by Laura Moore
The next paintings were quieter scenes, away from the hustle and bustle of the jungle gym and sprinkler. Alex found himself smiling in recognition, remembering his nephew and niece, Jamie and Sophie, at this age. In the first painting, a toddler, no longer content to wait passively, reached with fingers splayed to grab a juice cup from an adult’s hand. In another scene, the sweet, infinite trust of a child asleep, sprawled across his mother’s lap, was brought to life. Alex marveled at the subtlety of Genevieve Monaghan’s observations— the round swell of the mother’s breast, which was the child’s cushion; the mother’s unconscious caress of her sleeping child, rubbing the small of its back as she chatted with her park bench neighbor.
Standing before the last two paintings, he noted that Genevieve Monaghan’s keen eye had shifted once again. Iron gates marking the entrance to the playground framed these compositions. A long line of children snaked through them. On their faces Alex saw anticipation warring with impatience as they waited their turn to buy an ice cream from the Good Humor Man. Dollar bills peeked through grimy fists. Hands that would soon have a sugary glaze of melted ice cream coating them.
Alex felt a strange sense of regret when he came to the last painting in the series. Yet what Genevieve Monaghan had chosen to depict was a perfect ending, so wonderfully astute. It was a deceptively simple scene: the outraged fury of a toddler caught in the midst of a full-blown temper tantrum. Her back arched, her face distorted and bright red with tears streaming down it, and her mouth wide open to let loose what Alex knew must have been ear-splitting shrieks. The child’s mother pushed the stroller, her own face set in grim lines, marking her frayed temper, her utter exhaustion. The people in the park parted like the Red Sea to make way for the shrieking child, and in their faces he saw smiles of compassion for both child and parent.
The day’s outing at the park was over.
Alex turned, also ready to leave. He’d call Aunt Grace in the morning and have her contact this Genevieve Monaghan. But then, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a dark sea of colors floating in the next room. He pivoted so he faced the painting spanning the wall.
The haunting beauty of the work took his breath away.
His first impression was of a carefully controlled symphony of blacks and grays sweeping across the canvas. A second, closer look revealed the barest outline of trees and a large, open expanse. Then he saw the woman—how he guessed that solitary figure was a woman he couldn’t explain, simply knew it in his heart.
It wasn’t easy to see her, shrouded as she was in the fog that rose from the ice-covered ground beneath her feet. He stepped closer still, hoping to discern more of her features. He couldn’t, could only recognize the emotions locked inside her. Like the life imprisoned in this dark and icy landscape, they were growing, struggling to break free. There, under the sweep of soul-darkening gray, were flashes of newborn color: patches of pink, hints of green . . .
Change was in the air.
Something in the painting told Alex that the woman in it was uncertain, ambivalent, even scared. She seemed to understand that although the heavy shadows kept her from growing and changing, they also served as a kind of protection—like ice insulating tender shoots that uncovered might easily be crushed and destroyed.
Alex too understood about ice.
Hypnotized as he was by the dreamlike painting, he didn’t know how much time had passed. He wanted to keep looking, to know this woman’s secrets and see the colors inside her come to life.
He wanted. The strength of his desire was like a shock, jolting his system. Instinctively, Alex looked for the artist’s signature. And there was the same bold scrawl he’d seen in the park series. Disbelief had him checking the label on the wall, and his breath rushed out in a low whistle of admiration. She’d entitled the painting Day One.
Late to her own opening, Gen could have kicked herself. Except that she was too busy hurrying up the steps of the gallery, threading her way past the crowd spilling out onto the stoop, clear plastic glasses of white wine in hand as they talked and people-watched. More people dressed in the requisite black on black filled the gallery.
Alicia must be thrilled, Gen thought. She couldn’t even see Corey Dillon’s paintings in this first room for the crush of bodies. Far more distressing, though, she couldn’t see any of her family. Gen had assumed they would account for about 90 percent of the opening’s guests—the running joke in the family was that the Monaghans en masse exceeded the population of most small towns.
She worked her way through the gallery rooms, smiling her excuses, when she inadvertently bumped a Prada handbag. The owner treated her to a frosty glare and returned to her conversation, her voice raised above the others. “Art’s such a terrible investment these days. Besides, I haven’t seen anything here that will match my interior. Let’s go, Theo, we wouldn’t want to lose our table at Cipriani’s.”
Unnerved by that snatch of conversation, Gen hurried on, thinking that she should have come in a T-shirt (black, of course) that read NOT YET READY FOR THE NEW YORK ART SCENE, except that she’d promised to wear one of Delia’s designs and she couldn’t let her sister down.
A cry of “Genevieve, darling! Where have you been?” had her smiling in relief. At last, a voice she recognized.
“Alicia,” she said as she kissed the gallery owner’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was in the Hamptons, meeting a friend of Phoebe’s. I thought I left in plenty of time but the traffic was—”
“That’s lovely,” Alicia replied, brushing aside Gen’s excuse. “Come with me. I have something to show you that simply cannot wait.” Then, taking Gen by the hand, she led her past the clusters of people who were drinking wine and nibbling on cheese twists. She stopped abruptly at the entrance to the next room. “Now, close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”
“Alicia!” she protested laughingly.
“Humor me, darling. And by the way, you look wonderful, that dress brings out the russet in your hair and the green in your eyes. Now, will you please close those gorgeous eyes?”
Shaking her head, Gen did as requested. What had her family done now? she wondered. Had they managed to fly in Granny Jane from Portland? That would be something. Granny hadn’t left the commune in decades.
Eyes closed, with Alicia’s hand under her elbow guiding her, she walked hesitantly forward. The sounds in the gallery amplified now, she heard “Gen!” echo around her, the voices of her brothers and sisters, mother and father. Then there were shushing noises and muffled laughter. Her face split into a grin of embarrassed delight. Oh, Lord, what were they up to now?
“All right, you can look,” Alicia instructed.
She was standing in front of Day One. More exactly, directly in front of the painting’s label. Suddenly, the room around Gen shrank. Or maybe it was that the little red dot grew, blocking out everything else.
Sold.
She’d sold a painting . . . not just any painting, but Day One. Incredulous, Gen pressed a hand to her trembling lips.
“Congratulations, Genevieve.” Beaming with pride and love, her father embraced her.
While Gen’s family had failed to mobilize Granny Jane, all the other Monaghan kith and kin were present for the opening. There was her mother and father, as well as her eleven brothers and sisters, from Aidan, the eldest, to Tess, who was two years older than Gen. Then there were the wives and husbands, the babies, the aunts and uncles, the cousins, the boyfriends and girlfriends. . . . Gen felt like a well-loved rag doll, her cheeks bussed about a hundred times, her ribs slightly bruised from her brothers’ crushing hugs.
Reaching Phoebe Hayes, who was chatting with Alicia, Gen offered her godmother a dazed smile. “Have you heard, Phoebe? I sold Day One.”
“Isn’t that what I told you would happen?” she asked before enveloping Gen in a fierce hug of her own. “I’m so happy for you. It’s simply thrilling. Your first gallery sale. And snatched up before I could even open negotiations with Alicia.” S
he rolled her eyes in mock outrage.
“Really?” Gen turned to the gallery owner. “It went that fast? Is the buyer still here? I’d like to thank—”
“The painting sold before the opening. A private collector,” Alicia pronounced, looking supremely pleased with herself.
“So, I can’t—”
Still smiling, Alicia shook her head. “Sorry. The client insisted on anonymity. Congratulations again, darling. Now I must circulate and drum up some more sales. Ciao.” And she kissed the air near Gen’s cheeks.
“Hey, kid, that’s a heck of a funny look on your face considering you just unloaded a damned expensive piece of canvas,” her brother Kyle teased as he came up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Gen gave a breathless laugh. “I feel kind of funny. You know, weird,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect to sell Day One. I thought, perhaps, if I was extremely lucky, someone might be interested in one of the Park scenes. It’s hard to explain. All my paintings have something of me in them, but this one,” and she gestured toward the painting, “is far more personal. I guess I feel odd thinking that someone would want a painting that came from here.” Her hand closed to a fist over her chest.
“That’s exactly why someone would want the painting, Genevieve,” her father said. “Because it comes from and speaks to the heart. Your mother and I were looking at the painting earlier with Phoebe. We’re in complete agreement that it’s your strongest piece yet. You’re beginning to trust your wings. You’ll be soaring soon.”
Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. “Thanks, Dad. And thanks for coming. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have you all here.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Now, tell me about this friend of Phoebe’s.”
“Mrs. Miller was great. The stories she tells. Do you know she and her husband actually met Matisse? Dad, you should see the studio. It’s glorious. Banks of windows and space. It’s a dream come true.”
“Definitely surreal, imagining our little Genevieve loose in the Hamptons.” Kyle grinned and shook his head.
Gen shot her brother her prissiest look. “I’ll leave the carousing to you and Nolan,” she told him loftily. “I’m going to be much too busy painting.”
“Hello, Aunt Grace? It’s Alex.”
“Oh, hello, dear. Did you get to the galleries?”
Alex smiled. Grace Miller, the Duchess of East Hampton, wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “Yes, I did,” he replied.
“And?”
Alex leaned back in his office chair. On his right were bookshelves, filled from ceiling to floor with books on economics, geopolitics, manufacturing, and an armful of biographies. He’d had to push the books deep into the shelves in order to make room for the framed pictures. There were crayon and marker renderings of ungainly, hairy canines, drawn by Sophie and Jamie, faithful recordings of their puppies’ day-to-day antics. Nestled among them were photographs. Alex’s gaze strayed to a silver diptych frame: On the left were Tom and Lisa on their wedding day. The picture opposite showed them cradling their newborn twins, joy illuminating their faces. He’d seen that kind of emotion in Genevieve Monaghan’s work. “There was one artist who stood out.”
“Oh? Which one was that?”
Alex’s mouth quirked at his aunt’s carefully neutral tone. “Hmm, let me see if I can remember the name. . . .”
“Alex,” she said warningly.
“Monaghan. That’s it, Genevieve Monaghan.”
“Really.” There was a slight pause. “Well, I always knew you had a keen eye, Alex. That sort of thing is in the blood, and you do take after Alexander in so many ways.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace. But as I know how much you love dealing with artists, I’ll leave it to you to contact Ms. Monaghan.”
“You didn’t meet the dear girl yesterday, at the opening?” she interrupted.
He frowned, baffled by his aunt’s words. What was with the “dear girl” thing? “No, I had a business dinner last night, so I shamelessly used my illustrious connections and dropped your name with the gallery owner. She agreed to let me view the show beforehand.”
“I see.” His aunt’s reply was accompanied by the faintest of sighs. “Well then, you can meet her when you come out next weekend.”
“She has a show in the Hamptons too?”
“What was that? Oh, no, from what I understand, yesterday was her first time out here. No, what I meant was that you could meet Genevieve here, at the house. The poor thing is in a terrible fix. She’s lost her studio space. As I knew you’d choose her for the commission, I’ve decided to step in and help a promising young artist. I’ve invited Genevieve to come and stay with me.”
“You’ve what?” he asked sharply.
“She can use Alexander’s studio—it’s been going to wrack and ruin, filled with cobwebs and whatnot. Such a waste. She and I spent over an hour yesterday sweeping and clearing out old boxes. Already it looks more like it did when Alexander was alive. I can’t wait to see art being made again under my own roof. Genevieve is ridiculously grateful. She’s a charming young lady . . .”
Grace Miller continued talking. Alex’s jaw was clamped too tight to interrupt. He could imagine only too easily how “charming” a needy, unprincipled artist could be to a susceptible old woman. “Aunt Grace,” he managed at last, “I don’t think this is a wise move. What do you know about this person?”
“I know everything I need to,” she replied, her voice hinting at a stubborn streak that Alex knew ran a mile wide. “Now, don’t try to talk me out of this, Alex. My mind’s made up. Besides, I’m sure you’ll find her equally charming. . . .”
A few minutes later, his aunt hung up with a cheery, “Good-bye, dear. See you next weekend.” No sooner had the click of the telephone line disconnecting sounded, than he punched in Sam Brody’s direct line.
“Brody.”
“Sam, it’s Alex.”
“Hey, Alex, what’s up? We still on for this week?”
“Absolutely. Listen, Sam, I was wondering whether I could ask a favor.”
“Ask away.”
“I’d like you to run a background check on someone.”
“Sure. Prospective employee?”
“No,” Alex replied, unconsciously reaching back to knead the knots in his neck muscles. “Aunt Grace has decided to take in a boarder. Her housekeeper, Tilly, won’t be around and—”
“And you’re concerned.”
“Yeah.” Alex gave a heavy sigh of frustration. “You know how my aunt is when it comes to taking in strays and championing causes. But the second I questioned the wisdom of opening her home to a virtual stranger, she got all snippy.”
“The Duchess does like having her way. Listen, I’ll be glad to do a check. I wouldn’t want her getting hurt or taken advantage of. Have you got this person’s name?”
“Yes. Genevieve Monaghan. Hometown Boston. She’s an artist. We’re offering her the commission for the hospital wing.”
“She’s that good?”
“Yes. But that’s beside the point.”
“Right. This Monaghan could be an even better con artist than she is a painter,” Sam finished for him. “And Mrs. Miller would be a real easy mark. I’ll have a report for you ASAP.”
“Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”
“No way. I love the Duchess too.”
Alex replaced the phone in its cradle, feeling somewhat more in control of what had all the makings of a potentially disastrous situation. Nonetheless, he typed a series of numbers into his computer, the combination that would unlock the specially designed drawer in his desk for his private papers and records. When the lock released, Alex drew out the topmost file and opened it.
He stared at the white sheet of stationery, a bill of sale from the Alicia Kendall Gallery for the painting Day One, by Genevieve Monaghan. Eyes fixed on the receipt, he grabbed the telephone receiver once again.
Sam would run a complete background check, but
Alex wanted to see for himself who this Genevieve Monaghan was. Up close and personal. Very personal.
The first mango of the season. The day had grown warm enough for Gen to appreciate the fruit’s succulent flesh. Eyes closed, she imagined balmy ocean breezes as the fruit slowly dissolved in her mouth. The mango was a present to herself, part reward for her first sale, part consolation because her family had already left town. The loft seemed so empty with only Murphy for company.
She took another bite, her teeth closing over then tearing at the orange-gold sweetness as she angled her body so that the sticky juice landed harmlessly in the kitchen sink’s scratched basin.
At the ring of the phone her eyes opened, but the deliciously messy mango won out. If it was important, whoever was calling would leave a message.
A man’s voice reached her. “Ms. Monaghan, this is Alex Miller. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you. Please call me at the following number as soon as you receive this.” The line went dead.
Ahh, so this was the favored nephew, Gen thought, taking another bite. The one his aunt thought hung the moon. At one point during the lunch she’d shared with Mrs. Miller, the old lady had laid her salad fork to rest on her plate of baby field greens and said, “I’m sure my nephew Alex will be contacting you shortly, Genevieve. He’s the director of the fund that’s offering the commission.”
“Oh. So you won’t be making the final decision in the commission?” Gen’s lunch hiccupped unpleasantly in her stomach.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt he’ll offer you the commission. Alex has excellent taste. Truly it’s just pro forma at this point,” she said, taking a sip of her white wine. “Still, it’s important to observe the niceties, don’t you think? And he is the TLM Fund’s director, after all.”
Gen had summoned an answering smile. “Uh, what does your nephew do, Mrs. Miller?”
“He makes money.” The statement was accompanied by a vague flourish of her long, veined hand. “I’m not quite sure about the specifics,” she admitted wryly. “All I know is he’s very good at it.”
