Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  Mimi immediately dispatched someone to do Irina’s bidding—in this case Lori, who stood nearby, probably at Claudia’s insistence, waiting to meet Irina’s every need.

  Must be nice to be nineteen and have everyone at your beck and call, I thought, as I watched Lana, our VP of PR move in next, nodding and smiling at Irina, who stared back at her vacantly from her pretty blue eyes.

  Those eyes weren’t vacant for long. Because the minute Lori returned, a bottle of the flavored water in hand, I saw what looked like genuine sorrow seep into them the moment Irina spied the label. “No raspberry?” she said, turning to Mimi.

  Mimi’s mouth moved into that same patient smile. “Apparently they only have orange and lemon, Reny, darling,” she said, just loud enough for Claudia to hear.

  Claudia immediately stiffened, as if suddenly, horrifyingly aware of her inability to meet Irina’s needs, and turned to glare at Lori, who darted out of the room, probably to hunt down the one gourmet grocery store that might have a Yum Yum selection wide enough to meet Irina’s demand.

  Not that this would likely satisfy Claudia, who had nearly gone ballistic on Lori just moments after Irina’s arrival, when she learned from Mimi that Irina had just started a draconian new diet, though why this waif needed it was anyone’s guess, and could hardly partake of the organic, vegetarian Asian Fusion feast Lori had ordered up from a nearby restaurant. Apparently, in addition to foregoing all meat, poultry and fish as part of her vegan promise, Irina was now giving up bread, sugar and any vegetable that broke down in the body like bread or sugar. In essence, all carbohydrates.

  It was almost too much to bear. But as I studied Irina as she dazzled each employee, I wondered if there might not be something to it. Yes, she was young and beautiful, but that skin…

  When Lori returned a short while later, several bottles of raspberry Yum Yum in hand, Irina was seated at the head of the table flanked by Claudia and Mimi, a plate in front of her filled with whatever food Mimi’s own assistant, Bebe, had managed to scrounge up from the noodle laden feast, which amounted to a slice of tofu and two broccoli sprouts.

  “Too squishy,” Irina declared, after delicately spearing the tofu with a fork and pushing away the plate without even sparing the broccoli a glance. Then she actually smiled up at Lori, as Lori poured the Yum Yum into a glass. A veritable hush fell over the room as Irina picked up the drink and sipped gingerly, her nose wrinkling gently as if she were uncovering new tastebuds right before our eyes and in the process realized that, perhaps, raspberry wasn’t her favorite flavored water.

  The sight, frankly, exhausted me. For I suddenly remembered what it was to be young and restless and insatiable with ever-changing desires.

  And felt glad that I no longer was.

  By the time Saturday night rolled around, I was feeling even happier about the number of years I had walked the earth—or more specifically, the hallowed aisles of Bloomingdale’s. Because the art opening was tonight and as I stood before a veritable history of wardrobe choices, I realized I was looking forward to what had started out as a daughterly duty. After all, an art opening wasn’t a bad way to spend a Saturday night, and as far as my recent history of Saturday nights went, it was five-star. Besides, I needed something to take my mind off the promises and perils of the future I was hashing out as of late. I took great care with my hair and makeup. I even forewent the little black dress that was the uniform for such events, choosing a soft pink sweater dress, that rolled invitingly away from my shoulders and seemed to set a bit of a glow—albeit not of Irina proportions—to my skin. As if I were in love.

  Well, I was on a mission of love, at least.

  It was a beautiful evening; the sky clear and the air tinged with the scent of snow. I found myself getting out of the cab a few blocks early, to relish a brief walk down the streets of Soho. I almost felt a moment’s disappointment when I realized I was, within moments, in front of the Wingate Gallery.

  I stepped inside, reluctant to leave the crisp solitude of the street.

  Even more so when I saw the black-clad shapes that had already filled that luminous space. Somehow the sight of the prototypical New York scene filled me with disappointment. What had I been expecting, a ball?

  With a sigh, I relinquished my coat at the coat check, feeling glad that I had opted for the soft pink dress if only to set myself apart from the sleek ranks of Manhattanites clustered about, clasping long-stemmed glasses of wine while they chatted with the kind of merriment that could only come from the comforts of success, or at least the confident facade of style.

  I bypassed the wine in favor of a flute of champagne, feeling as if I were celebrating something, though what I did not know.

  I headed to the first painting on the right, pretending to immerse myself in the picture in order to avoid the eyes that strayed my way.

  I did not have to fake it for very long. By the third oil, a portrait of a woman reclining before a mirror, I found myself truly drawn in by the lush colors and languorous shapes. I felt almost drugged by it, as I took in each painting, all featuring the same dark-haired woman in repose.

  I recognized the now-legendary painting that began my parents’ love affair the moment I stepped before it, though I had never actually seen it before. The woman’s face, her lips pink as if she had just fed herself on the bright blooms that surrounded her, her eyes alight with some sort of recognition as she gazed into the distance beyond her overflowing garden at the tiny, tiny figure on the road. The silhouette was a mere brush stroke that suggested another human being, though whether male or female, child or adult, it was unclear. It was only the turn of her lips—almost sensual—that made me think it had to be a man she waited for.

  As I studied her eyes for more clues, I became aware of a pair of eyes on me, the force of the gaze so palpable I felt compelled to turn and meet it.

  The moment I did, those eyes moved on, but not before I caught a glimpse of them; a swirling sea of greens and browns, long-lashed, masculine.

  Wow.

  I tried not to stare, forcing my gaze away from the tall, lean form beside me; the dark haired dream who now carefully averted his eyes, focusing them so steadily on the picture before us that I thought he might burn a hole through it. And maybe it was because he was trying so hard not to acknowledge my presence that I felt forced to acknowledge his. “Well, which is it?” I ventured. “Male, female?”

  Startled, he looked at me, and I felt the force of those eyes once more. My God, this had to be the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Then I immediately amended that statement as I took in his somewhat crooked nose and jutting though delightfully cleft chin. No, not beautiful, I thought, my eyes meeting his again and feeling that ping inside once more. But there was something about him…something in his eyes…

  “Excuse me?” he said, in a deep, disappointingly polite tone.

  “The figure,” I said, trying hard to keep my gaze from sliding down his broad chest, covered in a tweed sportscoat that clashed a bit with his sweater. “The figure in the painting,” I continued. “I think it’s a man she’s waiting for. Probably her lover,” I finished, meeting his gaze once more. Something about his shyness felt like a challenge, and suddenly all that was female in me was coming to life again.

  He smiled, looking charmingly boyish. Then, in a tone that suggested I was a child in need of edifying, he replied, “Clearly it’s a parent she’s waiting for. Perhaps her father or her mother. She’s too young to have a…a lover,” he finished, as if the very word embarrassed him.

  Cute, I thought, warming inside as I saw his eyes flit away from my breasts. He was obviously attracted to me. And clearly bothered by it. “Young? What makes you think she’s young?” I asked. “You can always tell by the hands.” I gestured to where her hand rested on the fence. “You see that?”

  His brow furrowed, as if for the first time in his life, he had reason to doubt his assumptions. “Yes, well, that could simply be the rendering. She couldn’t be m
ore than a teenager.”

  “Have you seen a teenager lately?” I replied. I had. And though her skin had been just as flawless, Irina had lacked the sophistication of the woman pictured here. “Look at her eyes. There’s no way a woman that young could have that kind of…knowing,” I finished, satisfied that I had finally put a name to that quixotic gaze.

  As if to verify my words, he looked into my eyes, and this time, at least, he seemed less shy about it. “Have we met before?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to give him any points for originality, but at least he was finally making an effort. “I don’t believe so. Grace Noonan,” I said, holding out a hand, only to have him ignore it. I didn’t take offense, considering the way he was now staring at me, as if he were scrambling to remember me, despite my words.

  “Not Thomas Noonan’s daughter?” he asked. “I believe he had a picture of you in his office. But you couldn’t have been more than sixteen yourself in it,” he said, his eyes narrowing on me as if it was clear to him that I was much more than sixteen, and the thought disturbed him somehow.

  “The very one,” I said, realizing this was probably one of my father’s former student groupies. “And you are?”

  “Jonathan Somerfield. Your father and I were colleagues at Columbia.” He seemed to relax suddenly, as if now that my father stood between us as some mutual point of reference, he could do so. “Well, he was world history and I was art history, but we did an interdisciplinary symposium together once, and we’ve had lunch often enough ever since. That is, until he retired and headed west. We did catch up a bit last time he was in New York, but I haven’t spoken to him in quite a few months. What’s he up to nowadays?”

  I filled him in on the upcoming trip to Paris, while he nodded, chin in hand, looking more and more irresistible by the minute. Which I found surprising. I didn’t tend to go for those rumpled, academic types, but there was something about Jonathan Somerfield that drew me. And since I hadn’t felt myself so taken with a man in a long time, I decided that I would, for a change, pour on the charm myself.

  “So they’ve decided to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary while in Paris,” I said. Then, gesturing to the painting before us and realizing, for the first time, the romantic happenstance of my meeting this compelling man in front of the very same painting my parents had met in front of more than forty years earlier, I continued, “In fact, I’m buying this painting for my father. He wants to give it as a gift to my mother when they return.”

  “This painting right here?” he said, his eyes going wide.

  “My parents met in front of this painting. Forty years ago,” I said, looking into those lush eyes and seeing a light glimmer in them—for the slightest moment—as if he might have, like me, perceived the fortuitous nature of our own meeting.

  But if I saw something there, I clearly must have imagined it. For Jonathan Somerfield simply nodded again, murmuring something about forty years being a milestone worthy of such an acknowledgment. Then he held out his hand finally and, showing not the slightest flicker of emotion at the jolt I clearly perceived passing between our briefly joined fingers, made some declaration about it being a pleasure meeting me and asking if I could give his regards “to Dr. Noonan and his lovely wife.” Then he disappeared into the crowd before I could even muster up more than a baffled “pleasure,” and “will do.”

  I felt something start to sink inside of me, and realized it was that hope that had sprung to life the moment I found myself caught in Jonathan Somerfield’s gaze.

  I guess some things, like romantic dreams, a woman never really loses. Though I was starting to wish those dreams would just die. Maybe then I would be able to move on to the reality of my life.

  I didn’t see Jonathan Somerfield again that evening. It was as if he had disappeared completely, along with all those romantic notions I’d conjured up about him. I did, however, meet the artist, once I made my intention to purchase Mariella in the Afternoon known to the curator.

  The curator, a reed-thin woman with short dark hair and a brittle smile, was naturally, delighted. “Well, it’s fortunate you came tonight,” she said, as if the coveted painting were in danger of being snatched up by a member of those black-clad ranks, who seemed more interested in their cocktail chat than the art that surrounded them. “The artist is here. You have the opportunity to meet him. Now where did he run off to?” she continued, gazing anxiously about the room.

  That surprised me. I guess I had assumed Chevalier was dead, based on the tidy sum the painting was going for.

  He might as well have been, I thought, once the curator, whose name, she told me, was Pamela Stone, led me through the crowd to the office at the back of the gallery, where we found a man stooped over a chair placed before a dark window, smoking.

  “Oh!” Pamela said, as if startled herself to find him alive. Wrinkling her nose, she began to wave at the curl of smoke drifting from his cigarette; then, as if in fear of offending him, she clasped her hands before her. “Marcus,” she called to him, as if he were a small child. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  The man, who looked ancient, glanced up at us, a weariness in his blue eyes. He was completely bald, and his flesh hung from his face, as if weighted down by the sadness that permeated his grayish features.

  No, he wasn’t dead. But there was an emptiness in his eyes that seemed to suggest he had already moved on from this life.

  Pamela made the introductions, babbling on merrily about my interest in Mariella in the Afternoon. Chevalier didn’t seem to move a facial muscle as she chattered on. In fact, the only reason I knew he was listening was the flicker of curiosity that passed through his eyes when the curator mentioned my intent to purchase his work.

  “Come!” Pamela said now, holding out a hand to him. “Why don’t we have a look together, shall we?”

  He stood, looking much taller than his stooped frame had suggested and, somewhat mournfully, stubbed out his cigarette and this only after Pamela’s suggestion.

  We moved through the crowd, which seemed to part before Chevalier, though he kept his gaze high above it, until we reached the painting in question.

  I watched the artist as his eyes came to rest on Mariella in the Afternoon. He looked almost startled to see it, as if its creation had little to do with him.

  Pamela must have noticed, too, because suddenly she was going on and on about how Mariella in the Afternoon was representative of Chevalier’s earlier career, with its use of color, its moodiness, as if the artist himself weren’t standing right there to comment.

  I, on the other hand, decided to take this opportunity to settle the dispute that raged, albeit tenderly, between my parents to this day. When Pamela came to a pause in her little discourse, I turned to Chevalier.

  “The figure in the distance,” I began, gesturing to that ambiguous form on the road that snaked away from the pretty little house, the even prettier woman. “Who is it?”

  He glanced up to where I pointed, as if noticing the figure for the first time, a frown creasing his features.

  “Who is she waiting for?” I asked, hoping to prod some sort of answer from him.

  He turned to me, studying my face as if seeing it for the first time, then, finally, opened his mouth to speak.

  “Who says she is waiting for anyone?”

  I arrived at the house where Kristina Morova once lived a few minutes early the following Sunday afternoon. A sturdy brick structure attached seamlessly to its twin neighbor and set off only by the discoloration of the aluminum storm door that flanked its otherwise pristine entrance, it looked like any other house in this section of Brooklyn.

  Though I had viewed that carefully edged lawn, that pretty little planter that now stood empty in the stone cold, at least twice before on my fruitless pilgrimages here, I had never, ever felt the shiver of pure anxiety that permeated my system the moment my taxi pulled up in front.

  I was scared to death. And I didn’t like th
e feeling one bit.

  But I was going to have to deal with it, I thought, as I paid the driver and slid out of the car, almost wanting to throw him another fifty to wait outside for me. Just in case.

  In case of what?

  God only knew. But I knew that car service in Brooklyn was not as immediate as it was in Manhattan. If things went…awry, there was bound to be awkwardness. An awkwardness that would only escalate if I had to wait while a new car came to ferry me away.

  I wished I could leave right now.

  But I didn’t leave. Instead, I summoned whatever courage I had left, pulling my cashmere coat more tightly around me against the wind. Underneath, I wore a wool pants suit more appropriate for the office than a Sunday afternoon dinner. Yet somehow a suit had felt right as I stood before my closet that morning. Like armor against whatever was to come.

  Now it just made me feel foolish.

  Even more so when the front door swung open to reveal a ruddy-faced woman who appeared to be as overdressed as I was for a Sunday afternoon, in cranberry slacks and a ruffled, cream-colored blouse.

  “Grace Noonan?” she said, as if still trying to get used to the name. “Katerina,” she finished when I nodded. “Come in. Come in.”

  Once I had stepped into the tiny foyer, she leaned in to hug me and then thought better of it. Probably because I literally backed away from her gesture. I felt embarrassed, but only briefly. I was too busy studying her face for something familiar, but there was nothing in the slanted, mud-brown eyes and thick nose that said this woman was a relation of mine. She looked like someone I might have sat next to on the subway a thousand times before. Someone I would have never given a second thought to.

  She smiled at me, made uncomfortable, I was sure, by the way I was staring at her. My gaze moved to her teeth, slightly askew and a tad yellow, before I remembered my manners. “You have a lovely, um, home,” I said, then looked around to see if this statement was true.