Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life)

by Marie Ferrarella

  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 tim
e. 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?”

  He grew more serious as his eyes washed over her. “Not even once.”

  It was her turn to grin. Talking to Joshua was easy. It had always been easy. She didn’t know why she had been afraid to come. “I need a job, Joshua,” she said without preamble.

  There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, a thousand pieces of her life he wanted reconstructed for him.

  But not now. She didn’t need probing now. She needed peace more than he needed to hear. He could sense it. He answered the only way he knew she needed to be answered. “Come work for me.”

  It was too simple, too easy. And too wonderful. “Doing what?”

  “I could use an assistant.” Johanna glanced toward the back office and saw Kathy moving around. He saw her line of vision. “That’s my secretary, Kathy. She’s a ball of fire, but she doesn’t know anything about art except that she likes the color blue.”

  Blue was her favorite color, too. “It’s a start.”

  “I need more than that around here. I’ve got a showing Thursday evening.”

  “Yours?”

  He shook his head. “The wild-eyed man who almost ran over you on the way out.”

  “He did seem preoccupied.” She laughed.

  “Scared out of his mind is more like it. He’s going to be a basket-case by Thursday night. He can’t make up his mind whether this means nothing to him or everything in the world.”

  “I think I know the feeling,” she commiserated.

  “I’ll need someone to hold his hand Thursday night. Figuratively and maybe literally.” He held up his hands. “As you can see, I’m not equipped for that.”

  His hands were large and capable and reminded her of Tommy. Artistic hands didn’t have to be small and delicate to work miracles. She had seen wonderful things come from Joshua’s hands, she thought, paintings with such feeling that they made her want to cry. She wanted to argue with him that he should have his painting displayed in a point of prominence, not hers, but she decided that was an argument for another time, when she had entrenched herself here.

  She had already decided to take the job.

  “Is he any good?” she asked.

  He took her hand and led her over to three paintings he had just hung up last night. “Here, why don’t you judge for yourself.”

  He watched her as she studied them, watched her for the sheer joy of being able to look at her once again, to have her back in his life. This time, he had already decided, things were going to be different. He wasn’t that stumbling boy, tripping over his own feet any more.

  “Mac,” Kathy called, “it’s Mrs. Regis again.”

  Joshua put a restraining hand on Johanna’s shoulder. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute and then we can grab a bite to eat next door and negotiate.”

  Johanna nodded, but knew there was nothing to negotiate. Whatever he wanted to pay her, she’d take. She needed the feel of being around an old friend, at least until she got her bearings. She needed to feel productive. And Joshua had always been so encouraging. He had faith in her art even when she had wavered. It had been he who had warned her not to throw away her talent, her gift, when she told him that she was going to marry Harry.

  She roamed around the gallery as she waited for him to return, acquainting herself with the works. Some made her smile, some stirred feelings, none left her untouched. He had a good eye for choosing, she thought. He didn’t need her. But he would, she vowed. She’d make herself indispensable to him and the gallery in time.

  For the first time in years, Johanna savored hope.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “This probably isn’t what you’re used to,” Joshua said as he watched Johanna slide along the wide bench. He sat down on the chair opposite her. The tiny French restaurant was hectic and crammed, with two rows of tables set up to utilize long benches running along the wall on both sides of the room. The tables were meant for two, yet there was a feeling that everyone in the room was with everyone else. Yet since one could feel alone in a crowd, Johanna had a sense of being alone with Joshua. The constant din, the motion of patrons coming and going, of waitresses serving people around them isolated Johanna, made her feel alone. That was what she liked about New York. If you wanted, you could have it all. The absolute privacy of anonymity, provided by the masses, or the intimate company of a few good friends.

  Surrounding them was the delicious aroma of an array of crepes baking in the oven at the back of the restaurant. If the word “homey” could possibly apply to a restaurant in the heart of the city, it applied to this one.

  Johanna thought of the countless lunches she had endured in Beverly Hills, of the meaningless conversations she had listened to and taken part in at Spago. “No,” she smiled, absently tracing the lines of a square on the red check table cloth, “it’s not.” She looked up, her eyes touching his. “This is much nicer.”

  He didn’t know if she was being polite, or truthful, but her answer pleased him. “Do you want to pick up where we left off in London and continue catching up on fifteen years worth of life, or do you want me to treat you as a stunning new employee who just waltzed into my life this afternoon?”

  She laughed as she sipped the water with appreciation. She had sampled water all over the world and there was nothing to compare with the water in New York. She grinned, both at the thought and at his words. “The latter?” She raised her eyebrows hopefully.

  He would have rather at least a middle ground, but he had patience. Probably more than his share, he realized. That was both his blessing and his curse. “As you wish, Mrs. Whitney.”

  “Not that new.”

  He covered her hand with his own. His blue eyes softened and she saw something there, something she didn’t want to see. She thought it was pity. “Johanna, it’s good to see you again.”

  The waitress, dressed in a wide peasant skirt and blouse, approached to take their order and Johanna breathed a silent sigh of relief. She didn’t want pity or affection. She wasn’t entirely certain what it was she wanted. Probably just to pull her life together and make the best of the mess she found herself in. Time alone to reconstruct the phoenix and rise out of the ashes again, she thought wryly. And rise up she would, she promised herself. Stronger, this time, and never, ever allow herself to be in a position to be hurt again.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked as she skimmed the menu.

  “I didn’t know that there were so many different things they could do with crepes.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he grinned broadly. His grin was wide and guileless, like a young boy’s. There were traces of mischief there.

  She remembered how infectious his grin was. It was impossible to stay depressed around Joshua. He had always made her laugh, always made her feel good about everything. Maybe, she thought, that was what had ultimately brought her here to him. To get a little of the good feelings that he could create and use them as a salve against the blackness that still existed within her. Someday, she’d be able to do it on her own. Right now, she’d use what she could.

  “I’ll have the ham and swiss crepes, please.” She folded her menu and surrender it to the petite waitress.

  “Two. And a bottle of chablis, please.”

  He would have eaten beef jerky right now and not noticed. He still couldn’t get over the fact that she was here, sitting a few feet away from him. What had made her uproot her life? Was it the scandal? No, the Johanna he knew wasn’t like that. She would have stuck with Harry through it all. It must have been Harry who had pushed her away. Yes, that would have gone along with what he had read about the man.

  Unconsciously, Joshua clenched his hands into fists as they rested on the table. He had always disliked Harry, now more t
han ever.

  Johanna saw his fingers curl into themselves and wondered what he was thinking. His expression remained unchanged. You’ve gotten more secretive than when I knew you, Joshua, she thought. But then, haven’t we all? The thought made her feel sad.

  “Is this just a temporary move?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  She shook her head slowly, the low light that filtered through the smoky room caught fire in her hair, making it almost silver. He longed to run his hands through it. He kept them where they were and tried to relax. There would be a time for things, but it wasn’t now. Now was for listening.

  “This is for good.” She hesitated, then reminded herself that this was Joshua she was talking to. Joshua who had never laughed at her even when others might have. “I wanted to paint again.”

  He nodded, pleased that she had returned to it. “I always thought you had talent.”

  She toyed with her glass instead of drinking. “You were always nice.”

  “True, but I also have a good eye for talent. That’s how I came to Mrs. Regis’s attention.”

  “Mrs. Regis?” How foolish to think that nothing had changed with Joshua. He was probably engaged, married, or on his umpteen relationship. He had always been so endearingly gregarious.

  “The art gallery’s prime patron.”

  He allowed himself a little sip of wine before he continued. Sitting here, opposite her, made his mouth dry. God, she was beautiful, even more beautiful than he had remembered. The ache he thought was long gone surfaced, demanding and urgent. It cost him a great deal to go on talking as if he wasn’t sitting here, wanting her.

  “Actually, if it wasn’t for dear Mrs. Regis, I’d still be trying to hawk my own paintings somewhere around Washington Square. Remember, when we did that?” He did. He remembered every single detail with utmost clarity.

  Her eyes lit up as the long-ago memory returned. “You told me to dress up like Alice Faye and sing I’m Rose of Washington Square,” she said, fondly remembering when they had seen the old movie together.