the tea she kept brewed for her customers. Sweeney considered it an immensely civilized thing for her to do.

“Coming right up.” Kai flashed his brilliant smile at her again and disappeared into the small alcove where the tea service was kept. Sweeney looked around, wondering where Candra was. If the McMillans were due, then Candra should already be here; she was extremely punctual, always there to greet the customers with whom she had appointments.

Standing where she was, Sweeney could see most of the gallery. It was two stories high, with regal, curving stairs arching like ribbons up both sides of the room, but the space was mostly open and wonderfully lit, which gave her an excellent overall view, and Candra wasn't in sight.

Kai returned, bearing tea fragrantly steaming in a translucent china cup. “Is Candra here?” Sweeney asked, taking the cup from him and inhaling the steam with unconscious delight.

“She's in her office, with Richard.” He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. “I gather the amicable proceedings aren't proceeding very amicably.”

Sweeney frowned into her cup, pondering that opaque statement. “What proceedings?”

Kai blinked at her. “The divorce, of course.”

“Divorce?” Sweeney was startled, and disappointed. She had suspected Candra's marriage wasn't
perfect, but still, she hated to see people she knew break up. It always distressed her, reminding her of how many divorces she had lived through as a child.

“My God, don't tell me you didn't know. It's been in the works for almost a year, since right after you moved to the city. I can't believe you haven't heard anything about it.”

Despite her shock, Sweeney almost snorted. She had lost track of
national elections
when she was working; why would a divorce blip on her radar? She didn't move in Candra's circles, and though they were friendly acquaintances and had a mutually profitable arrangement—usually profitable, that is—they weren't exactly bosom buddies. Or maybe Candra didn't think the divorce was important; it was so common in the art world Sweeney wondered why people bothered going through the motions of getting married.

Her own parents had each been married four times, twice to each other. Sweeney had one younger brother, after whose birth her mother had decided motherhood distracted her from her devotion to her art and had herself spayed. Her father, though, just kept on begetting with his various wives and had produced two half-brothers and three half-sisters for Sweeney, none of whom she saw more than once every couple of years. There had never been any question of fatherhood being allowed to distract him from
his
art, which was filmmaking. The last Sweeney had heard, he was about to take wife number five, but that had been at least two years ago, so he might well be on number six by now.
Or maybe he had gone back to number four. For all she knew, he might be back with her mother. Sweeney didn't exactly stay in touch.

“Candra moved out of the town house just after last Thanksgiving, I think.” Kai's eyes shone with the joy of gossip. “I know it was before Christmas, because she had a Twelve Days of Christmas party in her new apartment on the Upper East Side. It's totally swank. She called the party her Twelve Days of Freedom. Don't you remember?”

“I don't do parties,” she said, as politely as possible. The last party she had attended had been her own eighth birthday party. She had escaped to her room before the ice cream was served, leaving the little hooligans her mother had invited to scream and fight without her. The ice cream had been Neapolitan, anyway, which she hated, but which her mother always served on the theory that this was the easiest way to satisfy all the children's ice cream preferences.

The truth was, Sweeney didn't do well in crowds, period. Socializing wasn't her strong point, and she was acutely aware of her shortcomings. She never relaxed, and she was always afraid of doing something totally stupid. Her mother, a great ego-builder, was fond of saying Sweeney had the social grace of a Tibetan goatherd.

“You should have done this one.” Kai moved closer to her, his fingertips once again touching the inside of her elbow. “The food was fantastic, the champagne never ran out, and so many people were there you couldn't
move.
It was great.”

Kai's idea of great differed considerably from hers. She was deeply grateful she hadn't been invited, though she had to admit that she might have been and promptly forgotten about it. Parties were her idea of hell—and speaking of which, what the
hell
was Kai doing to her elbow?

Scowling, she lifted her arm away from his touch. She knew Kai was a lover-boy, but he'd never before turned his attentions to her, and she didn't like it. She made a mental note to return the damn sweater to the back of the closet when she got home.

“Sorry.” He was astute enough to know his subtle attentions weren't having the desired effect. He smiled down at her. “Like I said, you look hot. It was worth a try.”

“Thanks,” she growled. “I've always wanted to be worth a try.”

He laughed, his amusement genuine. “Sure. That's why your ‘Don't Touch Me' sign is high, wide, and flashing bright neon. Ah, well, if you're ever lonely, give me a call.” He shrugged. “So, what've you been up to? Come to think of it, I don't think I've seen you at all for a few months. How's the work going?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I'm producing, but I'm not sure
what
I'm producing. I'm trying some techniques.” That wasn't the truth, but she wasn't about to cry on Kai's shoulder. He didn't need to know how deeply disturbed she was by the direction her painting had been taking or that she was helpless to stop it. She tried to do the same delicate, almost ethereal work she had done before, but she
seemed to have lost the knack. Those damn vivid colors kept getting in her way, and even though she cursed them, she was losing herself in them. And not only were her colors changing, but it seemed as if her perspective was, too. She didn't know what was going on, but the result was jarring, somehow discordant. She had always been confident about her talent, if nothing else, but now she was so paralyzed by insecurity about her new work that she hadn't been able to show it to anyone.