by Laura Moore
Gen smiled. She adored her godmother’s unique attitude toward life. While other people carried snapshots of their kids in their wallets, Phoebe was never without her black leather case filled with her own precious “babies”: slides and photos of her cherished art collection.
“Grace took one look at the slides from your Central Park series and nearly did a triple flip off the sofa. You see, Grace has been asked to find an artist for some philanthropic fund. She’s a natural headhunter, what with her connections to the art world. But apparently it hasn’t been easy. She’s been scouring galleries and poring over dealers’ collections for months without seeing anything that she really loved. Until your work.” Phoebe laid a hand on Gen’s forearm and squeezed it lightly. “Guess what? Grace asked me if you might be interested in creating a piece for the new wing of the Children’s Hospital in Boston.”
Gen stared at her godmother in disbelief. Just last month, she’d driven past the construction site. Her mother, who volunteered at the hospital, had raved so much about the new wing that Gen had agreed to drive into the city with her and take a look at the nearly completed building.
Her mom’s boasts hadn’t been idle. Gen had been awed by the dynamic glass structure. With its fluid and bold lines, it gave the impression of soaring—creating a painting that might complement such a space would be an incredible artistic challenge. Sudden goose bumps covered her arms.
“I can’t believe they would consider me,” she said softly.
“I can. But it is a wonderful opportunity. Listen to this, though. There’s more,” she said, smiling like a cat with a mouthful of cream. “I told Grace about how with Jiri leaving for Prague, you’d be losing your studio, and that it might take months before you found a suitable work space. Gen, Grace has offered you the use of Alexander’s old studio.”
“Me . . .” was all Gen managed.
“You’ll enjoy living with Grace. She’s delightful. Salty and energetic. I swear, she’s got more energy than women half her age. We went for a two-hour walk on the beach, though ‘march’ might be a better term for it. You wouldn’t believe the cramps in my calves by the time we got back to her house—I had to call up my massage therapist and schedule an appointment. Anyway, she’s had a live-in companion, but Tilly’s leaving next week to be with her daughter, who’s confined to bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. So you’d be doing Grace a favor by staying with her. You wouldn’t mind, darling, would you?”
Gen had gotten control of her breathing. “Mind? Are you kidding? I’ve been dreading having to look for a place,” she confessed with a shaky laugh. “Especially since I knew I wouldn’t find anything I could afford. And the cooperative studios are so hard to get into—the waiting lists stretch into eternity. Phoebe, you’re magic, pure magic.” Enthusiasm had Gen jumping from her chair, her feet doing a jig as she crossed the floor to hug her. “I feel positively sorry for Cinderella. All she got from her fairy godmother was some handsome prince. One flick of your wand, Phoebe, and I get the chance to make art and have a studio all to myself!”
“One thing at a time, darling,” Phoebe murmured, returning her hug. “One thing at a time.”
“No, Mother. I haven’t seen Alex since Friday,” Sydney replied, her tone worn flat from having answered essentially the same question for the past ten minutes. “No, he had some dinner engagements with clients. Why didn’t I go, too?” she echoed, and a trace of desperation entered her voice as she said, “Perhaps because I wasn’t wanted—No! No, of course not. Nothing’s gone wrong between us. Yes, I’m sure I’ll be seeing him soon. Yes, I’ll call you. Good-bye, Mother.” Slamming down the phone with a hard clack, she dropped her head into her hands.
“And how is Mommy dearest?” a voice asked.
Sydney started. Harry Byrne, her business partner, was standing in the doorway to the office they shared. Harry had flown to Boston at eight o’clock that morning for a meeting with the hospital’s director of community relations. Raines and Byrne Consulting was helping the hospital put together a twenty-page bulletin for the new wing Alex Miller was donating. “Harry! I didn’t expect you back so soon. Weren’t you supposed to be having dinner with some old flame, Bitsy Something-or-other?”
Harry cocked his head and grinned at her. “Betsy Stevens is fine. Hasn’t changed a bit, she’s as cute as ever. We had a very pleasant lunch during which she made me promise to stay at her place the next time I was in Beantown. She was quite eager to renew our friendship.” The devilish twinkle in his eyes was at total odds with his modest tone.
“Sounds a little desperate to me.”
“Oh, no, not Betsy,” he said, flashing a grin. Harry had the whitest teeth of anyone Sydney knew and a smile that women, young and old, found irresistible, Sydney included. “So what’s Hilary on about now?” he asked, referring to Sydney’s mother by her first name.
Sydney’s mood, momentarily lightened by Harry’s unexpected return, plummeted.
“Hey, Syd,” he said, crossing the office swiftly. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
With an effort Sydney composed herself. She hadn’t mentioned anything about Alex breaking up with her. It was too humiliating. And why talk about the breakup when she fully intended to get Alex back? “Nothing’s happened. Everything’s fine,” she said, then looked out the window as if fascinated by the view of chimneys and cisterns atop asphalt and rubber-coated roofs.
Harry dropped to a crouch by her chair. He reached out and cupped her jaw, gently guiding her face back to his, forcing her to meet his green gaze. “Come on, Syd, you can fool anyone but me. We’ve shared this office for too many years. I left Boston and the very pretty Betsy Stevens because I sensed something was off with you. What gives, sweetheart? You and Miller have a lovers’ spat?”
Sydney didn’t know if it was Harry’s casual endearment or the fact that he’d immediately guessed the source of her unhappiness, but her facade, such as it was, cracked. “He’s dumped me, the bastard!”
Something flared in Harry’s eyes, but Sydney, now that she’d blurted out the mortifying truth to her business partner, couldn’t seem to stop the rest of it from rushing out, too, in a torrent of pained indignation. “Can you believe it? How could he do this? We complement each other in every way—our background, education, friends—everything. And he’s dumping me!”
Rocking back on his heels, Harry stood and walked over to the window, where he perched his hip against the sill. With the afternoon sun coming in through the windows, his face was cast in shadows. His voice was equally somber. “I’m sorry, Sydney. I realize how that must hurt.”
Sydney pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She hated the sympathy she heard in his voice. It made her want to bawl like a baby. She said nothing, fearing that was exactly what would happen. “But maybe,” Harry continued as if he hadn’t noticed she was about to flood their office, “Miller’s finally realized that you’re absolutely miserable with him.”
“What?” she gasped. “What are you talking about? I’m not—”
“Cut the crap, Sydney. It’s me you’re talking to. Oh, I’ll grant that you were damned pleased with yourself when the two of you first started seeing each other. But this past month or so? Come on. We both know it’s not work and it’s not the TLM account that’s causing you to chomp down half a bottle of Rolaids for lunch. It’s the stress of dreaming up the new thing that’s going to keep Miller by your side.”
“A woman always has to worry about that,” she said sharply. “Otherwise—”
“Otherwise he’ll walk out on you? Like your father did? Who’s talking here, Syd, your mother or you? Maybe if you were with a guy who loved you, you wouldn’t be obsessing about what you have to do to keep him. Don’t you think it’s time you found a guy you want instead of trying to please your mother?”
Sydney’s temper flared. “I’m not with Alex to please Mother.”
“Aren’t you?” Harry fired back. “Then why does Hil
ary call you all the time, asking for a full account of where he’s taken you, whom you’ve seen, whether he’s bought you anything? Whose life is it you’re living?”
“Mine. Mother has nothing to do with this,” she retorted, infuriated when Harry shook his head. “It’s Alex’s problem,” she insisted. “Like a lot of men, he’s just unwilling to commit, scared of taking the next step.”
Harry laughed. “Miller’s not scared of anything.”
“You don’t know him. Not like I do.”
“Maybe not,” he conceded with a careless shrug. “But I hardly believe that sleeping with him has given you any particular insight either, sweetheart. Especially if you can’t see that if you go and do something as asinine as hitching yourself to Miller for the rest of your life, it’ll be like living in Siberia. And Syd, you damned well hate the cold.”
“Alex knows how to warm me up just fine, thank you,” she purred. “Don’t worry about me, Harry. This is only temporary. I’ll get him back.”
“Fine, whatever. Ruin your life. Just don’t screw up the TLM account while you’re at it,” he warned as he walked over to his desk. “So what’s on the agenda for this week?” he asked, picking up a stack of mail and sorting through it, discarding the topic of her love life like so much junk mail.
The feeling that she’d somehow disappointed Harry left Sydney oddly unsettled . . . and annoyed. What right did he have to criticize her, when for the past two years of their partnership she’d watched him go through a legion of women—all unsuitable? Irritated, Sydney straightened regally in her chair. “We have a meeting with a writer for Architectural Digest the day after tomorrow. I’m preparing an info packet for them now. The magazine would like to do a profile of the architect.”
“And how about the artist TLM is looking to commission? Can we give them a name, some photographs?”
“No, Mrs. Miller hasn’t found anyone she likes,” she replied, frustration entering her voice. She’d suggested dozens of eminent artists. None had satisfied the old lady, who, in Sydney’s opinion, gave a new meaning to the term “eccentric.” It was ridiculous, really. Sydney couldn’t understand why Alex indulged his aunt’s every whim.
Harry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Hey, Syd, if you’re free tonight, why don’t we head over to Brooklyn? I found this great karaoke bar. . . .” He dangled the offer, an olive branch.
Was he remembering the last time they had gone out together? she wondered. Deciding to celebrate their landing the biggest and hottest PR account to date, the TLM Fund, Harry and she had gone barhopping. They’d ended up in a dive of Sydney’s choosing, picked because the placard outside boasted the best karaoke in New York. High from the thrill of signing the contract, tingling from the memory of Alex Miller’s cool, electric-blue gaze, and the certainty that he’d understood the unmistakable invitation in her own eyes, Sydney had taken to the small platform stage. There she’d belted out a sloppily enthusiastic, eyelash-batting, hip-swinging rendition of Elton John and Kiki Dee’s ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.’
The indulgent applause from the bar’s crowd had been sufficient to keep her on the stage for several more tunes. Only after Madonna’s “Borderline” did Harry lead her, flushed and laughing, out of the bar and into the wintry night, wrapping his arm about her waist and sharing the heat of his wiry body when she’d complained of the cold.
That night of belting out pop songs into the mike suddenly seemed eons ago. Ignoring the sharp pang of regret, Sydney reminded herself of what she really wanted—more than anything in the world: To be Mrs. Alex Miller. “I can’t go out tonight,” she told Harry, and her gaze slid away from his. “Alex might . . .”
When she looked back, Harry was already walking out the door “Right. I’m going home to shower and shave. Later, Sydney.”
FIVE
Alex stepped out of the limousine on Broome Street and glanced up at the front window of the Alicia Kendall Gallery, where a sign hung from guy wires announcing the upcoming exhibit, “New Visions.”
Though the gallery was officially closed until the opening later in the evening, Alex rapped his knuckles on the pane-glass door. The young woman sitting at the reception desk talking on the phone glanced over at him. She mouthed a few last words into the receiver before putting the phone down and hurrying over to unlock the door.
“Yes?” she inquired. “May I help you?”
“I’m Alex Miller.”
“Oh, of course!” she said, stepping back to let him in. She held out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Miller. I’m Kyra Warburg, Alicia’s assistant.” Her smile warmed while she gave him the once-over.
Alex shook her hand, careful to keep his own smile polite. Kyra Warburg was very attractive, with straight,
honey blond hair and almond-shaped eyes. But Alex had no desire to become entangled with another woman; the scratches left by Sydney had yet to fade completely. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.
“No, not at all. This morning was a bit of a mad-house. We were rehanging a few pictures when the critic from the Times arrived. We had some other VIPs drop by too, but right now it’s pretty much the calm before the storm. The opening’s at six,” she explained.
Alex glanced at his watch. It was just past three. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon, then.”
“Oh, please, take all the time you want,” she protested, and a blush stole over her cheeks as she added, “I’d be happy to escort you through the exhibit.”
Alex didn’t plan to stay longer than necessary. He and his partners were taking the owner of an IT company the Miller Group had invested in to dinner at the Park Avenue Café. The company had just been the object of a friendly takeover, making the owner and the Miller Group both very much the richer.
“That’s kind of you, but you must have last-minute details that need attending. If I have any questions. . . .”
“I’ll be right here,” she nodded. Plucking a stapled sheath of papers from a stack that rested beside a tall maroon-and-black glazed vase filled with forsythia, she offered it to him. “Here’s our price list. If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate—”
“Thank you, I won’t.” He tucked the price list under his arm, knowing, however, that it was doubtful he’d be consulting it.
He’d gotten good at this. Alex was able to cruise through a gallery, take in the art on display, and reject it. Even with his aunt Grace making a preliminary selection, weeding out the shows and artists she knew would never suit, much of the artwork Alex had looked at over the past months fell into two basic categories—aesthetic babble and sensationalist dreck— art which none but art history PhDs and museum types could possibly care about.
Alex would be damned before he commissioned either sort.
He was donating the hospital wing as a memorial to Tom and Lisa, his deceased brother and sister-in-law. The art he envisioned for the space had to be about life. Messy, glorious, and all-too-precious life. He wouldn’t settle for less. But from the looks of what was on the walls in these first two rooms, his latest foray into the New York art scene was doomed to be as fruitless as his earlier ones.
When Alex stepped into the third of the connecting rooms, however, a stirring of interest awakened inside him. For the first time, he felt as if indeed he was experiencing a new vision, as the exhibition boldly touted. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was it, what he’d been looking for. He stopped and gazed at the canvases aligned before him, vibrant fields of color bordered by bold, decisive lines. The paintings seemed ready to leap off the stark white walls. They pulsed with vibrant energy, with humor . . . with life.
There were six paintings, all by the same hand. Alex quickly saw that they were in fact a series of scenes depicting a city playground. Central Park, he guessed, though what the artist, Genevieve Monaghan (only by reading the typed label next to the painting could he decipher the scrawled “Monaghan” in the lower right hand corner of the canvas), had captured was universal. . . . A young gi
rl jumping rope floated, suspended in midair, with her dark hair flying about her face, her arms rigid at her sides as her legs bent at the knees, free and clear of the jump rope’s sweep. On either side of her stood two other girls, wielding the rope with intense concentration, their mouths open in midchant. Alex could almost hear their high-pitched voices.
He moved on to the next painting, which was as busy and riotous as the mob portrayed in it. Children, stripped down to underpants and padded diapers, raced on stubby legs through the arc of a sprinkler. Their rounded bellies shone pale and glistening in the afternoon sun. The artist, this Genevieve Monaghan, had caught it all—how the afternoon sun slanted, its rays penetrating the gushing spray of water, turning drops into prisms of light. And there, off to the side, the sinuous line of mothers and nannies seated on the row of wooden benches that encircled the playground. The women watched, some indulgently, others vacantly, their blank eyes and slumping shoulders testifying to the hot, endless summer day.
He liked how she’d captured the essence of this world through gestures and expressions: the bend of an elbow, the smile on a face. Her paintings showed a directness and candor as well as a refreshing sense of humor.