Flirting with Forever

by Gwyn Cready

  Without thinking, he flipped the thin leather-bound sketchbook lying open on the table to the back, gazing at the letter from Van Dyck he had placed there for safekeeping. It would be easy to stop her with this, far easier than this feverish painting that had kept him up night after night these past weeks. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Was it the ease with which that disreputable deed would be done or the disreputableness itself that stopped him? Mertons had seen his desperation that day in the time lab, but Mertons didn’t know Peter had found Van Dyck in the Afterlife before he’d come to the lab, in order to arm himself with the tool he would need in case everything else failed.

  A child’s laughter made Peter look up. A lad of two or three, clinging to his mother’s leg, was reacting to a jumping dog outside the window. Peter looked at the boy’s wide blue eyes and blond cowlick and felt the same pang he always did. The boy looked at Peter, and Peter smiled. Immediately the boy stuck a thumb in his mouth and hid his face.

  Peter flipped the sketchbook to the page on which he’d been working and looked at his hands. Speckled with white and black paint, the flesh of his knuckles seemed to be growing looser every year. They were the hands of his father. He shook his head, thinking of the man in his army coat looming over the entry hall in their home. How Peter had enjoyed being lifted in the air and swung in a circle as if he weighed no more than a bag of rags, then being brought tight against his father’s chest, feeling that rough wool against his cheek and struggling for breath.

  “Bunny.”

  The boy had appeared at Peter’s side and was looking at the latest sketch. Peter had been drawing as he waited for his cappuccino, thinking of the hills of Westphalia.

  “A hare, actually,” Peter said, smiling, and the boy’s eyes went to Peter’s head, which had been shorn of its weighty locks at Mertons’s insistence, leaving only an inch or two of dark waves. “No, no. Not a hair on your head. A hare is a very large rabbit, with muscles and teeth.” He puffed himself up like a Viking about to attack. “Not nearly as nice as a bunny. What’s your favorite animal?”

  The boy’s eyes darted anxiously to his mother, who was talking with an acquaintance in line. He put his finger in his mouth. “Tiger.”

  “May I draw one for you?”

  The boy chewed for a second, then nodded.

  Peter bent over his pad. “Do you like them fierce or gentle?”

  The lad’s eyes lit. “Fierce.”

  “Ah, a brave one, are you?” Peter quickly sketched a tiger in the middle of a pounce, claws out, teeth bared, and body forming a powerful arch.

  “Shoes,” the boy said.

  “On a tiger?”

  The lad nodded. Peter shrugged and added lace-tied shoes like the boy’s to the tiger’s back feet.

  A woman’s voice said, “My goodness, you should rent yourself out to parties.”

  Peter jumped to his feet, fully expecting to greet the lad’s mother, but instead found himself eye to eye with the thin, dark-haired woman who had been in bed with Jacket. He hadn’t seen her arrive and wondered how long she’d been in the shop.

  “Good afternoon.” He bowed.

  “Evening, really, at this point.” She tilted her head toward the darkening streetscape outside. In her hand was a cup similar to his own, and she sipped it abstractedly, keeping her feline eyes on him. And then it struck him. How could he have missed the resemblance to Cam?

  He tore the page out of his book and handed it to the boy, who took it and ran to his mother.

  “Peter, right?” the woman said.

  He nodded warily. “Yes.”

  “I don’t think we were ever formally introduced. I’m Anastasia.” She gave him a smile as breathtaking and elegantly formed as a horse taking a fence on the fields of Hampton.

  Peter took her hand and shook it. “How odd. Cam has a sister named Anastasia.”

  The smile caught like a shoe in a stile and nearly unseated its rider. Mertons had been working his information sources nearly as hard as Peter had been working the canvas this last week and had provided Peter with Cam’s sister’s name recently.

  Anastasia dropped onto a chair, curled a leg beneath her, and gave him a friendly, self-effacing shrug. “Shit happens.”

  He sat down. “Indeed.”

  “I like you better in these clothes,” she said. The smile returned.

  Peter was wearing what Mertons called dungarees, but Peter had been watching the men each day on his walk between the studio space Mertons had let for him and the coffee shop, or, more specifically, he had been watching the women watching the men, and yesterday he’d had Mertons take him to a place where he’d purchased the silk shirt as well as the tailored aubergine jacket he now wore.

  He didn’t answer. He doubted his sartorial choice was at the bottom of her appearance here. He wondered how she’d found him.

  “Jacket tells me your name is Lely. Peter Lely.”

  “Like the painter, yes.”

  “You know Cam’s writing a book about Peter Lely?”

  “I’ve heard that. Do you think it’s an allegory of some sort?” He gave her a forced smile.

  “Were your parents admirers?”

  “Of Peter Lely?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  Another long silence.

  “Are you a painter as well?” She nodded toward the speckles on his hands.

  “I am.” He stole a glance over her shoulder, out into the street in which the first snow of the season swirled in the lamplight of the waiting cars. The day had grown colder—unexpectedly colder, according to the proprietor here—and the snow seemed to have taken the town by surprise. Anastasia was here on an expedition of some sort, and he hoped she’d get to the point quickly and then be on her way.

  “That’s, uh, quite a ring.”

  He had been twisting the emerald without even noticing.

  “May I?” She held out a palm.

  He pulled off the ring reluctantly and handed it to her. His other choice had been to put his hand in hers, and the notion of touching her made him slightly ill. She was in every conceivable way the opposite of her sister. Cool. Coiled. Deceptively nonchalant. It was like sharing a table with a cobra.

  She examined the ring closely. He thought of the Latin words he’d had engraved in the band at Ursula’s suggestion—Per varios usus artem experientia fecit, which translated roughly as “It takes a long time to bring excellence to maturity”—and shifted uncomfortably. He felt as if Anastasia were perusing his personal diary.

  “My Latin’s not great,” she said with a chuckle.

  “Nor mine.”

  She handed the ring back, letting her fingers brush his palm. “So, you sketch?” She turned the book toward her. Peter wished he had thought to close it.

  “A little.”

  “You’re quite good.”

  He bowed.

  Anastasia curled forward and regarded him closely. “Are you and Cam involved?”

  At last, the heart of the matter. Or was it? “If you’re looking out for Cam’s best interests, I might suggest starting your work a little closer to home.”

  The smile on Anastasia’s face grew tighter. “Touché.”

  The cars stopped at the red traffic beacon outside, and the high street filled with people crossing from one side of the street to the other. It was the time of day when workers returned from their jobs. Peter waited for Anastasia to ask him to take Cam off Jacket’s hands, for that would mean Jacket’s heart was not committed, but Peter doubted Jacket had the capacity to be committed, let alone recognize that he was, and it was clear Anastasia had no more interest in Jacket than she would have in a piece of squab pie. Jacket was a carnal first course, to be consumed and forgotten.

  “I notice you’re still in Pittsburgh,” she said.<
br />
  Another burst of travelers. He looked at the shop’s clock. “I’m finishing a project.”

  “Is it one Cam’s helping you with?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “You know, putting it in the hands of the right people, bringing it to the attention of critics?”

  “Do you think I would use her in that way?”

  She took a long sip. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Your concern for your sister is admirable.”

  “Look,” she said, “it is possible to be concerned about my sister and fucking her boyfriend at the same time. Cam is too nice, too naive. Men have always used her. It’s the reason I’ve never liked Jacket much. I’m just wondering if it’s the reason I shouldn’t like you.”

  There she was.

  Cam had stepped into view. She wore a dark orange shirt that set off her hair and a pair of formfitting breeks that made him ache with the memory of their joining. The wind blew harder and she clutched her sides. She hadn’t dressed warmly enough, he thought. He watched her stride across the street, looking up at the sky, then stop when she reached the corner and open her mouth, catching a snowflake on her tongue. Peter’s breath caught. The last person he had known to do that was Ursula.

  “Happy news,” he said to Anastasia. “You may choose a different reason for not liking me. That one doesn’t apply.”

  But he realized with a start Anastasia wasn’t listening anymore. She had followed his gaze and was watching Cam too. He felt the heat rise above his collar.

  Anastasia wheeled back, mouth agape. “You’re in love with her.”

  He didn’t answer, couldn’t. His throat had turned to dust. “Pardon me.” He stood, eager to remove himself from her gaze. He ventured to the counter and signaled for another cup. When he had composed himself, he turned back to Anastasia, who was fiddling in her purse. She snapped it closed and gave him a long look. He tried not to let his gaze wander to the orange shirt, still waiting for the signal to cross.

  “You being in love with my sister,” Anastasia said when he returned, “that doesn’t work for me. Not at all. Jacket is supposed to be taking her to London, leaving me with the museum directorship. For a while there, I wasn’t sure, but Jacket’s a man, and, well, let’s face it: his ethical system is not exactly sophisticated. Cheating he’s always been able to justify, but cheating with Cam’s sister? That’s a trickier proposition. There’s only one way to make that go down easier in that little pea-sized thing he calls a conscience, and that’s marry her.”

  Peter blanched. Anastasia’s machinations sickened him. “And what if I were to let Cam in on your little ruse?”

  “Remember what I said about the male ethical system? You may be the opposite of Jacket, but you’re still easy to read. You’d cut out your tongue before you’d tell Cam that Jacket was sleeping with me. But you’re missing my point. You’re a diversion I can’t afford.”

  The light turned, and Cam began across the road, this time with an eagerness in her step. Peter wondered why. In an instant he had his answer. Jacket stood on the corner, holding a long camel coat. She slid into it and turned into his arms, almost the movement of two dancers. Then he put his arm around her shoulder, and they walked slowly to the entrance of Cam’s building.

  Peter said mournfully, “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry.”

  Thirty-nine

  Cam felt the light on her lids, but she pushed herself back into the cocoon of blankets and specifically into the pair of warm arms that had led her through a slow, heated dream this last quarter hour. Still tingling from the foggy after-fever of exertion, she braided her fingers in the fur skimming that taut belly and breathed in the musk laced with turpentine. Deeply, deeply she sunk into those arms, that chest, her leg like an insistent vine, drawing him closer. She could feel the press of that impervious weight against her belly and felt the fire rise again, like a wicked, unquenchable flame.

  She brought her mouth to his ear. “Again,” she whispered. “I want you to—”

  “Cam?”

  Her eyes snapped open, and heat filled her cheeks. Jesus, why in God’s name was she dreaming of Peter?

  Jacket had cracked her door and was looking in. With a groan, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, hoping what had just transpired was not obvious on her face. “What?”

  “Call for you, babe. You left your phone in the dining room. It’s Ball.”

  She looked at the clock. Ten thirty! Holy crap! She’d been up until three typing. Somehow the story of Peter Lely just flew off her fingers. And last night had been the seduction scene. Poor Ursula, she thought. Swept off her feet by the sweet-talking artist. Little did she know his ego would eventually muscle her out of his bed.

  Not that the scene had had anything to do with Cam’s own state of wantonness, she told herself firmly as she scrambled to her feet and wrapped the sheet around her. It was only what came of prolonged deprivation and spicy tuna rolls after ten o’clock.

  Jacket watched her as she passed.

  “I can see sleeping in agrees with you,” he said.

  She grinned. Ever since he’d kissed her the day before, it was like a whole new Jacket had come to live with her.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” he asked.

  A late supper after the gala. Ball and Packard announcing the gift of the Van Dyck. The debut of Jacket’s new work. The board to convene the next day to elect the new director. Everything was heady and effervescent, and even if she hadn’t felt the bolt that would tell her this was the right decision, Cam had decided she would give Jacket the answer he wanted to hear. Who gets a bolt in these energy-conscious days anyhow, she thought. All you really need is that steady, consistent hybrid hum to know you’re on the right track.

  She nodded, and her heart made a wavering skip. He would move from the studio into her room that night.

  Cam picked up her phone. “Hey, what’s up, Mr. Ball?”

  “Cam! You fox! How did you keep this hidden from me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Here I thought you’d keep your old friend up-to-date on whatever you found.”

  “Mr. Ball, I’m not following you.”

  “Come by, my dear, and we’ll celebrate together. Hurry, though. I think my buddy at Artforum tipped the press. This is going to be huge—mostly, I suppose, because it is huge.” He gave a hearty laugh and hung up.

  She looked at the phone, confused.

  “What’s going on?” Jacket asked. “The old guy sounded excited.”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  Forty

  Cam pulled into Ball’s stately driveway and brought her Accord to a stop. There were several cars there, none of which appeared likely to belong to Ball, who favored Bentleys and long, low Italian sports cars. A man stood talking on his cell phone in the yard.

  Curiosity increasing, Cam jerked her hand brake and opened the door. The man in the yard pulled the phone from his ear as Cam walked by. He was a reporter who covered art for the Post-Gazette. He’d done an interview with her a while back when the book sold.

  “Hey, it’s The Girl with a Coral Earring?” he said amiably. “Oh, wait. It’s got a different name now, doesn’t it?”

  She cringed a little. “Yes. The Artist and the Angel of the Street.”

  “I don’t usually read historical stuff.”

  “Hey, I don’t need you to read it. I just need you to buy it.”

  He laughed and pointed toward the former carriage house. “Everyone’s around back.”

  Everyone?

  She nodded her thanks and cut through the English garden Ball and wife had designed to complement the Tudor house and made her way to the massive brick structure that ran along the north edge of the property. Ball had replaced the wooden doors with a dece
ptively secure set of sliding ones. Cam pressed the bell and waited while two roving cameras turned their steely eyes in her direction. She smiled, waved, and a moment later, Ball’s voice crackled to life on the speaker.

  “There you are, my dear. Come in.”

  The bell box made an unobtrusive click, and the door gave way.

  She could hear the buzz of voices atop the narrow set of stairs to Ball’s office. Rather than interrupt, she stepped around the Klee and the Kelly he had leaning against the wall of the entry hall and walked toward the huge, well-lit gallery.

  The change in lighting made her gasp unexpectedly, but when her eyes adjusted, she saw why. Every wall, every ledge, every nook held a stunning white-painted canvas. Not just white. There were occasional undulating waves of black line and flashes of orange, and the white was not just white but a silky, warm, soft white, like gardenia petals, that made her want to leap onto the canvas and roll in it. At first she thought the works were identical in execution, despite the fact some were rectangular, some were square, and the sizes ranged from three-by-four or so to well over ten-by-ten. But, no, each painting held a different piece of the puzzle, a different nuance of the artist’s message. In some the lines were curved, in others the lines were angular, and in still others there was no line at all. Then there were the intriguing swatches of orange in two or three of the canvases that seemed intended to shock. And the sheer number of canvases! There had to be forty paintings here.

  She was dimly aware of the opening of the security door behind her and the Post-Gazette guy stepping in. He was still chattering on the phone, and while she was wholly focused on the work in front of her, she picked up enough bits and pieces to figure out he was working on a story here.

  She took a step back to try to let the sense of the work come to her. She had been taken in by the enormity of the effort and had then focused on the details. She wanted to clear her head to see the collection as a whole.

  She closed her eyes and opened them.

  This time her gasp reflected a sensibility struck to its core. The paintings weren’t simply a collection of variations on an abstract theme. In a gestalt of understanding that nearly knocked her off her feet, she saw the lines transformed into the rise of a hip, the sensual extension of an arm, the peak of a nipple, an eye, the lacing of fingers. It was a woman—or the semblance of one—stretched over many canvases, first in the act of love, a hand over her head, gazing, half lidded, in a primal rapture with her lover, then, postcoitus, resting languidly, and finally, locked in her lover’s protective arms as she slept, peaceful and secure.