by Molly Greene
“Are you my daughter?”
Gen shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
Ruby looked relieved. “I’ve been having trouble with my memory,” she said.
“Your husband told me. I’m so sorry.” Gen took her hand. “It must be scary and frustrating for you.”
“Thank you for understanding.” Ruby’s brow furrowed, as if she was deep in thought. “That man is my husband, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Nathan is your husband.”
Mrs. Formby nodded and focused on their clasped fingers. “I remember. Nathan is my husband.” She looked up and Gen saw pain etched into her features. “It must be scary for him, too,” she said.
“He loves you very much,” Gen replied. “I think that gives people strength.”
Ruby smiled briefly, then cast her eyes around the room, taking it in as though she might not see it all again for a while. Maybe never.
The lump in Gen’s throat grew uncomfortable. “I have something to show you,” she said, and fetched the painting from the living room.
Ruby brightened as soon as she saw the image. “I remember that girl.”
“Did you actually meet her?”
“Oh, no. I meant the canvas.”
“Do you know where you bought it?”
Ruby’s expression creased up with the challenge of remembering. “Somewhere down the coast.” She frowned. “Was it Monterey? Or Carmel. Tina and Susan and I went down to Pacific Grove for a week. They took me to see the–”
It must have been a beautiful memory, because it lit her up as if a light switch had been flicked on. Time seemed to fall away. Gen sensed that Ruby was back there, reliving the joy.
“The butterflies.” She sighed. “Yes, the butterflies. And I found that at a show in Carmel and bought it to commemorate the trip.”
“Do you know the artist’s name?”
“No. It’s there, though, isn’t it? I don’t have my glasses. Isn’t the canvas signed?”
Gen shook her head. She could hear Nathan hobbling back and she rose and went to help him, taking the tea tray and bearing it into Ruby’s room. “She says she bought the painting in Carmel.”
Mr. Formby’s face filled with so much love Gen was forced to look away. He scuffed to the bed and grasped his wife’s hands, then leaned close and kissed her on the cheek.
“Mother?” His voice cracked.
“Yes, my dear, I’m here.”
Nathan’s breath caught. He tried to drag the chair closer but his hands were shaking and his grip failed. Gen hurried to help, scooting the seat until it was as close to Ruby as she could force it. Nathan sank down and clutched his wife’s hands.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
Ruby’s lips twitched; she was fighting tears. “I’m so sorry, Nathan.”
“No, no, let’s not waste time. You’re here now. I want to tell you about the girls. Tina came by yesterday with your new grandson.”
Gen retrieved the painting from its place against the wall and backed out of the room. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “I’ll let myself out. I appreciate your help, Mr. and Mrs. Formby.”
The pair looked at her and smiled like twins who’d been reunited with their other half. “Thank you for this gift,” Nathan said.
“It wasn’t me,” Gen replied. “But I’m happy for you both.” She turned away.
Out on the street the sun was shining. The birds were singing, the world seemed unchanged. But Gen had witnessed something she wanted desperately to remember: a man who loved so deeply that he was willing to endure daily disappointment in exchange for a few fleeting moments when he could be present again with the woman he loved.
Chapter Six
A contemporary jade and rose-patterned carpet muted Gen’s footsteps when she entered Sophie Keene’s office. The walls were painted pale turquoise, and the windows were framed by heavy off-white curtains hung from bronze rods bolted just below the ceiling. Sophie’s desk faced the door. It was a scarred old oak model with a beautiful patina, and the paperwork on top was separated in pretty baskets.
“Hello there,” Sophie said. “I’ll just be a minute, I need to finish some bookkeeping.”
“Go right ahead.” Gen sat in a wicker rocker beside the desk and pushed the chair to make it sway. It reminded her of the Formbys for some reason, although she didn’t know why. “I stopped by to grab the info I asked for. And to give you an update.”
“You know something already? That’s fast work.”
Gen inspected the room. You can tell a lot by a person’s surroundings, Oliver had taught her that. Rooms reflected the owner’s inner state. Décor exposed turmoil and peace, conflict and happiness, and whatever else floated just below the surface.
Sophie’s internal life must be disciplined, or she used strict organization to feel she was in control. The entire left wall was lined with chrome shelving, the cool kind that kitchen stores and restaurants always used. Each level held folded sheets and blankets and duvets and comforters in a rainbow of colors and patterns. The front of each stack was labeled with the size, mostly single and double. Rows of pillows marched across the top, lined up according to their color scheme.
Sophie made a final entry in the ledger before her, then put it away in one of the drawers and crossed her arms on the desktop.
“My news isn’t that startling,” Gen said. “Oliver and I visited Rennie Conrad at Out Of The Closet yesterday, and she gave us the address of the family that donated your picture.”
Sophie sat up a little straighter. “And?”
“The owners were an old couple, Nathan and Ruby Formby. I went to see them and found out the wife bought the painting in Carmel. That’s all she could tell me. She didn’t know the artist’s name, or the name of the store.”
Sophie leaned back and drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Carmel.”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“It’s more than we knew yesterday,” Gen said. “I’ll get on the Internet and track down a list of galleries in town, make some phone calls. I can email a picture of the painting and see if any of the owners recognize it. But if I don’t find anything, I’ll need to go down there at some point. Expenses for the trip will add to your bill. ”
“I can handle it. Do you want me to go with you?”
“It’s not necessary.”
Sophie pushed her chair away from the desk. She blew out her cheeks and motioned vaguely with one hand. “I feel helpless.”
Gen didn’t respond; there was nothing to say. Her eyes followed the movement of Sophie’s fingers and she made her own gesture, this one toward the packed shelving. “You use all this in your work?”
“Every bit and more. Everything I can get my hands on, as long as it’s decent looking and has some life left in it.”
“Quite an undertaking. What made you start?”
“Penance. Atonement, maybe. Hope.”
Gen waited for more. Sophie didn’t disappoint.
“I could have helped my sister all those years ago, but I didn’t. I was too busy drowning my sorrows to give a crap about her. After she left, I got right. It was my wake-up call. I got out of the life, but it was too late for Shannon.”
“That’s a heavy burden to bear.”
Sophie shrugged.
Gen changed the subject again. “Do you buy paintings to decorate the rehab rooms?”
“Some. Others we get for the frames. We provide every client with new clothes and a haircut. Then we take their picture and frame it in the resale frames and hang it in their new space, so they can look at the person they are now. They can look at that picture and see their future instead of their past.”
“What an amazing idea.”
“It doesn’t always work,” Sophie replied. “They have a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through. Half of them revert and it’s heartbreaking. You have to stay detached.”
“Why do you do it?” Gen asked.
Sophie was staring at a point somewhere behind Gen. “Because somebody did it for me.” She reached into one of the baskets and came up with a white envelope. “I have all the names and information you asked for.”
Gen opened the sealed flap and pulled out two yellow legal pad sheets covered with notes. Sophie’s handwriting was no-nonsense, a hybrid combo of print and cursive. No little round circles for dots on the i’s.
Gen perused the content. “Were you ever married?”
“I tried it once, but it didn’t stick,” Sophie replied. “When I stopped needing to get trashed by bums and got my life together, a nice guy came into it. Took him a while to convince me he didn’t have a loser hidden inside him somewhere. I didn’t trust my luck, and that’s probably why it didn’t work out. I never really believed it would.”
“It’s a curse some of us have, not trusting.”
“I’ve got it in spades.”
“Well, I’m no fine example, but I know it’s possible to overcome it.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Not yet,” Gen replied. “I got real close, but it didn’t jell. We parted ways last February. It’s been four months, but the break-up still makes me a little skittish. I like to think there’s plenty of time to try again, so I’m test-driving patience right now. Being in the moment.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“It’s real hard.”
“Damn straight it is,” Sophie said. “Good luck with finding your Zen.”
Gen laughed. “Aren’t you going to tell me that time heals all ills?”
“I’d be lying if I did.” Sophie frowned. “I haven’t found that to be true.”
Chapter Seven
Like coming home to her condo, Gen always relished walking through the door into her office. It was located on the street below her condo complex and it was small, but just being in it relaxed her. She wished the ambience was a reflection of her inner self, but she doubted it. If Oliver’s credo about décor was true, she may have found a way to present a façade. A little white lie.
Most of her friends would agree that calm wasn’t a synonym associated with Gen Delacourt. But the pretty French style of her work space suggested to people who didn’t know her that she might be.
Let them think it was true.
She moved down the hall, shucking off her sweater, then set her handbag down atop of a line of low, ebony-stained cabinets that started to the left of the door and ran past the corner. Her jacket went on a hook screwed into a strip of hardware above.
The desk faced her, floating away from the walls and set caddy-corner in the room opposite the entry. It was backed by a quartet of bookshelves that held the collection of legal hardbacks she’d been given or acquired during her years as an attorney.
Those had more recently been joined by an eclectic assortment of classic detective fiction. Nancy Drew, Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe, Crais’s Elvis Cole, and Parker’s Spenser – his older work, the good ones. Before Susan came along.
It all started as a gag perpetrated by her family. When she’d finally announced her intentions to alter career paths, the hardbacks started showing up. But now she liked seeing the books there. She added to the collection herself, and she had read them all.
It was a kick to see clients’ eyes pass over the novels and stop. She bet they wondered if it was a prank. Nobody ever asked, and that made the joke even better.
She kicked back in the desk chair and booted up the laptop. One glance at the print of the Eiffel Tower that hid the case board on the opposite wall reminded her she needed to get the photos of the wandering husband over to his wife.
Better yet, she should give the lady a call first. Soften the blow. It wasn’t often a gay man felt the need to remain undeclared. Not in San Francisco, and not in this day and age. The wife would probably be shocked.
But she’d work up to that.
Right now she was more inclined to search Google for artists and galleries in Carmel. Then she’d make a few phone calls and see what she could find.
While Windows did its thing on the PC, she got up to retrieve a bottle of water from the mini fridge. She’d forgotten about the half of a Subway sandwich Liv had stashed there yesterday. She pulled it out and peeled off the wrapping. Turkey stuffed with vegetables, her favorite. She frowned over the possibility he’d come back for it today and decided to cross that bridge later.
It was lunch time, and all’s fair.
Once she was set up with napkins and a paper plate, she took the food back to the desk, pulled up the search engine, and typed in art galleries in Carmel-by-the-sea, CA. Bingo. It was a ritzy, popular spot that sported a long list of art vendors.
The top-ranked site was carmelartgalleries.com. She clicked on the link. The home page contained a list of local merchants, four across and eight down. Farther down the page was a box with the verbiage, Over 600 artists A-Z represented by Carmel-by-the-Sea and Carmel Valley galleries, click here. She bit into the whole-wheat bun and chewed, wondering how so many dealers could survive with that kind of competition.
She slid a pad and pen from the desk drawer to record business names, addresses, and phone numbers as she clicked through the sites. Most displayed thumbnail images of paintings done by the artists they represented. The styles were unique, diverse, and gorgeous. Different. She looked for works similar to Sophie’s canvas, but nothing spoke to her.
When lunch was gone, she went into the bathroom and washed her hands, then returned to her desk and punched a number into the land line phone. A woman answered.
“Francie Stoddard Gallery.”
“Hi,” Gen replied. “Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Francie. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to find an artist who painted a friend’s sister eight or so years ago. All I know is that the painting was purchased in Carmel.”
“Is the canvas signed?”
“No, but I’m hoping someone will recognize the painter’s style.”
“Goodness, that might prove extremely difficult, Miss–”
“Delacourt. Gen Delacourt. I know, it’s a challenge.”
“Exactly. There are thousands of artists on exhibit in Carmel. But if you snap a few pictures and email them to me, I’ll take a look.”
“Sounds good. What’s your email?”
Francie told her and Gen gave the woman hers, then said, “I’ll send them before close of business today. Thanks for your help, Francie.”
She did another search for Carmel Valley, and another for Monterey. Both produced a significant number of additional artists and galleries. Each time she picked one out and called, and after both calls she’d agreed to email pictures of the canvas to a willing proprietor.
No sooner had she hung up the phone for the third time than it rang again.
“Don’t forget about that sandwich I left you,” Oliver said.
Gen grinned into the mouthpiece. “I’m relieved to know it was intended for me.”
“You mean you ate it even though you thought I might want it?”
“I was prepared to pay handsomely. Where are you?”
“Upstairs. I called because I have an idea,” Livvie said. “How about we go out tomorrow tonight? It just so happens I have a friend who paints. Well, just an acquaintance, actually, but he’s having a show at the gallery that represents him. They always put out a respectable spread. Lots of canapés and shrimp and stuff. We could go have a look-see and make a meal out of it.”
“Dress code?”
“Upscale. I’ll wear my favorite LBD.”
“I don’t have a little black dress that fits anymore.”
“I could loan you one, we’re about the same size.”
Gen laughed. “That’s okay. Yours would still be too tight for me. I’ll find something.”
“I’ll come down about six.”
“See you then.”
Gen replaced the handset and waited for two
beats, then picked it up again and dialed her fraternal twin in Los Angeles.
Genevieve and Gabrielle Delacourt were as unalike as apples and oranges. They’d shared a womb for nine months and come into the world minutes apart, but that was about all they had in common.
But when Gabi answered on the third ring, there was clearly pleasure in her voice. “Hey you,” she said. “To what do I owe the call?”
“Hi Gab. We haven’t talked for a few weeks, so I just wanted to check in. How are you? What’s new?”
“I’m good, Genny, really good. It’s great to hear your voice.”
“Gabi–” Gen felt tongue-tied for a minute. “I know this sounds out of left field, but if something was wrong in your life, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, Genny. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I–” She knew it was out of character, but she plowed ahead. “I want you to know I’m here for you, whatever happens. I wouldn’t want you to ever feel like you can’t depend on me.”
Gabi laughed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, sister, but I’d like to remind you that I’ve been depending on you for over thirty years now, not that I’d admit that to anyone. So tell me, what’s got you all nostalgic?”
“Nothing, really. I just wanted to be sure you knew. I’d miss you, Gabi, if you weren’t around. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I know that. You’re stuck with me.”
“And vice versa.”
“Really, girl, you need to come down here for a visit. I want to check your forehead for fever.”
Gen laughed. “I will,” she replied. “I’ll visit you soon. It’s past time we had a good talk, live and in person.”
Chapter Eight
Mackenzie Hackett was in a booth drinking coffee when Gen walked in. His elbows were on the table and his fingers cupped the mug as though his hands were cold.
She hadn’t seen him for three months, not since Bree’s case had been wrapped up in mid-March. They’d had a thing between them back then. Unspoken, but it was there. They hadn’t acted on it, and in the end she’d let it go.