by Luanne Rice
They had gone to the Vineyard instead. Even now, Dana felt the pull of downtown New York. It was wildly energetic, filled with artists like herself, but she knew the sea always won out. Victoria DeGraff, her friend and gallery representative, knew that. She had planned their luncheon at Luna Mer: Moon on the Sea.
First, Dana went to the DeGraff Gallery itself. Located on the corner of West Broadway and Spring Street, its large windows were filled with two of Dana’s underseascapes. Her name had been stenciled in classic white: DANA UNDERHILL, NEW WORK.
When Dana opened the door, Vickie’s young assistant called her from the back. Vickie herself swept down the long space—no one in SoHo called their rooms “rooms”—in her flowing gold Tibetan robe, her dark hair cut as close as a bathing cap, and kissed Dana on the cheeks three times—Belgian style—before folding her in a huge American hug.
“Darling, darling, darling. I have missed you!”
“And I you,” Dana replied.
“Here you are! In person, and on canvas. What do you think?”
“It’s hardly new work,” Dana said, looking around. “I did these five years ago.”
“I know. Thank God for the backlog. Who can predict when the blocks will come?” Saying “block,” she shivered at the word.
Dana nearly told her the block was over, but she didn’t want to curse herself. Art was a strange thing—a gift beyond measure, and she knew better than to take it for granted. Guiding her by the arm, Vickie led Dana around the gallery. Dana saw her old paintings, greeting them as if they were old friends: the scene done in Corsica, the one from Positano, two done on the Isle of Wight, the rest in Honfleur.
“Underhill Undersea,” Vickie said. “That’s what I’m seeing right now.”
Dana nodded. She wondered how she had managed to make each undersea environment so specifically its own. The marine life was different, of course, but it was the color of the water that identified each place. Royal purple and dark blue … she thought of the paints Sam had given her, and she looked at her watch and thought about that night.
Moving along, she saw that Vickie had put out one actually ancient painting: It dated back to the Vineyard days. Dana recognized the clams, the bluefish, the spent shell from the old army bombing range at No-man’s Land—the deserted island just east of Gay Head—the gloriously nude mermaid, one of the only obvious ones she had ever painted.
“Where did you get this? I don’t remember you having it,” Dana said.
“One of your first collectors died,” Vickie said. “His wife put his entire collection on the market, and I had to break the bank to buy you back. You are a valuable commodity, my dear. But it was worth it—early Underhill. Thank God for death—it gets you back into circulation.”
Dana nearly jumped.
As if realizing what she’d said, remembering Lily as the source of Dana’s block, Vickie grabbed her arm. “Dana, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Vickie,” Dana said, staring at the mermaid who was, in fact, Lily.
“Come on, before I have to consume my other foot as well. We have a lunch date with Sterling Forsythe, an absolutely charming journalist from Art Times. Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s madly in love with you. He’s heard the ridiculous rumor that you and Jon are done for good, and he hopes to do this fabulous article on you and get you to capitulate. Don’t you dare, Dana.”
She laughed, still gazing at the Vineyard painting. She had done it that first summer in Gay Head, fresh out of art school. She thought of Sam, and for the first time in a while, it clicked that he had mentioned the Vineyard to her several weeks earlier, something about seeing her there… .
“What is it?” Vickie said.
Dana laughed, shaking her head. “Nothing. Just that I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had time to think.”
“About Jonathan.”
Dana stopped smiling. “Not about him.”
Vickie pointed at a small canvas on the brick rear wall. Dana hadn’t seen it before, but together they walked the length of the gallery. It was a portrait of her done almost a year earlier, not long after Lily’s death. Jon had caught the sorrow in her gaze, the intensity of her stare. She was nude. They had just made love, and her arms were flung wide on the bed in helpless abandon. The picture was emotional, erotic, and to Dana, incredibly disturbing. Their lovemaking had been only half there during those months. Dana would try, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“He wants me to represent him,” Vickie said. “He told me you two should be together in all aspects of art.”
“Victoria,” Dana said, turning her back and feeling the searing pain of that terrible memory. “He is full of shit. I’m hungry—can we go to lunch now?”
“Yes, we can. Off we go to Luna Mer with the woman who paints like a mermaid!”
QUINN HAD THE RUN of the house. Let’s face it: Grandma was no Aunt Dana. She stationed herself by the window and watched everyone on the beach, sighing to herself just about every minute on the minute. Quinn went upstairs. She went into her parents’ bedroom and lay on the bed. She smelled their pillows and checked their bedside tables. She shook the mermaid globe and watched the minuscule fish swim around.
“Mermaid, mermaid, tell me true, what’s a girl supposed to do?” she asked.
And the answer came!
Quinn was going to build a window so Aunt Dana could have the north light. She tore downstairs, past Grandma sighing at the sunny day. She had to keep Aunt Dana here, painting happily, so she wouldn’t go back to France. Hoisting the heavy garage door, she slid inside.
Her father’s tools hung on the back wall. Dragging over the stepladder, she pulled down a saw. With a worn wood handle and a rusty pointed tip, it had long been used to trim shrubs, cut the lower branches off Christmas trees. Using her superior sense of direction, Quinn once again located north and went to work.
Standing on the ladder’s top rung, she examined the wall. It was old and uninsulated; light came shining between the boards. She slid the saw’s point between two slats and began to move her arm back and forth.
Aunt Dana, Aunt Dana, the saw seemed to say. What if Aunt Dana decided not to come back? What if she liked New York more? Quinn’s mother had always said Aunt Dana was a vagabond, that nothing could make her settle down.
“Settle down here,” Quinn said, sawing as hard as she could. The noise seemed very loud in her ears, but who was around to hear? Grandma was going deaf, and she was too busy watching the beach. If Allie came along, Quinn would threaten her with the death of Kimba. And Mrs. McCray and Mrs. Campbell spent most of their time on the rocks and pier, listening to the waves, too busy having a good time to worry about. Sam, on the other hand, might hear.
At that thought, Quinn began to saw faster. Sam wouldn’t mind—in fact, he might even help her. Quinn knew he was her ally. Something deep inside told her he wanted Aunt Dana to stay around almost as much as she did.
The thought of Aunt Dana with that gold key was strong in her mind. If Sam stopped by, Quinn just might share with him the location of certain things. His brother was a treasure hunter; Quinn would see whether that trait ran in him as well.
She sawed with all her might, thinking of her artist aunt, in search of the north light.
CHAPTER 20
SAM COULD FEEL DANA’S PRESENCE IN THE CITY, as clean and clear as the Atlantic wind, cutting through the hot smog of the New York streets. First, he took care of business. He had a meeting at Columbia University, way uptown, with a colleague who specialized in dolphin psychology. Then he took the nine train down to Ninety-sixth Street, switched to the number three express, and rode two more stops to Times Square.
He made straight for the offices of the Sun Corporation—the parent of the Sun Center complex in Cincinnati, Ohio. Late nights without Dana, he’d found himself hitting the Internet, searching for clues about Lily. He’d surfed around, hitting sites on, of all things, retirement villages. There he had found the Sun Center with its home offic
e located on Broadway and Forty-sixth Street.
Times Square was jam-packed with kids. They crowded the island in the center of the street, screaming up at the studios of MTV. Some were college-age, most much younger. Sam scanned the girls in their bathing-suit dresses. Some were Quinn’s age. He stopped short, face-to-face with one of his Plankton 101 lab students.
“Juliana,” he said, surprised.
“Professor Trevor! I didn’t know you liked Pink Frog.”
“Pink what?”
“The group. I know—you probably think Yale students don’t listen to pop, but what can I say? It’s summer vacation. I thought you were going to be in Bimini.” She took a step closer. She was very pretty, and her body was barely covered by the nylon fabric with nearly nonexistent straps, and she smelled like flowers.
“Nope. I changed my mind.”
“So you decided to come hang out in the city?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, giggling as she tripped slightly, steadying herself on his arm. “Because I don’t really have to hear Pink Frog. I’m just bored. I live in the city—Upper West Side. I thought maybe I’d try to get on Urban Blanket Bingo, hope to get discovered so I never have to do a thesis, but oh, well … would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks anyway,” Sam said, backing away. He could still smell her perfume, and he looked down at her cleavage, at her skin damp with sweat. She was a junior, nineteen or twenty years old, closer to his age than Dana. But he didn’t care about her any more than he did about Terry or any of the others. No matter what Dana thought, there was only one woman for him. He smiled and waved good-bye.
“Even Yalies should walk on the wild side. You’re missing a good time,” she called after him.
“No, I’m not,” he said under his breath, heading north toward the offices of the Sun Corporation. The midday sun was straight up, beating down. Crowds jostled him on their way to lunch. He walked between the tall glass towers of midtown Manhattan and thought about what he was doing, helping Dana.
This was what partners did for each other, he thought. He hadn’t had good role models at home, but during the last two years, he’d gotten to watch Joe and Caroline. They had the kind of marriage he wanted someday. They respected each other’s differences, and they worked hard to be each other’s mate.
Caroline helped Joe cut through the red tape necessary for international dives, and he let her know he wanted her along, that his life was better with her there. They spent one month a year at her hotel, the Renwick Inn, connecting with its spirit and helping it to run smoothly the other eleven months, and they made time for her family and for Sam.
What Sam saw himself doing today was helping Dana cut through the red tape of her sister’s story. He walked into the marble lobby and told the guard he wanted to visit the Sun Corporation. A phone call was made. Sam was told he could stop by the public relations office on the twenty-fifth floor. They issued him a badge, and he walked to the second bank of elevators.
The Sun Corporation lobby was yellow. Graphics of the rising sun covered the walls. The receptionist buzzed him in, and he walked down a brighter yellow corridor to the PR office. Framed photos of the sun shined down from all sides. Sam was greeted by a tall, balding man wearing a blue suit and red tie.
“May I help you?” he asked, smiling in a way that made Sam think he believed Sam had elderly parents to consider.
“I’m interested in the Sun Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.”
“Ah, the Buckeye State! I’m a Midwesterner myself. Got family out there?”
“Well, not quite,” Sam said.
The smile became less radiant. Still, the man seemed friendly. His name was Francis Corwith. Shaking hands, Sam introduced himself. They sat in Francis’s office, a small yellow cubicle with no windows but several photos of the sun. Francis slid a glossy brochure across the desk and began talking about the company philosophy, about wellness and optimism going hand in hand. “A sunny day is a healthy day,” he said. “That’s our motto.”
“Sounds good to me,” Sam said, rolling the brochure into a tube, wondering how to start.
“What brings you to us today?”
“Well, something sad,” Sam said, deciding to be straightforward. “A friend of mine had a brother-in-law who died last year. Mark Grayson?” He paused, watching for any reaction. Francis Corwith looked startled, but then he just shrugged and reapplied his smile.
“And someone’s in need of a place to live? Would it be his mother? I didn’t know Mark, but when someone young dies, the word spreads. Terrible thing. Well, if we can be of help. Normally, I’d suggest you go straight to the facility—Cincinnati, did you say?”
“Yes, but—”
“Here’s some literature on that particular property. We’re very proud of it—it’s one of our newest. Built on beautiful parkland, with a natural pond and old maples, a waterfall that many people say is the prettiest they’ve ever seen.”
“Mr. Grayson developed that property?” Sam said, watching for a reaction. The only ones he perceived were regret and sympathy.
“Mark Grayson, yes, I believe he did. Well, it’s a testament to our operation that the families of many people who have worked with and for us make the choice to join us when the time is right.”
“I’m sure it is,” Sam said. Francis Corwith shook his hand, just as friendly as he’d been before. So Sam tucked the brochures into his bag and wondered what he’d do until seven o’clock that night, when it was time to meet Dana.
DANA LOVED the experience of lunch that day—at a restaurant with starched white linen napkins, not the kitchen table with paper towels torn off a roll.
The northern Italian food was delicious, but even better was the fact that she didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to worry about Quinn sitting on her rock, about getting Allie to swimming lessons on time, about what to have for dinner. She didn’t have to stand in a dark, damp garage with no north light, painting the first canvas she’d touched in over a year. She didn’t even have to let herself be haunted by images of Jon and Monique, lying on her studio couch.
All she had to do was eat good food, be flattered by Vickie and Sterling Forsythe, talk about her work, and wonder what would happen when she saw Sam. They sat outside, on a narrow wraparound porch painted blue and white, with beautiful tiles hand painted with scenes of Italian beaches. Sterling’s tape recorder whirred along, reminding her that this was an interview.
“Underwater,” Sterling said. He was a big man with wavy dark hair and glowering eyes. He had the habit of saying words, single words, just dropping them in the middle of the table like little bombs set to go off and make Dana start talking.
She twirled a strand of black cuttlefish pasta.
“Undersea,” he said, trying again.
“Dana, darling,” Vickie laughed. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m just wondering what to say about it.”
“You paint it,” he said. “You have lived it—all over the world. Coastlines from here to Japan, am I right?”
“One year in Japan, yes.”
“Which, among them all, would you say was your favorite?”
“Well, New England,” she said.
“Yet you haven’t lived there in over a decade. You reside in Normandy. What keeps you so far away from a place you claim to love?”
Dana ate quietly. She had been asking herself the same thing. Was it because she loved it so much that she had wanted to stay away? Loving a place, loving people, always led to heartache. It was easier to choose beautiful places she wasn’t quite so tied to, places whose landscape didn’t make her feel like crying, whose hills and sands weren’t inhabited with the ghosts of those she loved. But all she said was “I’ve wanted to see the world. I thought it would make me a better painter.”
“And I daresay it has,” Sterling said. “Something else for your consideration: blue.”
&n
bsp; “Blue?”
“Yes. You know it’s your signature color. With all your undersea Impressionism, having explored each ocean’s shades and hues, how many shades of blue do you think you’ve used over the years?”
“One hundred and four thousand, six hundred and eighty-one,” she said deadpan.
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely.”
Vickie looked unsure whether to laugh or get mad. Dana smiled at her. She hated being interviewed. What did she have to say that was worth reading? She was just a person profoundly unsuited for nine-to-five work. She had found a way to support herself, make a good living, that let her use her God-given talent. But she couldn’t exactly say that.
She had to play the game. Art critics liked her to be mysterious and cool. They loved the fact that she was an expatriate, that she had never married, that her paintings contained so few human elements. Although very few people, even journalists, actually saw the mermaids she disguised as weed and currents and fish in her work, this man was saying she painted like a mermaid, down in the deep.
“Love,” he said, bringing his hand down on the white tablecloth.
Dana stared at his knuckles, at the back of his hand. The word brought three faces to her mind, and they were there right now, surprising her by their particular presences.
“Tell me about love,” he said.
“Dana doesn’t talk about her personal life,” Vickie said, leaning forward to chide him; he was her friend, and he was supposed to know what was off limits.
“The art world was fascinated with your mentorship of Jonathan Hull,” he said as if Vickie hadn’t spoken. “Although personally, I thought him beneath you all along. An opportunist.”
“I didn’t see him that way,” Dana said, staring at the bottle of olive oil. Golden as sunlight, filled with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, it smelled as sweet and fragrant as France, but to Dana it suddenly went sour.
“He wasn’t an opportunist,” Vickie said. “He’s incredibly talented. Dana saw it first, but the rest of us see it now.”