Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life) (27 page)

He knew that he couldn’t. She wasn’t part of his life anymore.

That didn’t keep him from wondering, though. And wishing.

“Mac?” He looked up and saw Kathy, a dark-haired woman who had a voice like a little girl, approaching him. She had already called his name twice without any acknowledgement from him. “Mrs. Regis called and wants to speak to you as soon as possible.”

“Ah, wonderful Mrs. Regis.” Joshua grinned. “God bless her generous heart.” He began to stride toward his office.

It was thanks to Alberta Regis and her club of bored ladies with money on their hands that his gallery had gotten its start to begin with. She liked to think of herself as a patron of the arts and it had been she who had decided that the Soho region could use one more art gallery—as long as it was good and as long as she had a say-so in it. Joshua had met her quite by fortunate accident. He had had his paintings spread out on the sidewalk just as she happened to be walking by. She stopped to admire them and him. A very fulfilling and very platonic relationship had begun. Alberta Regis was in her sixties, but had the heart of a thirty-year-old and flirted outrageously. They liked each other a lot.

Joshua stopped. First things first. He turned back to Bruce. Joshua took out his wallet and pressed a fifty dollar bill into Bruce’s hand. “Do me another favor, Bruce. Get yourself a decent shirt.”

“I told you—“

“Looks don’t mean anything, yes, I know, but I am getting kind of tired of that khaki tee-shirt of yours.” The shirt was peering out from beneath an equally filthy denim jacket.

Bruce looked at the fifty in his hand. “I could buy out the army surplus store with this.”

“Don’t. Just get a shirt. Preferably one that fits.”

Bruce left the gallery mumbling under his breath. On his way out, he nearly walked into a well-dressed woman entering the gallery.

“Hey, sorry, pretty lady.” The artist grinned broadly.

“No harm done,” the woman murmured, stepping around him. She was more concerned with the collision of butterflies in her stomach than with colliding with an unkempt man. That sort of thing was usual in New York. Everyone was always hurrying off in some direction, elbowing people out of the way if necessary.

Joshua turned, hearing Bruce’s mumbled words of apology. And then he stood very, very still, his breath trapped in his lungs.

Johanna stood in the doorway.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Because she had stayed at the Plaza Hotel overlooking Central Park so often, Johanna was familiar with many of the staff there. When the cab driver at the airport had asked her “where to?” she heard herself saying, “Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street,” the hotel’s address.

Perhaps it was a need to see friendly, smiling faces before she set out completely on her own. Perhaps it was because she had always liked the hotel with its imposing European chateau ambience. She wasn’t certain why, but she felt a need to check into the hotel. However much she liked it there, the stay was meant to be only temporary. The Plaza cost money and there was no longer an endless supply. Actually, there never had been an endless supply, but Harry had spent money as if there was and his lavishness had been contagious. At least for a while. The joy of buying expensive things had long since worn off. For Johanna things could never take the place of feelings.

Now she was completely on her own and she had to figure out exactly what that meant. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to paint, to go back and regain the ground she had lost so long ago. She had always wanted to be an artist, from the time she could clutch a crayon in her hand and scribble her impressions of the world around her down on any free surface. There was nothing else she wanted to do. Not ever.

Except, to be Harry’s wife.

But that was gone, over. That kind of commitment, as far as she was concerned, was dead.

She wanted to go back to a world she understood, a world where she could feel and be without receiving pain as payment. She needed to stabilize, to rejuvenate both physically and emotionally for Jocelyn as well as for herself. She could do it here, in the world of the art community.

But she also had to eat. As did Jocelyn. Being an artist wouldn’t be something that could give her the resources she needed. Maybe someday, but bills were not paid with promises of “someday,” groceries weren’t bought, doctors weren’t obtained, needs weren’t met with the word “someday.” Harry, even if she had wanted to take revenge by sticking to the letter of California law and taking half of everything, had little money that hadn’t been eaten up by drugs. No doubt the house in Beverly Hills would go to cover Sid’s hefty legal fees. Added to that was the fact that Harry might still go to prison and once out, might never work again. No, there was nothing Harry could give her to ease this journey she was on.

She needed a job. And she needed it now. There was, of course, the jewelry. That she had kept. It had come from Harry and it no longer meant anything to her. But she could sell it and it would go a long way to keeping her and Jocelyn comfortable for a while. Until she could get herself together.

Johanna had found the card that Joshua had handed to her in London. She had forgotten all about it and him in the hurry of making her departure plans. The siege by the reporters had thrown it all out of her head. It had surfaced quite by accident when she had been rummaging through her purse, trying to find her claim ticket for her luggage at Kennedy. She had thrown it into her purse that day she had run into him in the Tate Gallery. He represented a part of her life when things had been fresh, hopeful and the world was sweet and tender. They had been, no, still were, friends. Maybe he could help her now. She wouldn’t feel uncomfortable approaching him. If nothing else, he could settle or at least reduce the anxiety that was beginning to grow within her.

At least it was worth a try.

She had called Mary an hour after she and Jocelyn had arrived at the hotel. Her sister had just walked in through the door, but her tired response had immediately brightened when she heard Johanna’s voice on the line. Mary had offered to see what she could find for her at I. Magnum’s, but Johanna didn’t want to be a saleswoman or a window dresser, or work in customer service. They were all very good positions, she assured her sister, but she wanted to do something utilizing her own talents and skills, something that involved art, however distantly. To that end, she had told her about seeing Joshua again in London and her plans to look him up now that she was here. Mary had sounded pleased. And hopeful. Johanna had hung up, wondering if Mary knew something that she didn’t.

Johanna, Mary and Jocelyn met that night and had dinner at the Plaza’s Oyster Bar. The restaurant was a cross between an English pub and a fish house and reminded Johanna of Tommy. Mary had insisted on paying. The following day, leaving Jocelyn occupied in the hotel, Johanna had set out on knees that weren’t altogether strong, to see Joshua.

It seemed odd to her to be looking for a job after all these years. She was, she knew, hoping that Joshua could come up with a miracle. She had absolutely no idea what she could actually do or what she was looking for. Only that she would know when she found it.

The cab ride from the hotel to the gallery brought back a flood of memories. These were streets she had once walked on, shopped on, been happy on. It had all changed and yet nothing changed. Stores were different, people were the same. The streets of New York were always crowded, so much so that it looked as if the people were gathering for some sort of parade that was about to take place. Actually, they were the parade as they marched quickly off to private destinations, jostling for space in a city that had a limited amount. The word melting pot was an old and still apt description. Hassidic Jews shared territory with women in minks, vagrants in torn coats, affluent yuppies on a break for lunch, teenagers experimenting with the latest rainbow colors for their hair. One block over from the diamond district between Fifth and Sixth avenue, a weather-beaten old man in a shabby coat so dirty that it had no color at all was hitting sticks against a stoop, playing music only he could hear.

No, it hadn’t changed.

But she had.

Joshua’s art gallery was located on a busy street in the Soho district, nestled between a bookstore that sold only foreign copies and a French restaurant that served only crepes. Every single crepe imaginable. The aroma reminded her that she hadn’t eaten much for breakfast.

She stood outside the gallery, gathering her courage one more time. She who was so quick to grant favors hated asking for one. But there was no way around it. Time was important. And Joshua had spoken as if he knew people. Lots of people. Somewhere there was something for her.

Johanna drew a deep breath and pushed the front door, only to be practically run over by a rather unkempt man.

“Hey, sorry, pretty lady.” Beneath the two-day-old stubble, he smiled, interested, at least for the moment.

She saw that his hands were smeared with indigo blue as he reached out to steady her. She took a step back and then around him, nodding her thanks. “No harm done.”

An artist. Things don’t change. She found comfort in that. A lot of comfort, oddly enough. Van Gogh probably looked something like that, except that he had only one ear in which to wear an earring. She noticed that the disheveled man who almost knocked her down wore three. Two in one ear, one in another.

She had only caught her breath when she saw Joshua inside the gallery. He had told her that he owned the gallery, but he certainly didn’t look it. He was dressed in a soft beige pullover and dark brown slacks that had lost their crease a long time ago. Clean, neat, but definitely not dressed to impress anyone. His hair was a bit too long, but then it always had been. It had been longer when they were going to school together.

He looked like Joshua, she thought suddenly. And yet, he looked prosperous. It was in the way he held himself more than anything. Confidence had slipped in. He hadn’t had that when they were sharing dreams together fifteen years ago. He had gained it over the years. Just as she had lost it.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

He didn’t give her time to figure it out. In an instant, he had crossed to her and took both of her hands in his. Then he bent down and pretended to peer at her face. “Is it really you?” he asked.

“In the flesh.” She tried to sound light.

He surveyed the trim figure she cut in her light gray, two piece suit. A vivid pink scarf was at her throat. Vivid. The word always came to mind when he thought of her. “Very little of it left.”

She shrugged, a little embarrassed, more because of the reason she had come than because of the way he was looking at her. “I’ve lost a few pounds.”

“Don’t lose any more.”

“Is that the artist in you speaking?”

“That’s the friend. Any more and they’ll have to put bricks in your pockets the next time the wind picks up.” Joshua let go of her hands, though he didn’t want to, and took a step back.

She laughed then, just the way she always had, and her eyes sparkled.

Her eyes had always inspired him. There were portraits of her in his loft, some painted years ago, some painted not that long ago, from memory. He had always loved her eyes.

“If there is a next time,” he amended, realizing that he was making plans that he had no right to make. She was just passing through. “How long are you staying?”

She looked around and he felt the tension in her body, saw it flicker across her face. “What is it, Johanna?” He lowered his voice as he drew her aside.

She tried to laugh aside her discomfort. She had never gotten into the habit of asking favors, not even from friends. It hurt her pride to be a supplicant, but there was her daughter to think of. For a moment, she debated giving this up, pretending to have dropped by for only a friendly visit. Maybe she’d just go to an employment agency and ask them—

And then she saw the painting.

The words that had formed upon her tongue died away as she slowly moved, almost in a trance, to the painting that hung in a prominent part of the gallery. It was a seascape, full of vibrant, dark blues and grays. It was a painting of a storm at sea, or rather, a storm that threatened to break. It was the Atlantic Ocean the way it had appeared that weekend in the fall that they had spent with friends in Maine.

Johanna slowly turned to look at Joshua. “That’s the painting I gave you when I left.”

He remembered the day she left as clearly as if it were taking place right now. Holding the painting in his hands, he had tried to smile his thanks as he had fought back anger and hurt, neither of which, he was determined, she would see. He kept his face impassive even now. “It’s the first one I hung up when I opened my gallery.”

“Why didn’t you hang your own painting there?” Or anywhere, she thought, scanning the immediate area. None of his paintings were on display, at least, none that she recognized. His style was like his signature. Romanticized. She felt confident that she would have been able to tell his paintings from the rest. There weren’t any. Why?

“None were as good as this one.”

“Can’t be that good.” She turned away from it. It made her uncomfortable. It brought back a wave of memories she wasn’t capable of dealing with yet. “You still haven’t sold it.”

He grinned and shook his head. She didn’t understand, he thought. “It’s not for sale.”

Her smile softened. Then he wasn’t trying to sell it. There was a lot of friendship locked within that painting. “Then why hang it?”

“To attract patrons. That’s our hundred dollar word for customers,” he laughed softly. “They see this, they want to see more and maybe they’ll find something they like almost as much.”

She turned again to look at it. She cocked her head, as if seeing it for the first time. It was good, she mused. She had been good. Maybe someday wouldn’t be that far off after all. “Have you had any offers?” she asked.

He laughed, knowing well the artistic ego and its need to be reassured. “Lots.”

“Ever been tempted?”