“Will she be painting more canvases?”
“Of course,” he said. “It’s well known that she paints every day.”
“I understand you have your largest show ever in New York right now, and that your paintings are selling very well.” Gertrude directed the question at Torrone, but the artist simply tilted her head toward her agent. I wondered what her eyes looked like behind the dark glasses—and why the glasses were necessary when the sun had set three hours earlier.
“Ms. Torrone has become very popular,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse me, my client is rather parched, and could use …”
“Her signature drink,” Fernand said, appearing as if out of nowhere with a cocktail glass filled with a sickly greenish liquid.
“What’s that?” I asked Charlene.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a Stinger?”
“A Stinger?”
“Brandy and crème de menthe.”
“Ugh.”
As Fernand presented the drink, Torrone’s smile faltered for a moment. After a quick glance toward Gladstone, who nodded, Torrone reached for the drink with a pale, well-manicured hand—the first thing I’d seen her do for herself—and said “thank you” in a voice no louder than a mouse’s.
“Kind of you,” Gladstone boomed. “Very kind.”
“I would love a tour of your studio when you get it set up,” Fernand said, again directing his remarks to Torrone. “Haven’t seen you in what … a year? What are you working on now?”
“Top secret, I’m afraid,” Gladstone said, putting a hand on Torrone’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to avail ourselves of your delightful buffet.”
“My,” Charlene murmured from beside me as the duo swept past us. “Aren’t we snobby.”
“How did Fernand know what she drank?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he Googled it,” Charlene said. “Oops. Better hide. Gertrude’s coming your way again.”
She steered me away from Gertrude and right into Gwen, who was standing in the corner by the door to the studio. Munger had moved on from Dawn and now had his arm around my niece. Something about it reminded me of Torrone and her agent, and I had to resist the visceral urge to yank his arm off of her. He was telling her something, his mouth mere inches from her ear; her brow was furrowed. I looked for Adam; he was talking with Tom Lockhart, over by the drinks station.
“Gwen,” I said. Munger looked startled and retracted his arm.
“Aunt Nat!” she said, looking relieved to see me. She stepped away from Munger. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been introduced, but this is Herb Munger. He owns the gallery where I’m showing my paintings.”
Munger put on a hearty, toothy smile and extended a meaty hand. I put mine out tentatively, and he shook it hard enough to rattle my teeth. “So good to meet you. Your niece is a talented young lady. Beautiful, too!” he said, winking at my niece.
“I know she’s looking forward to the show,” I said. “She’s been working hard.”
“Can’t work too hard, though. All work and no play makes Gwen a dull girl!” He winked at her again, and gave her arm a squeeze. She smiled weakly and averted her eyes.
“I understand you’re quite an entrepreneur,” I said.
“They don’t call me the vacuum king of New England for nothing,” he said, puffing out his polo-clad chest a little bit. I couldn’t help noticing that a roll of fat hung over his Sansabelt waistband.
“Vacuum cleaners to fine art—it’s quite a leap,” I said. “What got you interested in art?”
“I wanted to take my expertise in trend-spotting and marketing and assist artists. They’re often talented, but have no understanding of what the market really wants,” he said.
“Like oils instead of watercolors?”
“Exactly!” he said. “I know it’s been hard on her, but I think she’ll appreciate it when she sees the payoff.”
“I understand she’s got to rework a lot, though,” I said. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to show her watercolors, too?”
“Too traditional,” he said. “You just worry about your cakes and muffins,” he said. “Fernand and I will get this little lady where she needs to be.” He turned to Gwen. “Weren’t you going to show me your canvases?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said, sounding less than enthusiastic at the prospect.
“Well, then. Shall we head into the studio together?”
“Sure,” she said, and reluctantly headed toward the stairs.
“I’ll come with you,” I said, not wanting Munger alone with my niece.
“No, I’ll come.” Adam stepped up to our little group, and his presence made me relax. Gwen looked up at him with a relieved smile as the tall, dark-haired lobsterman slung a casual arm around her. Munger stepped away from Gwen. “You know, I really should catch up with Zelda and Fernand. Maybe later on?” he said.
“We’ll be around,” Adam said, and Munger drifted off, suddenly anxious to be away.
“I’d still love to see your paintings,” I said.
Gwen groaned. “Let’s not ruin the party.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Munger, who was back to Dawn again. “Watch out for that one,” I said to Gwen.
“You think?” Gwen asked.
“I do.”
“Your aunt’s right,” Adam said. “Do the show, but keep your distance. I don’t trust him.”
“I can take care of myself,” Gwen said.
“I’m not saying you can’t,” I said. “But it’s better not to be in a situation where you have to, if you get my drift.”
“Have you eaten yet, young lady?” Adam asked my niece.
“Not really,” she said.
“Well, let’s fix that,” he said. He smiled at me. “Coming, Natalie?”
I glanced toward the buffet and spotted Gertrude. “Maybe later,” I said. “I ate a lot this afternoon.” As they headed toward the clams—and Gertrude—I scanned the room again. Torrone was in the corner, standing silently while her agent spoke with Zelda Chu. She held the drink awkwardly; it didn’t look like she’d drunk much of it. I looked for Fernand; he was talking with Tom Lockhart, the head of the lobster co-op and one of the island’s selectmen, across the room from Gertrude. I walked over to join them, hoping to have a chance to talk to Fernand about Gwen—and Munger.
“You’ll let me know if they file plans?” Fernand was saying as I walked up.
“As soon as I hear anything,” Tom said. He spotted me and smiled. “Natalie! I hear you’re responsible for the mini quiches!”
“I am.”
“They’re terrific. How’s business at the inn?”
“Doing just fine,” I said, conveniently omitting the little issue of impending foreclosure. “I’m worried about Gwen, though. Do you mind if I steal Fernand for a moment?”
“Not at all. I’ll be in touch,” he said, and headed back toward the quiches.
“Everything okay?” Fernand asked, his brow furrowing as we drew away from the crowd, toward the corner.
“I’m not sure this show is such a good idea,” I said. “Gwen hasn’t been eating, she thinks she’s a terrible artist … and I don’t trust that gallery owner.”
“I know,” Fernand said. “I keep telling her it’s just an opportunity to get her work some exposure. I tried to convince both of them that Gwen’s watercolors would be perfect, but Munger disagrees with me.”
“What do you know about him personally?” I ask.
“Why?”
“He seems awfully … flirtatious,” I said.
“He’s not married,” Fernand said. “And he plays golf with Murray a lot.”
“Not a ringing endorsement. Can you keep an eye on her for me?”
“I will,” he said. “I’m going to make sure she shows some of her watercolors; they’re really amazing, and I don’t think Munger sees it. She’s got potential with oils, but it’s not a medium she’s been working with for long. D
on’t worry,” he said, putting a hand on my arm. “I’ll be there to make sure she doesn’t get derailed.”
From what I could tell, she was already off the tracks, but I thanked him. “What’s Munger’s fascination with oils, anyway?”
“He fancies himself a trend-spotter,” Fernand said, rolling his eyes.
“That’s what Torrone and Chu work in, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, and his eyes drifted to Nina Torrone, quietly standing next to Gladstone, who was deflecting questions from a curious islander.
“Did you know Nina before she hit it big?”
“Yes,” he said. “At least I think I did.”
“Has something changed?”
“Completely,” he said.
Before I could ask another question, Zelda Chu strode up to us, oozing confidence. Her sleek asymmetrical hair—stylishly silver—high cheekbones, and high-fashion, fluttery black dress seemed out of place in the rustic setting. “Fernand,” she said, thrusting out a hand.
“Zelda,” he said. I could practically feel their hackles rising. “Have you considered my proposal?” she asked, without even looking at me.
“Can we discuss this later?” Fernand asked, glancing at me.
“It’s already been a month.”
“This is not the time, Zelda,” he hissed.
At that moment, Gertrude strode up, pad and pen in hand. “What a lovely party, Fernand. I understand you knew our guest of honor in New York?”
“Yes,” he said tersely.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Zelda said, smiling at Gertrude. “I’m Zelda Chu.”
“Gertrude Pickens,” Gertrude said, and turned back to Fernand. “How did you and Nina meet?”
“We are all from New York,” Zelda said before Fernand could answer. “She and Fernand briefly studied under the same artist, but we are colleagues. I’d love for you to come and visit my gallery someday. I’d be happy to give you a personal tour, and tell you about our plans for the future.”
“Oh, how nice!” Gertrude said. “Do you give lessons, too? I’ve always wanted to learn to paint.”
“We will be,” Zelda said.
“You’ll be offering art lessons?” Selene MacGregor of Island Artists had drifted up to the cluster of artists, looking like a vision in a purple chiffon dress. I took a step back, glad not to be the center of attention.
As Gertrude launched into a description of the art classes she’d taken in high school back in the 70s, I edged away, thankful that something had distracted the reporter from grilling me on the fore-closure issue. I wondered about the “proposal” Zelda had mentioned, though. Gwen hadn’t said anything about it. Was she looking to partner with Fernand? If so, Fernand didn’t look too enthusiastic about it. If he turned her down, would he hate me for agreeing to put up her retreat participants this summer?
Deal with that when it comes, I reminded myself. The mortgage catastrophe was more than enough to handle for now.
I glanced over toward Nina Torrone, who was still holding the cocktail glass Fernand had given her. It was almost full of the sickly greenish liquid; she’d hardly touched it. I found myself studying the young woman—very young, it seemed to me, to have studied with Fernand in New York. She seemed to be trying to take up as little space as possible. Her agent had positioned himself partially in front of her, as if shielding her. What had Fernand meant when he said she’d changed? A loud, tinkling laugh caught my attention, and I turned to see Claudette’s daughter-in-law, holding court in a corner of the room. Both Tom Lockhart and Father Timothy, the island’s new priest, were in animated conversation with her. Talk about completely changed …
“Did you escape Gertrude?” Charlene had snuck up beside me with a plate full of mini quiches.
“For now,” I said. “And I think Gwen escaped Herb Munger.”
“That man gives me the willies,” Charlene said.
“Me too,” I said, glad to see that my niece was still with Adam, and well away from the tacky gallery owner. “I wish he’d stuck to vacuum cleaners.”
“It’s a good opportunity for Gwen,” she said, popping another mini quiche into her mouth. “Besides,” she said through a mouthful of egg and melted Gruyére, “it’ll all be over soon.”
“Fernand said he’ll look after her, at least.” I glanced over at her mentor, who had detached himself from Zelda and Gertrude and was pouring himself a glass of white wine.
“And John will be back soon,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied, eyeing the bar. Maybe I could use one of those green drinks, too.
“What did he say when you told him about the notice from the mortgage company?”
“I haven’t told him yet,” I said.
“Better do it soon,” she said. “Or else he’ll read about it in the paper.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said. I reached for one of the mini quiches on her plate.
I was reaching for a second when there was the clink of a fork against glass. I looked up to see Fernand at the front of the room, preparing for a toast.
When everyone had quieted enough to listen, he put down his glass and smiled. “I wanted to take a moment to welcome one of the luminaries of the art world to our island. Welcome to Maine, Nina!”
SIX
I LOOKED AT THE young artist. Her olive skin seemed pale as she smiled and dipped her head.
“It is an honor to have you here with us,” he said, “and we hope you will share your expertise with the many budding artists in our community.”
Again, applause. Gertrude, I noticed, was busily scribbling in her notebook.
“I’d like to invite you to say a few words, Nina,” Fernand said, looking at the young artist.
All eyes turned to Nina and her agent. It was hard to tell what she was feeling behind the enormous sunglasses, but she took a step backward, losing her balance and sloshing her drink on the floor. There was a murmur in the crowd as she steadied herself. Her agent whispered a few words to her, then strode to the front of the room to stand beside Fernand.
“Thank you so much for the warm welcome,” he said in a deep, stentorian voice, as Nina, who had set down her glass and looked as if she’d like nothing better but to melt into the floor, smiled weakly. “It’s been a lovely party, and you are all just delightful people—it is an honor. Ms. Torrone is currently in a deeply creative phase, and although solitude is a crucial element of that phase—all in service to a greater good—we are both very thankful for your generosity in hosting this party.” He made an abbreviated bow and returned to Nina, who was still looking pale. And moist; the drink had left a dark stain on her dress. I watched the two of them together, trying to figure out what was going on. Fernand, too, was observing them, I noticed. His mouth was a thin line. Despite the throng of people, I could feel the tension in the room.
Conversation started slowly, and it was a couple of minutes before it returned to its previous hum. I was not surprised when, ten minutes later, Gladstone escorted his client from the gallery, citing her moistened wardrobe as the reason for their hasty departure.
“Weird,” Charlene proclaimed as they disappeared out the door. “I think I’m glad I’m not a famous artist.”
“Do you think she has vocal cords?” I asked.
“If so, they sure don’t get much exercise,” Charlene said. “Maybe she saves up all her self-expression for her paintings.”
“Maybe,” I said. Something about that duo bothered me. My eyes sought Munger, who was deep in conversation with another of my least favorite people—Murray Selfridge. The gallery owner’s greasy hair shone in the dim light.
Torrone and Gladstone might bother me, I thought, but not as much as the former vacuum cleaner salesman.
_____
I didn’t see Gwen again until after breakfast the next morning. My niece looked more haggard then ever when she slumped down the stairs at ten.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she said.
“My work. After you left, I showed the new paintings to Munger.”
“Was Adam with you?” I asked, too quickly.
“No. Fernand was, though.”
“I just … worry,” I said.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t like any of them.”
I poured her a cup of coffee and put one of the blueberry muffins I’d baked that morning on a plate for her. “I’m sure they’re better than you think. Besides, Fernand told me he thinks you should show some of your watercolors, too.”
She didn’t answer, but sat down and picked at her muffin. I’d never had to live with a teenager, but I was starting to get a feel for the experience. Gwen might be twenty-one, but she was acting more like thirteen. Or even twelve.
When she pushed the plate away after eating almost nothing, I grabbed her coat and handed it to her.
“What?”
“We’re going to Fernand’s,” I said. “I want to see these ‘terrible’ paintings. I never got a chance last night.”
“But …”
“No argument. Let’s go.”
After a moment’s delay, she slid her arms into her coat and followed me out to the truck. “I’m warning you. They’re awful,” she said as I revved the engine.
I didn’t bother responding.
The gallery looked clean and windswept when I pulled the van up outside of it a few minutes later. A light blanket of snow covered the tire ruts left by the partygoers last night, glittering in the sunshine.
Gwen fumbled with the keys as I waited, shivering in the cold wind off the water. When she pushed the door open, I was surprised at the mess. The spell cast by the Christmas lights was gone; in the harsh morning light, the place was a wreck. Dirty plates and platters were scattered over the long buffet table, cups and napkins littered the floor, and there was a sour smell of spoiled food.
“Maybe we should help him clean up,” I said.
“I’m surprised he didn’t do it last night,” Gwen said. “He’s usually totally on top of things.”
“Hung over, maybe?” I said, checking my watch. “It’s only ten.”
“Maybe.”
I followed Gwen up the stairs to the studio, which took up the whole second floor and was lined with north-facing windows. Since the party had been limited to the gallery, this room was clean and spare, with three easels set up and several canvases leaning against the back wall. Framed by the glass was the tip of the mainland, gray and white with snow, and a stretch of steely blue water tipped with whitecaps.
Brush with Death Page 5