“Louis was a dream husband,” Abigail agreed. “I’ll never find another man like him.” She imagined it was the same for all widows. They tended to forget the bad things and only remember the good. Husbands couldn’t all be saints, but Louis had come pretty close. He had to be a saint to put up with her snarkiness.
Abigail turned to Jane. “What about you, Jane?”
Jane whimpered and then exploded into sobs. Each of her tablemates offered a tissue to the woman in distress.
“Get ready for some table drama,” Abby whispered to Vickie.
Jane wiped her eyes on her cloth napkin.
“This was supposed to be our honeymoon cruise.” Other restaurant patrons stared at the table while Jane struggled to regain her composure.
“That stinks,” said Abby. And it explains a lot.
“We never even made—” Jane downed her glass of wine and hiccupped. “Love.”
The three others looked at each other to avoid looking at Jane.
“That’s right, I’m still a virgin,” stated Jane. “I’ll have another glass of wine, please.”
Abigail filled Jane’s wine glass. “Why didn’t you cancel the cruise?”
“It was too late to get our deposit back.”
Abby surveyed the group. “Any kids?”
“One daughter—Emma,” announced Vickie. “She’s the most beautiful girl, my pride and joy. And my best friend.”
Abigail frowned. “You have a daughter, and you were going to drown yourself?”
Victoria nodded sullenly. The other women were too shocked to speak.
“Louis and I tried, but we were not blessed with children. We wanted three. We already had names picked out. Louis was into the stock market. We were going to call them DAX, after the German index, if it was a boy; DJIA, the abbreviation for the Dow Jones Industrial Average, for a girl or a boy; and CAC or Catherine, after the CAC 40, the benchmark French stock market index, if it was a girl.”
Abigail turned to Vickie. “If I’d had a child, I would never leave her alone on this earth, not on purpose.”
Victoria fixed Abigail with a lethal glare. “You don’t know what you’d do. Grief can really mess with a person’s mind.”
“I know all about grief,” Abby protested.
“Apparently you know all about everything,” Victoria said snidely. “Suddenly, I feel very tired. I’m going back to my cabin.”
Abigail grabbed Victoria’s arm. “To kill yourself? Are we going to wake up tomorrow morning and find out about a bereft female passenger who jumped overboard in the middle of the night, and then we’ll have to turn the ship around and look for your bloated body in the middle of the Mediterranean and miss the rest of our excursions?”
Victoria pulled her arm back. “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
“That’s not what I meant. What I meant was, I’m not—” Abigail looked around. “We’re not—going to let you do it. You are going to bunk in my suite tonight, or we’re going to stay up all night. We’re not going to let you out of our sight until you straighten yourself out.”
“You make it sound like I have a bad back or a muscle spasm. My husband is dead. I don’t care about living anymore.”
By now everyone in the restaurant was staring at them.
“Besides, I don’t even know you,” Victoria railed. “Why do you care if I live or die?”
“Because I am you. I’ve been there, right where you are. I’ll wager we all have. And life is too precious to throw away.” When did she become so philosophical?
Victoria gripped her chair and gritted her teeth.
“Ladies,” Abigail said. “Victoria’s right. We don’t know each other, but I think we need each other. For instance, what are you doing with the rest of your lives?”
“I owned a marketing firm, but I’ve resigned all my clients, tied up all my loose ends,” Victoria admitted.
“I’m in corporate real estate,” said Natalie. “In upstate New York. Not much action in the market, and I can’t stand the winters. I’m thinking of moving.”
“What about you, Jane?” Abigail asked.
Jane took another sip of wine. By now she was gulping it down like Kool-Aid.
“I’m an artist.”
Abigail’s eyes lit up. “Would I have seen anything you did?”
“Probably not. I’m not very well known.”
“What kind of things do you paint?”
“Mostly landscapes and seascapes,” said Jane. “I love the ocean. This is the first time I’ve seen it.”
Abby’s jaw dropped, shocked when she contemplated Jane’s sheltered existence.
“Do you have a Web site?” asked Victoria. “Because if you don’t, I can set one up for you.”
“Before or after you abandon ship?” Abigail remarked dryly.
“Shut up.”
“I-I do have a Web site,” Jane admitted.
“Well, let’s see it. Do you have an iPhone?”
“No,” said Jane apologetically. “And you can’t get service on the ship unless you go to the Internet café.”
“Yes, you can. There’s wireless on the ship. You have to pay for it, but—” Abigail caught herself. She could afford the exorbitant fees the ship charged. Jane obviously couldn’t.
“I have some cards with my work on them,” Jane said.
“Hand them over,” Abigail demanded.
Jane opened her handbag, one which was entirely inappropriate for a dressy dinner. It didn’t even match her dress. It wasn’t even real leather. The poor girl probably didn’t own a proper evening bag. She probably didn’t have a penny to her name. On their way out of the restaurant, Abigail decided, she would buy Jane a nice evening bag in one of the onboard shops, something glitzy and frivolous, with Swarovski® crystals—or gift her with the new Furla bag she had just purchased in Rome. She could always buy another one. She had a closetful of handbags. More than one Furla bag. More than she needed. More than she could ever use in a lifetime.
“Here,” said Jane, thrusting a handful of postcards into Abigail’s waiting hands. Abby spent about a minute studying the cards. This girl had some serious talent.
“Holy shit, Jane. You’re actually good. No, better than good. Everyone, look at this. Jane is a budding Chagall.” Abigail passed the cards around the table. “And look at this one—more like Monet than Monet.”
“I’m nowhere near that good,” Jane protested shyly.
“You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, as my grandmother used to say,” Abigail disagreed. “Who represents you?”
“Nobody.”
“Where do you live?” Abigail put down her wine glass.
“North Dakota.”
“Don’t they have art galleries in North Dakota?”
“Not in my town.”
“Jane, Abigail’s right,” said Natalie. “Your work is fantastic. The colors are so vibrant. I love your style. You paint in the style of Chagall, but you’re an original.”
“Are these for sale?” asked Victoria. “Because I want to buy one. I’m an artist myself in my spare time, but this—I mean, you paint on a higher level.”
“I can give you a painting.”
“Jane, you don’t just give away your work,” Abigail snapped. “Where’s your self-respect? Well, you’ve obviously got talent. Victoria is a marketing guru. And Natalie can sell the hell out of a house.”
“Business,” corrected Natalie. “Sell the hell out of a business. And what about you? What talent do you have?”
“Money,” Abigail answered and smiled. “Lots and lots of money. Listen up. I’m beginning to get an idea. What brought us together in the first place? What do we all have in common?”
Abigail was greeted with puzzled looks.
“Art! We were all drooling over The Birth of Venus. We spent hours wandering around the Uffizi Gallery, gawking at the masterpieces. Jane is one of the most talented artists I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been all over the world. We’re all at a place in
our lives where we need a change. What if we opened an art gallery?”
Victoria’s eyes brightened. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Victoria. “Enough with the dead jokes, Abigail. I’m not going anywhere. But where would we locate the gallery? I mean, I live in Georgia. Natalie is in New York. Jane is in North Dakota, for heaven’s sake. Where do you live, Abigail?”
“In Maine, in a small town near Bar Harbor, right on the Atlantic. It’s called Lobster Cove.”
“I’ve always wanted to live on the ocean,” said Jane, a longing look in her eyes.
“Do any of you have any commitments, leases, house payments, anything?”
“All my affairs are in order,” reported Victoria.
“I’m ready to move at a moment’s notice,” offered Natalie.
“I was renting an apartment, and the lease is up. After the honeymoon I was going to move onto Jimmy’s farm. Well, he doesn’t actually own it. We were going to move into his parents’ house. But now, I guess I’m homeless.”
Abigail beamed. “Not anymore. I have this monstrous mansion—with some great ocean views—in Lobster Cove. I’m rambling around all alone in there, and I’m desperate for company. The house even comes with a French chef, courtesy of my dead in-laws.”
“But what do any of us know about running an art gallery?” Victoria asked, and the others nodded and looked questioningly at Abigail.
“Natalie, the way you’re dressed, you obviously have style to spare. With the help of an architect, you could help me transform the interior space and customize it for the gallery. Victoria, you could market us. I’ll finance our venture. And Jane will be our first featured artist.”
“Where would we get the other paintings?” asked Victoria.
Abigail swept the room with her hands. “We’re in Europe, ladies. When the ship docks back in Barcelona, we’re going on a treasure hunt. First in Spain. Then the rest of the continent. There are thousands of artists all around Europe—and in the States. While we’re over here we can stop in Prague, talk with some artists on the Charles Bridge, visit Montmartre in Paris. There is some fabulous undiscovered talent in Yugoslavia, and, of course, let’s not forget Italy.”
“But I can’t afford to stay in Europe even one more day.” Jane sighed. “I’m on a strict budget.”
“Jane, I have a boatload of money I don’t know what to do with. Don’t worry about the cost. I have a feeling this is going to be a great investment.”
Victoria’s face lit up. “Do you really think this could happen? We have a lot of things to work out. What if we fail? ”
“Louis always said, ‘Failure is not an option,’ ” said Abigail. “And you can’t succeed if you don’t try. We can work out the details. But we can’t do it without you, Vickie. So you have to promise not to off yourself.”
Victoria blushed.
“Are we all in?” Abigail asked. “How about a toast to our new gallery? Wait! What are we going to call it?”
“We could name it after the ship,” Jane suggested.
“The Ligurian Queen?” Abigail snorted. “Sounds like a Humphrey Bogart classic.”
“What about the Florence Gallery,” said Natalie, “the city where we all met?”
“No, that doesn’t have the right ring to it,” Abigail said.
“How about Botticelli’s?” Vickie offered.
“Sounds too much like an Italian restaurant,” said Abigail. “But I like the sound of it. It’s close.”
“What about the Widows’ Gallery?” said Jane, pouring herself another glass of wine.
“Appropriate, but too maudlin,” argued Natalie.
“I know,” Vickie said. “We all love The Birth of Venus. That painting brought us together. How about the Venus Gallery?”
The women screamed in unison. By now everyone in the restaurant was riveted on their conversation.
“That’s it,” Abigail squealed and raised her glass. “That’s perfect. We’re all beautiful, intelligent women. Venus and Aphrodite were the Roman and Greek goddesses of love, beauty, prosperity, and sex.” Abigail looked at Jane. “Well, some of us have had sex. I can’t think of a better name for our new venture. This calls for a toast. Let’s drink to the success of the Venus Gallery.”
Chapter Four
Lobster Cove, Maine
Three Months Later
Abby stormed out of the house like a hurricane headed for open water while her mind spun out of control. She needed a break. She grabbed her purse, ran down the hill, and headed into town to the Lobster Cove Post Office. And woe to anyone who so much as tried to approach her, talk to her, or get in her way.
She glanced at her watch. One thing she hated was being kept waiting. And that ditzy-sounding Valdosta McKinley had been a no-show at the interview for the Venus Gallery manager position. She’d had the chef prepare a marvelous lunch for Miss No Respect For Anyone’s Time But Her Own, and when the ungrateful twit didn’t keep her appointment, Abby was furious, starving, and pissed. With their horrendous schedule to open this art gallery, she didn’t have a nanosecond to spare. If that little snit from Nowhere, West Virginia, thought she was going to get a job as the gallery manager, she had another think coming. And what kind of name is Valdosta anyway? Who names their child after a city? Well, besides Paris Hilton, that is. And that Southern accent she’d originally thought quaint was probably fake. Of course, she’d called about a half hour later saying she knew she was expected at ten, but Abby didn’t give her time to explain herself. She asked Valdosta—or Val, as she preferred to be called—if she made a habit of being rude and unreliable, and Val denied it. Miss Undependable asked if she could reschedule, and Abby had hung up on her. A manager late to her own appointment? And she had sounded so organized on the phone. The woman had credentials out the wazoo, but that was all on paper. She obviously had no work ethic. And that was a death knell when dealing with a demanding woman who was ultra-impatient.
She’d told the chef to serve lunch to her friends in the dining room as a special treat. If the interview went well, she’d be introducing them to the new gallery manager. But she was so incensed she couldn’t risk facing the others. They’d probably already surmised that she was a bitch, and Abby didn’t want to confirm their suspicions. She wanted to get out of the mansion, away from the constant clanging, buzzing, hammering, and drilling going on in the gallery space. She knew Jane would be up in her newly converted third-floor loft, painting her heart out. The girl hadn’t put down her paintbrush since she’d arrived, she was so enthralled with the fucking view. A view Abby had obviously taken for granted all the years she’d lived in Lobster Cove. You’d think the girl had never seen an ocean before. Well, of course she hadn’t, not until their cruise. But she was obsessed with the ocean view from her new studio—and obsessed, too, with that quiet but attractive Southern charmer, Ethan Logan, an artist they’d discovered and recruited on one of their art acquisition trips, the one to Charleston, South Carolina. He’d arrived on the scene to deliver some of his paintings, and Plain Jane was coming out of her shell.
And Natalie was enclosed (and maybe declothed) with the architect, that hunky Aidan Ames, from Ames & Associates. They spent most of their days huddled over blueprints, picking out colors and materials. Natalie was mad for the guy, and who could blame her? Pheromones as thick as dust mites were flying all over the construction site, streaking on the sunlight, invading the atmosphere. Apparently Natalie had choked on them.
At least Victoria wasn’t affected. She’d hardly taken a break from her computer. She and that machine were joined at the hip, but she was doing a fantastic job with the gallery promotion. They were only a month away from the opening. And they were behind in every way you could be behind.
Their whirlwind buying trip around Europe had been an unqualified success. They had found amazing paintings, drawings, furniture, and decorative arts to complement the artwork they’d collected from ar
ound the continent. This was going to be the most impressive private gallery on the planet. She was proud of all the work they’d done, but it wasn’t enough. And now that little witch of a would-be gallery manager had gone and wasted two, count them, two full hours of her precious time. Two unrecoverable hours. And now she was wasting more valuable minutes thinking about her.
The prize painting they’d snagged from a Berlin art dealer, a Botticelli, Portrait of Venus, was one of the holdups. It had cost her a fortune, literally, and it was slated to be the main attraction for the gallery. But just yesterday a representative from a London-based international task force, a European art theft organization, which operated the Lost Art Database Web site, had called, claiming it belonged to a Jewish family and had been sold under duress during World War II. Vickie had gone ballistic, and her side of the telephone screaming matches must have been audible all the way into town. The lawyer—also a renowned art historian—who had traced the painting’s provenance, had promised to arrive in Lobster Cove to authenticate the painting and show Victoria the documents to prove the dubious history. And after Vickie showed him her papers refuting his claims, she was going to show him the door.
Abby was still agitated as her clogs click-clacked on the wooden dock, heading toward Longley House and away from the Lobster Cove Post Office, where she had just opened a business post office box for the Venus Gallery. She was examining her brand-new key when she felt a thud and the breath left her body. She had rammed into something hard, knocking her head against the impediment with a jolt. Her legs turned to jelly, and she literally saw stars. Tripping over her wedges, she started to topple, flailed and reached out, windmilling, as she flew through the air, hoping not to fall into the water.
Strong arms enveloped her and stopped her forward trajectory.
“You need to watch where you’re going, lady,” a brusque voice barked.
Abigail looked up, and her eyes widened at the giant standing there. She was still wrapped in his arms, caught like a rabbit in an embrace as tight as a steel trap. She tried to wriggle out of his grip. The man was built like a Volvo truck, and he had all the grace of the fishermen who lived in the town. She stared up at his hard body and into his face, which though gruff was painted with concern.
The Widows' Gallery Page 3
