“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds.” Miss Snow’s voice was as cold as her last name. She looked at Skye with distaste. “You’ve brought your child.”
Adrienne forced a smile. “I wish you’d call me Adrienne. And Skye is fourteen now. Hardly a child. She’s been a big help to me today.”
“Yes, well …” Miss Snow trailed off doubtfully.
Adrienne could feel Skye bristling behind her and said in a loud, overbright voice, “I’ve brought my painting for the competition before the gala!”
“So I see.” And you don’t need to state the obvious, Miss Snow’s tone said. Adrienne liked every one of the other board members, all of whom were extremely friendly, unpretentious, and insisted on being called by their first names. Adrienne realized she didn’t even know Miss Snow’s first name. She suspected the woman had been christened “Miss Snow.” FOR heaven’s sake, why did she have to be manning the helm, Adrienne thought ruefully, on a day when she certainly didn’t feel like indulging the woman’s superiority complex?
They all still stood awkwardly in the doorway. Miss Snow finally said, “The painting must be heavy. You might as well come in with it. Is it oil or watercolor?”
Adrienne had not worked in watercolors for ten years. “Oil.”
“Oh dear. Another oil. We have so many.” She sighed. “Well, I believe the chairman has chosen a nice place for it on the second floor anyway.” Miss Snow turned to a small table and riffled through papers. “Yes, second floor, the room on the right. Your painting will hang just left of the fireplace. What’s the name of it?”
“Autumn Exodus.”
Miss Snow checked her papers again. “Yes, that’s what it says here.” It’s official, Adrienne thought sourly. The title is verified. “Autumn … whatever will hang left of the fireplace.”
“Autumn Exodus” Adrienne couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her voice. “To the left, as you said. I think I can remember.”
“Mom, can I stay down here and look at the other paintings?” Skye asked.
“Sure,” Adrienne said. Miss Snow looked distressed as if envisioning Skye placing sticky fingers on every piece of art. Skye veered left into the sunny Music Room. “I think I’ll start here.”
“Don’t touch the grand piano,” Miss Snow warned harshly, trotting anxiously after Skye. “It’s an antique. And so is the chandelier!”
“Gosh, Miss Snow, I can’t very well touch the chandelier unless you’re planning to get me a ladder.” Skye laughed.
Two points for Skye, Adrienne thought with a smile. Miss Snow was the only person Adrienne knew of whom the girl purposely tried to annoy.
Adrienne got a firm grip on her painting and headed toward her favorite feature of the French Art Colony—the floating stairway. Although strongly anchored to the wall on one side, the railing side of the staircase bore no structural support, giving it the appearance of swirling through thin air all the way up to the fourth floor. Adrienne always pictured a beautiful woman in an evening gown gracefully descending the lovely stairs.
Sometimes wedding receptions were held at the Art Colony, and Adrienne had imagined someday seeing Skye posed in a glorious white dress on the staircase. But not for at least ten years, she told herself. Maybe longer. She didn’t want her little girl to grow up and throw herself into the responsibilities of marriage too soon, the way she had when she’d married Trey Reynolds at twenty-one, before either of them was really ready.
Adrienne hung her painting on the assigned spot and stood back for a look. The card the chairman had already put in place beside where the painting would hang read “Adrienne Reynolds, Autumn Exodus, oil on canvas, 22″ × 26″.” It was one of the largest pieces she had ever done and also one of the best. She’d chosen the scene late last November, when she’d seen about twenty Canadian geese floating on a large pond in an open field bordered by a line of giant blue spruce trees. As she’d watched, ten of the big geese, who mated for life, lifted gracefully from the water, wings spread, their brown feathers and the white streaks on the sides of their black heads showing clearly against the mellow gold glow of a fading autumn afternoon. In the painting, she’d used a bit of yellow for luminosity on the snow-tipped tree limbs and grayish blue in the background to indicate evening creeping onto the landscape. She thought she’d captured the agile, flowing movement of the birds along with the intricate play of tight and shadow. She smiled, proud of the painting and allowing herself a small hope of placing in the competition.
Adrienne started back down the stairs, then stopped. Something waited for her on the third floor, something that seemed to call out irresistibly. Slowly she ascended the floating staircase, running her left hand over the cool, polished wood of the railing. This is a mistake, she thought. This is going to upset me. This is going to hurt. But she couldn’t help herself.
When she reached the third floor, Adrienne turned right, paused, then stepped through a doorway. She drew in her breath. The room had an official name, but for the last four years, most people had called it “the Julianna Room” because of the life-sized portrait at the far end—a portrait of Julianna painted by the extraordinarily talented man who had been her husband, Miles Shaw.
Adrienne didn’t turn on the lights in the room. She didn’t need to. A shaft of sunlight streamed through one of the big windows and fell directly on the portrait as if nature had staged the lighting to best effect. Miles had donated the painting to the French Art Colony, never to be sold. During the last four years, it had become one of the establishment’s biggest attractions. And with good reason, Adrienne thought.
In the portrait, Julianna stood in a three-quarter turn with her face full forward. She wore a black satin dress with a black lace overlay. With masterful touches of brown, Miles had accented every filigree of the intricate ebony lace over the midnight satin. The neckline dipped low, partially exposing the curve of Juli’s breasts. Her hands were clasped loosely just below her waist, a large black Tahitian pearl ring set in platinum on her left middle finger. Her long auburn hair touched by copper highlights fell in soft waves over her left shoulder beneath a magnificent black lace-covered leghorn hat.
But the highlight of the portrait was Julianna’s face. The cool Grace Kelly perfection was tempered by the hint of an arch smile and the promise of amour in the sherry-colored eyes that seemed to follow the viewer around the room. No doubt about it, Adrienne thought. Miles Shaw had created a masterpiece. And more important, he had captured an incredible image of Julianna Brent that could last for centuries.
Miss Snow must have turned on the sound system to discourage Skye from playing the antique piano the girl had no desire to play. As Adrienne stood mesmerized by the portrait, a classic song rendered beautifully by the group Black-more’s Night flowed around her:
Alas my love, ye do me wrong to cast me out discourteously,
And I have loved you for so long delighting in your company …
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but Lady Greensleeves …
“Do you think I should have called the portrait Greensleeves instead of Julianma?”
Adrienne started, then turned to see Miles Shaw standing less than three feet behind her. From the day Julianna had introduced Miles to Adrienne, she had thought he was not the handsomest but certainly the most striking man she had ever met. His mother was Shawnee, and he had inherited her shining black hair, which he wore pulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway to his waist, beautiful light bronze skin, and high cheekbones. He was around six feet four with an aquiline nose that was slightly crooked from an old break, lips with a sensuous curve, and the only truly raven-black eyes Adrienne had ever seen. He had the broad shoulders of a bodybuilder tapering to a slender waist and long legs that moved as gracefully as a dancer’s. He wore tight jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Around his neck hung a leather cord bearing a large nugget of turquoise set in oxidi
zed silver, a gift from Julianna for his thirty-seventh birthday.
Adrienne thought he looked older than he had when she’d seen him a year ago, a new network of lines surrounding the startling eyes, and the hollows sinking deeper under his cheekbones. One expected him to have a booming voice to match his size. Instead his words were always soft, almost sonorous and insinuating, as if his listener were the only person in the world. Julianna had told Adrienne she’d first been attracted to Miles because of his voice.
“I’ve always thought ‘Greensleeves’ was about a woman who was deliberately hurtful,” Adrienne said, finally finding her own voice. “Julianna wasn’t like that.”
“It’s possible for a person to have two sides.”
“Yes, but I knew Julianna for almost thirty years—”
“Much longer than I did. Maybe much better than I did.” Miles quirked an eyebrow. “But maybe not”
Adrienne took an uncomfortable step backward away from Miles, then turned to the portrait to hide her retreat “It really is a beautiful painting,” she said lamely.
“Julianna was my inspiration. For a while.”
“I was always sorry things didn’t work out for the two of you.”
“They were working out for me. Apparently they weren’t working for her,” Miles said sardonically.
His closeness and the theme of his conversation made Adrienne increasingly nervous. She couldn’t just run from the room. She had to say something in response to Miles’s remarks. “Julianna was a restless soul, Miles. I don’t think she was cut out for marriage.”
“Really? Not to anyone?”
It wasn’t actually a question. It was a challenge. “No, I don’t think to anyone. Honestly.” The song had changed but the room seemed to be getting smaller and hotter. And Miles seemed to be getting closer, although Adrienne hadn’t seen him take a step.
Miles glanced at the portrait. “When I painted that, I thought I’d captured her soul.”
“You did.”
“I captured what she projected at that time. Sauciness, yes. But also innocence. That wasn’t necessarily the true Julianna.”
“You captured the image of a beautiful woman. She wasn’t perfect, Miles, but then no one is. She did have warmth, compassion, and joy, though. I see all of that in the portrait.”
“You’re perspiring.” Miles reached out and gently touched the bandage on her forehead. “And you’ve hurt yourself. Or more precisely, someone hurt you. A mugger. That’s what I heard.”
“Yes. Night before last. He got away with my purse, some cheap lipstick, an old comb, and all of ten dollars.” Her attempt at a lighthearted laugh came out more like a bleat of fear. “Philip is furious with me. Bad publicity and all.”
Miles’s face turned hard. “Philip Hamilton is a pompous fool who cares only about himself.”
“Oh!” Adrienne was startled by the pure hatred of his tone. “Well, I’d like to think he loves my sister and niece. I mean, I’m sure he does. He just has such a huge ego. Maybe that goes with being a politician. You’d have to have a lot of confidence to run for governor, after all, with all those speeches and people looking at you constantly and, well, everything …”
She ran out of words and breath at the same time. Miles’s fingers still touched her bandage. His intense eyes still probed hers. He leaned closer and for a wild moment she thought he was going to kiss her. A surprisingly strong swell of panic surged through her, but she stood frozen, her heart thumping like a small, trapped animal’s.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you know how pushy we newspeople are.”
Miles’s hand dropped away from her forehead. As he stepped aside and turned, Adrienne saw Drew Delaney. He almost lounged against the doorframe, but his face was taut, his dark eyes slightly narrowed. “I’d like to get a quote from each of you on the upcoming gala.”
Adrienne fought an impulse to run to Drew and let him fold her in loving arms as he’d done when they were teenagers. But that had been a long time ago. He probably hadn’t loved her then, and he certainly didn’t now. Still, she was overjoyed to see him. Her knees felt weak from her apprehension of Miles and she walked to his side.
“Sometimes I like being a reporter better than an editor.” Drew took the damp hand she’d thrust at him, shaking it as if they were meeting for the first time. It was an unnatural gesture after their long acquaintance, and Adrienne knew Drew recognized it as her way of masking uneasiness.
Miles seemed to vibrate with hostility. “I would think our little gala would be beneath your interest, considering the murders.”
“Murders?” Drew repeated innocently. “I thought Julianna Brent was the only murder victim.”
Miles flushed. “I meant Claude Duncan. Someone told me he’d probably been murdered. I don’t remember who.”
“I wish you did. I’d like to quote this source who seems to know more than the cops do.”
Adrienne knew the police suspected Claude’s death was not an accident, but Lucas had not stated so publicly. Did Miles really have a source? Or, worse, did he know firsthand that Claude had been murdered?
“Unfortunately, I don’t know any more about the death of Julianna than anyone else,” Miles said as he crossed the room and passed by Drew, heading for the floating stairs. “I’d sure as hell like to get my hands on the son of a bitch who killed my ex-wife, though. I’d kill him slowly and painfully, just like he deserves.”
Miles’s words were vicious, but his tone lacked depth. Adrienne knew that he’d once loved Julianna passionately, but none of that love resonated in his voice or his face.
“Well, sensational murders certainly boost circulation, but we don’t want the Register to became known as a tabloid,” Drew said blandly. “That’s why we want to give plenty of space to the Art Colony Gala. Lend the newspaper a little class, you know?”
“Even though the Art Colony is in Ohio, not West Virginia?” Miles asked tartly.
Drew ignored the sarcasm. “We cover more than West Virginia news.”
“But working on the Register must still seem disappointing compared to your days on the New York Times,” Miles said innocently.
“I like the slower pace.”
“Slow is right.” Miles wasn’t going to back off. “I suppose even though you left under a cloud, you still have a few connections at the Times. If you’d wanted to do her a favor, they could have gotten Julianna’s name into the gossip columns, sparked a little interest in her, maybe gotten her back into modeling.”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “I’m not sure where that idea came from, Miles. I also don’t know what makes you think Julianna would have wanted to return to modeling.”
“Julianna was Julianna. She loved attention but she hadn’t gotten much for a few years. I’m sure she was missing the hoopla that used to surround her.” Miles shrugged. “And she never turned down help from men when she could get it.”
“If I had the influence you seem to think I have, Miles, I’d get a gig for myself and you’d see me on the cover of Vanity Fair,” Drew said lightly. “Maybe your spy network needs tuning up. Try keeping surveillance on Gavin Kirkwood. He might prove more interesting.”
By now, Miss Snow had arrived at the third-floor landing with Skye in tow. Skye’s eyes were wide, Miss Snow’s narrow lips pressed nearly into invisibility although brilliant pink flared along the tops of her cheekbones. “I didn’t realize everyone was gathering up here,” she snapped. “I thought interviews would be conducted downstairs in the drawing room where we could have tea. Better yet, in the kitchen, so we won’t get anything dirty.”
“Will people at the gala get to drink tea in the drawing room?” Skye asked with feigned innocence. “Or do they have to stand in the kitchen?”
“Formal guests may eat wherever they like,” Miss Snow announced.
Drew grinned. “I sure hope you serve pigs in a blanket. I just love pigs in a blanket.”
“And sardines!” Skye jumped in. “With horseradish sauce
and beer!”
Miss Snow looked appalled. “You don’t drink beer at your age, do you?”
“No more than two or three bottles a day,” Skye returned blamelessly. “Mom says it gets your creative genes perking.”
Even Miles couldn’t hide a smile although Drew had long since given up trying. Adrienne was half aghast, half admiring of her daughter’s audacity, but Miss Snow’s reaction was unmitigated insult. She glared at Skye, then turned on Drew. “I thought you had an interview to do, Mr. Delaney.”
“I really just needed a few short quotes from participants.”
“That leaves me out,” Miles said. “I’m not offering a picture for competition this year, but Adrienne is. You should get a quote from her.”
“I am on the board of directors,” Miss Snow reminded Drew. “I can tell you anything you want to know about the collection.”
“I know, Miss Snow,” Drew said smoothly. “I’ll be back for your comments. Right now I’d like to walk Adrienne and Skye to their car.”
“I don’t think Ms. Reynolds is ready to leave,” Miles stated, clearly more upset by Drew’s domination of the action than by the thought of Adrienne leaving.
“Yes I am,” Adrienne intervened. “I have a busy day.”
As they strolled down the brick walkway leading from the French Art Colony, Adrienne drew a deep breath. Drew threw her a sideways glance and asked, “Mind telling me what was going on back there with you and Miles Shaw?”
“I’m not sure, but he was weird. I wouldn’t say Miles and I were ever friends, but certainly not enemies. Today he was giving me the creeps, though.”
“He always gives me the creeps,” Drew said. “I wouldn’t be surprised at anything he did.”
Adrienne looked at him. His dark eyes were as intense as Miles’s, but without the threat and innuendo. Sunlight emphasized his deep laugh lines and the tiny, humorous quirk at the edge of his mouth. Suddenly, warmth for him flooded over Adrienne. Embarrassment at her reaction didn’t stop her from reaching out to take his arm as they strode down the brick walk away from the French Art Colony. Then she spotted an automobile parked at the curb.
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