by Kieran York
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
About the Author
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Dedicated to all those who smile, and especially to those who make me smile: my family and friends.
And in the memory of Jay Conti.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locales and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
APPOINTMENT WITH A SMILE
Copyright © 2012 by Kieran York
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, save for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Ann Phillips
A Blue Feather Book
Published by Blue Feather Books, Ltd.
www.bluefeatherbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-935627-86-9
First edition: March, 2012
Printed in the United States of America and in the United Kingdom.
Acknowledgements
Their unending encouragement and love steadied me.
My family in alphabetical order: Avery, Bob, Brody, Cooper, Dusty, Henry, Jordan, Julie, Karla, Luke, Nathan, Paula, Robbie, Sierra, and Tyler.
Their friendship and support strengthened me.
My friends in alphabetical order: My favorite Caulkster—Annie, Bobbie S., Doug G., Lana T., Mary B., Ruthie G., Sandy H.-G., Sharon D. and Clover
Their belief brought me to my appointment with a smile.
The extraordinary women at Blue Feather Books. Best in the business!
I am profoundly appreciative for their courage in publishing a book by, about, and for the Sapphic golden woman.
My thanks to Emily Reed, Jane Vollbrecht, and the finest editor a woman can have—Chris Paynter. And a special thanks to Nann Dunne for her precision line editing. I am fortunate to be in your company, and grateful to be on the Blue Feather Team. And thanks to Ann Phillips for the perfect cover design.
Finally, I thank artist Akiba Emanuel (1912-1993) for teaching me about the artist’s soul when I wrote his biography many years ago. Also, I thank his daughter, a remarkable poet, Lynn Emanuel, for allowing me to reference my gratitude to him and his family.
Chapter 1
Sometime in the center of autumn, a lilting laugh from the past rose from a side street.
I saw her smile. She was watching two street entertainers with their band of marionettes. The puppets appeared to be zoo characters, wildly lurching. As was my heart.
Nearly thirty years had passed since she’d missed our appointment. Now we were an ocean and half a continent away from where we were to have met back then. Three decades ago I was in Denver, Colorado, standing in front of a ticket counter awaiting her arrival. She’d called and told me she’d return to me and to our home. That was not to be.
It appeared the thirty intermittent years had treated her with kindness. She remained lovely. Her face was fuller and gently formed with creased laugh lines. Her eyes were still bright and tender. I wondered how similar she was now to back then. When we approach thirty, the future seems so unclear.
Was that because we never connected those true dots of tomorrow, thinking we wouldn’t live such a very long time? I’ll be sixty in December, and she turned sixty last month. I remembered her birth date. I remembered everything about her from the eight years we spent together.
Not knowing if I should speak or if she would recognize me, I lingered a moment. I slid my sunglasses back over my eyes to filter the rare brightness of London’s October sun. As she moved toward the central street market, my heart began beating rapidly. I felt flushed, and my hands were sweating.
She seemed to be alone. Carrying one shopping bag, she moved gingerly, yet with all the grace she possessed years ago. So many years, I mused. I swallowed the lump in my throat. No, she was always with me.
Muted street sounds, smells, motions surrounded me, but all I could see was her beautifully matured face with piercing bronze eyes and lovely olive complexion, surrounded by dark hair streaked with silver highlights. Her hair, shorter than it was when we were together, fell against her neck. She’d swept it back, as she often had when she finished a shower.
She looked comfortable in her clothing. The confident style remained. Tan slacks and a blouse with tan, blue, and coral embellishment. I only saw splashes of color. Matching stylish dress sandals, sans socks, and a huge handbag looked expensive. Her medium-tall frame still reflected a casual carriage. As always, she carried herself with a proud air.
As if watching a motion picture play out, my gaze followed her. She picked up a book in front of a bookstall and flipped pages. I paid little attention to the book; instead, I focused on her face. Amused for a moment, she slid the book back into its proper place. Suddenly, her hand reached up to her face, and her eyes clamped shut for several moments. When they opened, they reflected enormous pain.
My chest thumped as if I’d experienced the same pain. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, but that would not only be inappropriate, it would be embarrassing.
Those eight years we shared with one another taught me her signals. Within a minute, I knew she would again be smiling. And she was. From the opposite side of the street, I followed her. She stopped in front of a knickknack stall and glanced at her watch. Lifting a miniature blue and white teacup and saucer, she allowed a smile, too true to be fraudulent.
She was rarely bogus about anything or anyone. But on certain occasions she told someone they looked nice, when they were a wreck. She praised my aunt’s hair color and my grandfather’s lemon-gin drink. And for years, I believed that she loved me.
Perhaps in her way she had loved me, but I was doubtful.
Thirty years ago, when she didn’t arrive at the Denver airport, I was heartsick. Standing alone, more alone than I had ever been, perusing the Jetway, whirling around to examine the terminal, I gasped for air.
I waited three hours at the airport with an inconsolable longing for her. With tears in my eyes that eventually rolled down my cheeks, I drove to the rented townhouse we had shared. I entered and saw her belongings that she’d left behind. I w
as living my worst moment because I believed I would never see her again.
Now, as I walked toward her, she turned. With a look of amazement, she said, “Danielle, is it really you?”
“Yes. When I first saw you, I wasn’t certain you’d recognize me.”
“Of course, I’d always recognize you. You look wonderful.”
“You, too, Molly. You haven’t changed.”
She laughed. “Still flattering?”
“No, I mean it.” After a slight hesitation, I asked, “What are you doing in London?”
“I’m visiting London with my daughter, Samantha, and her family.”
I stalled momentarily. “You’re married?”
“No. My partner’s child, actually. You remember Pamela?”
How could I forget her, I wanted to say. “Pamela Meade. I didn’t realize she had a child.”
“That was one of the many things I should have mentioned and didn’t. Her little girl was five when we got together.”
“I guess that would make her thirty-five.” I tried to keep venom out of my voice.
“And you? What are you doing in England? I remember you saying that you’d never leave Colorado.”
“I haven’t. I still live there. I bought my home out in the suburbs of Littleton a few months after you left. Foothills, Jefferson County. After my grandparents’ estate was settled, I had enough for a small down payment.” Wanting to extricate myself from her possible pity, I added, “The townhouse’s rent went up, so I decided to leave the place we shared.”
“You always wanted to live in those glorious Rocky Mountain foothills.”
“Yes, although where I live now has grown enormously. Are you still teaching?”
“Retired now. Made it to a professorship a few years after I left Colorado. Are you still painting?” she asked.
“I am. I’m exhibiting here now, in fact.”
“I suppose I should have Googled you. But…”
“I know. There would have been no reason for you to look me up.”
“I would have liked to know that you’d succeeded with your art career.”
“It’s a very minor showing,” I said. “I wish I could tell you that I’m renowned.” I smiled at her, as always a little self-conscious about my slightly crooked teeth. “Do you have time for a cupper, as they say here?”
“I wish I did, but Samantha made plans. Maybe later in the week?”
“I’m staying at the Marshall Hotel.”
“I’ll phone,” she said. “I’ll look up the number in the book.”
I was about to give her my cell phone number, but she turned away from me and moved toward an arriving cab. I stood alone again. My best bet was that I’d never hear from her. And that meant I’d never again see Molly’s smile.
Chapter 2
“Skies are pissing rain. Might keep the attendance down,” Fiona Revere said.
About thirty people milled around the deluxe, upscale art gallery.
“I almost wished they’d all go home so I could return to the hotel and rest,” I said to her, my devoted agent of twenty years.
“You worked hard all day getting this exhibit ready for tonight’s opening. Maybe you overdid it.” Fiona’s cadence with a slight accent was the same as one might hear from an Eastern Ivy League college woman. She had exaggerated airs. With her bright kiwi-green eyes, her thick cosmetically enhanced lips, and stylish strawberry blonde hair, she might have been going to a very elite cocktail party. She’d arched her thin eyebrows with the precision of a painter. Framed, those glowing eyes always hinted at a secret that she promised yet would never give up.
She’d had her slightly aquiline nose fixed once. Although she playfully denied it, she’d also had work done on her eyes and around her lips. She often joked she’d not look her fifty-five years, no matter what it cost. She’d selected a brightly splashed sheath dress of oranges, bronzes, and lime-greens. Her trim figure stood five-feet-eight inches, and she walked with an elegant, sensual gait: quick, yet smoke-like. Perhaps I used that description because she allowed the smoke from her cigarette to float behind her.
“I didn’t sleep well last night. It was more like I didn’t sleep at all. Maybe a couple of hours.” Seeing Molly had troubled me. “I think I’m running on adrenaline.”
“Shows are stressful. Last month one of my artists had a Cincinnati showing and very nearly went to the dirt hotel. Stroke. My first thought was that he was allergic to Cincinnati. Understandable.”
“You haven’t booked me for Cincinnati yet, have you?”
“Naw,” she said. “I’m saving that horror show for when you’re anesthetized. Or pissed off at me. But at least you’re smiling.”
“The coffee I had earlier might be helping. And it wasn’t stress over the show.”
She nudged me. “The couple looking at Magic Guardians seems interested. I’ll check.” She moved a step away and then turned. “You might join me in a moment or two and tell them it’s your favorite work.”
Fiona’s quick grin and wink were part of the reason I had been in her stable of artists for so long. She got me. She understood my inability to promote myself. She attempted to prod me toward marketing my work, but I resisted. The painting wasn’t my favorite, or it wouldn’t be for sale. My favorite painting was, and perhaps always would be, Twilight with Molly.
Fiona and I were polar opposites. Although we were about the same height, the similarity of our looks ended there. Her coiffure was neatly sleek and trimmed to perfection, and my own short, graying blonde hair curled around my face. My eyes were hazel-colored; my lips were thin, just as my light-complexioned face was thin; all making me ordinary looking. Fiona wore designer clothes, while my clothing was whatever I found, wherever I located different come-together looks. She wore heavy, expensive perfume. I smelled only of soap. Her nails were long and perfectly manicured. Their color changed with her outfits. My nails were trimmed short enough for a nailbrush to keep the paint cleaned out from under them.
Also, Fiona was accustomed to extravagant, luxury living in New York. I lived in the center of America in less than opulent surroundings. With the help of surgeons, she looked younger than her age. I was a couple of months short of sixty and had allowed the aging process to have its way with me. She scratched her way up to fortune from the mean streets of New York City. I’d only painted and hadn’t come far at all. She was completely straight and chased mainly younger men. I was Sapphic and chased no one in particular.
We did have a few similarities. We both could be arrogant. She was the best artist’s agent on the continent where I lived and the one I was currently visiting with my exhibit. While I’d only had minimal success in the art world, I felt as though I was one of the best contemporary portraitists. Critics had called me a modern American realist. Although some of my subjects were not paintings of people, most were.
The exhibit gallery had started to fill. That would please Fiona. I hoped it would be enough for her so that I wouldn’t have to flit around making small talk with prospective buyers. She knew my philosophy: I’d gone through the agony and ecstasy to paint each canvas. Why was I also obliged to sell them?
She also knew the worst thing I could hear from a potential purchaser was how much I expected my work to appreciate. Appreciating monetary gains had never been high on my list of concerns. I hated discussing money. And secondly, I despised it when someone announced they’d purchased my work because it matched their décor. A time or two, for that very reason, I’d refused to sell my work.
Fiona pointed at her diamond-studded watch. She once stated in total sincerity that I’d helped pay for it. Although we’d laughed, I didn’t doubt for an instant that a percentage of at least one of my paintings had picked up a portion of the tab.
She led me to the small back office, lit up a cigarette, and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“Nearly ten o’clock. I’m sure Magic Guardian is sold,” she whispered as though it were confidential. �
��Three others went early. And Myths and Memories just sold. It has been a very good night. Very promising, as well. Oh, and I sold two by e-mailing photos to a buyer in Ireland. Who knew the Irish are big Danielle O’Hara enthusiasts?”
“Think it might be my last name?”
She answered with amusement in her voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised. At any rate, seven sales make it a very lucrative night. Keep circulating. I’ll finalize Magic Guardian.” She motioned toward the door. “Let’s go shift some paintings.”
I smiled briefly. “You can keep the cheese; just let me out of the trap.”
“Come on, you sweet Saph, work your crowd magic. Let’s strike while the fire seems to be heating up. After all these years you’ve been painting, you ought to know that art is a very shy blood sport.”
“I think this Saph would just like to remain unknown.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Max Parker approaching. “Going damned fine,” the gallery owner reported. He made a swipe at his thick black hair. He was well-groomed and dapperly dressed. Shorter than I, he stood as erect and tall as he could. He was equally as arrogant as Fiona—perhaps a bit more so than I. “Some of them haven’t heard of you and are falling in love with you.”
Fiona glibly agreed. “Yes. Max, I’ve told you for years that you really need to explore Danielle O’Hara’s work.”
“I thought you were hiding her from me.” He appeared delighted when he turned to me. “This has been a wonderful exhibit. I want to represent you exclusively in Europe.”
“Everyone will soon want that,” Fiona said in a teasing way. “Your public awaits, Danielle.” She looped her arm around my waist. “Go on out there and show yourself.”
The gallery representatives were attempting to finalize acquisitions. The time to close the doors had nearly arrived. Certainly gallery employees wanted to go home. Exhausted, I was more than eager to return to the hotel.
“I just purchased Myths and Memories,” a voice behind me said.
