“About a year,” Ian said. “I exhibited at a few shows here and there before that, but nothing consistent. Until Jane Argyle noticed me, I couldn’t figure out how to create a body of work and bring myself to the attention of the people who matter.”
“You mean the public?” Sharon asked as they studied the paintings in the gallery window. The science fiction-inspired paintings were intriguing and expertly crafted, yet to her they lacked the depth of the raw piece Ian had shown her at his studio.
“The public is important, but in the art world, it’s the critics and the collectors who count,” Ian said. “With the right kind of exhibit, the attention of a few key people can launch you into the ranks of up-and-coming artists. That translates into serious money.”
“This sounds so commercial,” Sharon replied wistfully. “I suppose when I think of an artist, I visualize Vincent Van Gogh laboring in solitude, driven by his genius.”
“Driven to insanity,” Ian pointed out. “I have my peculiarities but I’m not that far gone. My paintings have their own inner raison d’etre, but once they’re finished, they have to earn their own way in the world.”
Discreet chimes ushered them inside. To Sharon, the paintings hanging at unexpected angles appeared like portals into eerily beautiful galaxies and alien worlds. “I feel as if I could step right through them.”
“Until a few years ago, these pieces wouldn’t have been shown in a gallery,” Ian said. “Fortunately, the barriers between fine art, crafts, illustration and photography are breaking down. As far as I’m concerned, they never should have existed in the first place.”
If not for her interest in decorating, Sharon might have missed the background, which had been designed to attract as little attention as possible. A soft shade of white, the walls were augmented by movable partitions and fitted with adjustable lighting canisters arranged to highlight each work.
From a gap between partitions emerged a squarish woman in her forties. Stocky, with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, she surveyed Sharon warily.
“Jane!” Ian said. “I’d like you to meet…”
“Your new model?” The woman shook her head. “No offense, but I hope not.”
“Excuse me?” Sharon hadn’t anticipated that kind of reaction.
“Sharon isn’t a model,” Ian said. “She’s a newly discovered cousin of mine. Sharon, this is Jane Argyle, the gallery owner.”
Jane shook hands firmly. “I’m sorry if I seem abrupt. I’ve been working rather hard to steer Ian in a new direction.”
“I know I look like Susan Fanning,” Sharon said.
The other woman moved past her to a desk tucked into one corner, where she set down some papers she’d been carrying. “You’re straight out of his fantasies. That’s not good. Wherever you live, I hope you’re going back there soon.”
“I live here now.” Sharon had tolerated the elderly pastor’s reaction because of his age, but she wasn’t about to starting letting other people push her around.
“She’s my neighbor down the hall. A definite improvement over the former tenants.” Ian didn’t seem concerned about the woman’s disapproval, even though he needed her cooperation. “I don’t think I’m finished with redheads and haunted houses.”
Jane’s mouth twisted in disagreement. “You’ve tried that.”
“Not with a real model.”
“You’re going in circles,” she said. To Sharon, she said, “We’re planning a big show for August. I want Ian to be one of three featured artists, but he needs fresh work.”
“Do you always tell your artists how to paint?” she asked.
“Only when they need my advice,” Jane said.
“I’m sure you know your business.” She didn’t add that she had no intention of redirecting her life or her place of residence to suit Jane’s theories. There was no point in engaging in a squabble.
“Actually, I have been working on something a bit different,” Ian told Jane. “Kind of a natural extension of my oeuvre, if I may use such a pretentious word. It may involve Sharon.”
“Fine,” the gallery owner said. “I’ll be happy to look at whatever you’re doing.”
Beneath the words, Sharon perceived a warning, and she knew Ian had noticed, either. Jane had agreed to look at whatever he painted. She hadn’t promised to exhibit it.
Chimes announced the arrival of a well-dressed couple in their forties or fifties. After greeting them and learning that they wanted to be left alone, Jane led Ian and Sharon to a sales gallery displaying works by a variety of artists. Two of them were by Ian. “You see what I mean,” she said, adding with a touch of irony, “He’s obsessed with the Fanning family phantasms.”
On one canvas, two women danced in a swirl of merry colors, with flowers and gauze only partially obscuring their nudity. A third, auburn-haired figure had turned away and was fading into a gray mist.
The other work depicted a row of tidy bungalows brightened by flowers. At the far right loomed the edge of a much taller, grimmer Gothic house. Its long shadow threatened to engulf the newer homes.
“I like them,” Sharon said.
“So do I, or I wouldn’t represent him,” Jane said.
“The last couple of canvases I brought her weren’t as good as these,” Ian explained. “That’s the problem. I’m fixated on the same subjects but they’re losing their freshness.”
“My point exactly,” Jane said.
He indicated the painting of the houses. “You see how the past threatens to overwhelm the present? That’s where I’m heading. The past reemerging, old things returning. Before, I was unfocused. Now you’ll see a range of work, maybe broader than before, tying in some of the same themes. The ideas have been stewing in my subconscious but I only got a bead on them since I met Sharon.”
Jane’s mouth formed a thin, stubborn line. “You should at least see what happens with a new model. I know the last one didn’t work out, but a couple of clients who’ve bought your work have mentioned that they’re tired of seeing the same woman, and I think they’re right.”
Sharon forced herself to keep silent. There was no point in taking this discussion personally and, besides, she wasn’t a model.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. At last he said, “Can’t hurt to try.”
Jane handed him a business card. “I’ve been saving this for you. The girl’s name is Angela Ryder. She’s an art student at Cal State Fullerton and she works part-time as a model. She’s so unusual looking, I thought she might engage your interest.”
Ian took the card. “I’ll call her.”
“Do it soon,” Jane said.
Sharon didn’t know why she wanted to object. This model wasn’t her rival. She had no claim on Ian and certainly none on his work.
In the outer gallery, chimes rang again. Jane peered out, past the older couple who were still browsing. “Speak of the devil,” she said.
The slender young woman who’d entered was striking, with raven-black hair and an exotic tilt to her green eyes. “That’s Angela?” Ian said. “I can see why you recommend her.”
She didn’t want him to paint her, Sharon realized with an unexpected twist of jealousy. She didn’t want this gorgeous young woman, unmarred by the tolls of childbearing and widowhood, to shed her clothes and display her perfect body for Ian.
A man who radiated such powerful sexuality could hardly be expected to resist. And there was no reason why he should. He didn’t owe Sharon any allegiance, she told herself sternly.
“I came to drop off my portfolio.” The woman’s eyes widened as she caught sight of Ian. Apparently the attraction was mutual.
Jane made introductions, then returned to her desk, leaving Ian and Angela in front. Out of their hearing, she said, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in suggesting you stay away from your cousin.”
“My hope is that I might be able to help him with this fixation of his,” Sharon said. “I don’t mean by posing. There seems to be some kind of mystery inv
olving his parents’ and grandparents’ deaths, or at least he thinks there is.”
“You seem taken with the whole business as well,” Jane observed tartly. “Let me offer some advice.” She pulled a book from her desk and tossed it to Sharon. It was a paperback by Barbara Seranella. “If you like mysteries, forget Ian Fanning. Read a detective novel.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Sharon replaced the book on the desk. But the suggestion started her thinking.
Maybe she should do a little detective work, she mused, trying not to stare as Angela laughed at something Ian had said. Maybe that was the best way to free both him and her of this fascination with Susan.
There must be some records of the murder, and even after all these years a few key people might be willing to talk about their memories of Bradley and that terrible night. Although she lacked experience, Sharon hoped her instinctive identification with her look-alike would enable her to pick up clues that someone else might miss.
If she filled in the blanks to her own and Ian’s satisfaction, perhaps she could put this whole matter to rest. How that would affect their relationship, she had no idea, but Karly would certainly approve and it might encourage the Gaskells to move on.
“Thank you,” she told Jane. “You’ve given me an idea.”
The gallery owner’s sour expression eased when Ian joined them to say he and Angela had set a date for a session. Her triumphant expression was misplaced, Sharon thought.
Anyone foolish enough to fight for control of Ian was bound to lose. She didn’t plan to make that mistake.
Frank paced across the small living room, gesturing choppily. “I don’t object to your singing in church, but this is a bad time to ask me to baby-sit.”
“It’s always a bad time!” Karly hadn’t meant to argue; she’d intended to persuade her husband by sweet reasoning. But he’d arrived home late tonight, out of sorts from being trapped in a traffic jam.
Busy nursing Lisa and putting the baby to bed, she’d left him to reheat his own dinner in the microwave. The chicken had come out dry and the green beans soggy, neither of which helped his mood. Honestly, shouldn’t an adult be able to transcend minor disappointments?
He’d perked up at the suggestion of coffee in the living room, but only momentarily. When Karly announced that she’d agreed to sing in a church concert on Friday night, his glower had told her instantly that he wasn’t expecting this kind of news and wanted it to go away.
“Business is finally improving,” he told her. “I can’t afford to miss the chance to make extra money. Karly, if things don’t change, we’ll never be able to buy a house, let alone save for Lisa’s education and our retirement.”
Soon after their marriage, Frank had been laid off from his programming job with an Internet company. He’d gone into free-lance consulting, only to be hit by a succession of setbacks—a nationwide recession, then a deepening depression within California. However, as he’d said, things were looking up. “A few months ago, you had to work twice as hard because you were trying to drum up business,” she pointed out. “Now that you’ve got the business, you have to work harder to keep up. Frank, you hardly know your daughter.”
“She’s only three months old. She sleeps all the time. When she’s bigger, we’ll spend time together, I promise.” Frank’s tone softened. “I value a family as much as you do, Karly, but we each have our roles to play, and neither of us wants you to have to work. If I don’t capitalize on earning extra income when I can, that might be necessary.”
Karly tried to be fair. After all, she’d married Frank in part for his dependability, although she’d never imagined it restricting her so severely.
They’d formed an unlikely couple when he took her out to dinner for the first time, her sporting a mane of unruly hair and the hippest clothes at the restaurant, him balding and conventional in a business suit. But Frank had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen, along with a steadiness that contrasted with the self-absorption of the other men she knew. And as they got to know each other, his passion for her had been exciting in its own way.
Nevertheless, Karly wasn’t about to back down. “I’m only asking you to watch Lisa for a couple of evenings.”
“Can’t your sister baby-sit?”
“She’ll be accompanying me.” Karly supposed she could take the baby with her, at least on Wednesday. Other women carted their children along on all sorts of occasions. But she felt a fierce need to be free of the mothering role and concentrate on her music for a few hours. It seemed like so little to ask.
“If I get free, I’ll be happy to help,” Frank said at last. “But don’t count on me. What about Mrs. Torres?” She was a neighbor who sometimes sat for other families in the building. “We can spring for the cost. As you said, there are only—how many rehearsals?”
“Once with Sharon, and once with the choir.” Although Karly would have felt more secure with her husband watching Lisa, she was willing to compromise. “All right. But save Friday for the concert. You can bring Lisa along. Having her there would be nice, as long as I’m not the one responsible for her.”
“Fine with me.” Frank sounded relieved. “Anything good on TV?”
Karly tossed him the entertainment section of the newspaper and went to check on the baby. Watching the tiny figure doze in the near-darkness, she finally put a word to what she was feeling.
Trapped.
They both wanted at least two children. That meant a very long time before Karly could consider singing with a band.
She’d be too old by then to have any chance at a big recording contract. At twenty-seven, she was already past the age for the youth market. Still, she didn’t yearn for money or fame. She missed the music itself.
Using her voice made Karly feel closer to God. She also loved to sing. She loved the feel of music in her throat and the rhythms coursing through her body and the thrilled silence of the audience. She loved the wild burst of applause at the end that meant she, the music and her listeners had, for a few enchanted minutes, touched something beyond themselves.
Her hand resting on the crib rail, Karly fought down a wave of resentment. She wasn’t trapped. There were lots of possibilities.
Her gaze fell on the christening gown lying draped across a chair. Through the window, moonlight picked out the embroidered rosebuds. As she lifted it, she relished the softness and the weight of memories. And the link to other mothers and their children, a reminder that Karly was connected to more than these four walls and an endless routine of changing diapers and fixing meals.
She carried the gown to the crib and held it against her sleeping child. A bit long, but not by much, and babies grew so fast. She would get it cleaned so Lisa could wear the dress Friday night. A new baby, an antique gown, beautiful music filling Susan’s old church. Life was filled with new chances for happiness.
Encouraged, Karly put the dress away and went to ask Mrs. Torres about babysitting.
Ian had never enjoyed dealing with models. Arranging props didn’t interfere with the images pressing into his mind, but a human being couldn’t be treated like an object. However, although taking a photograph might be easier than working directly from life, that hadn’t turned out well last time. Photography was no substitute for actually seeing the light playing across a vibrant human figure or listening to the vulnerable sound of breathing.
Angela turned out to be an ideal collaborator, as an artist herself who understood the process. When she arrived at Ian’s studio Tuesday afternoon, she dispensed with all but the briefest of greetings before asking what he wanted her to do.
Ian regarded the canvas on which he’d laid in the background. The setting was the interior of a modern home with jarring antique details—an ornate windowsill, old rose-entwined wallpaper peering through the paint, and a couch with the upholstery worn away to reveal a buried, clawed arm.
The effect was that of an ancient house breaking through the skin of the new one. That was the effect he also wanted to a
chieve with the central figure of a woman, perching on the arm of the couch as she awaited her lover.
After explaining the concept to Angela, Ian showed her some outfits he’d gathered from a costume shop. She vanished behind a screen and came out wearing a contemporary tailored skirt and jacket over a Victorian bodice with its top laces undone, revealing the rounded tops of her breasts.
“I had in mind something more primitive,” Ian said.
“I can do primitive.” Angela ducked behind the screen again.
Silently, Ian thanked Jane for finding this model. Maybe at last he’d found a woman he could work with, yet who didn’t resemble Susan.
When she emerged, she’d removed the bodice, revealing bare breasts beneath the crisp linen jacket, with her torso naked down to the waistband of the skirt. On the arm of the couch, Angela struck a pose of calm indifference, as if unaware of her strange appearance. The effect of the partial nudity was to reveal something elemental beneath the veneer of civilization.
“Perfect,” Ian said, and reached for his brushes.
Angela’s natural sensuality infused his work and raised a hum through his body. At some level, he wanted to possess her, but he had no intention of acting on his desire, because impersonal sex no longer appealed to him. When he was younger, he’d have taken her if she were willing. Now, he needed far more from a woman.
Ian thought of the unfinished picture of two figures grappling, now hidden beneath a cloth. He’d put the scene aside to wait until the urge to complete it overwhelmed him. Perhaps that would happen today, inspired by Angela.
But for the moment, this new painting exerted its hold over him. Even as his conscious mind measured the angle of light and assessed the tints on his palette, the room on the canvas was becoming more real than this studio.
The bones of the painted house struggled to cast off their modern skin and thrust to the surface, perhaps spewing out showers of paint and plaster in the process. Unseen forces ached to rend the woman’s prim clothing and thrust her naked into the ruins of a civilization built on lies.
Touch Me in the Dark Page 9
