by Kieran York
Turning, I saw a woman who looked to be in her thirties. She was a few inches over five-feet tall and slightly stocky, yet in an athletic way. Stylish, long, raven black hair pulled back to frame her round face. Rosy cheeks complemented her soft brown eyes.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I said. I could have easily cleared a polygraph test. The portrait was of Molly.
“I hate to bother you, but I was curious about what you were thinking when you painted it.” Her face was expressive with a trustful beauty about it.
“You’re not bothering me. I painted it last year around my birthday. I was slightly depressed over the thought that my next birthday, my sixtieth, would be one of those bookmark years. I painted a recollection of a woman important in my past.”
“Someone in your past?”
“Yes, thirty-plus years ago. Someone extraordinarily special in my life. Perhaps when a person ages, memories are allowed to become myths. Or perhaps the myths magically become memories.”
“Interesting concept,” she said softly. “Memories can be very painful. I can’t imagine attempting to capture the emotion on canvas.”
My joy dwindled. “I can’t imagine not capturing my remembrances of emotions on canvas. I sometimes wonder if it isn’t a way of reliving them—soothing the raw ends of those embattled nerves that time produces when unresolved.”
She studied me intently. “You’re called a contemporary realist. Agree with that description?”
“Pretty much, I do. Although I experiment, I always find realism more to my liking.”
“I see something unique in your work. Is there any singular aspect with which you approach a painting?”
Her pointed questions caught me off guard, but I felt compelled to answer. “I believe our sensory skills need to be inclusive within a work. Just to give an example. On a hot day, if you fan your face, each sensor within each portion of your skin feels the breeze. It’s the same with sight. When you first see a canvas in its entirety, you should be able to sense each part of it. It should be that alive for you, the viewer. I also never want to paint a stale work of art. I want it to be fresh for me so it will never be trite for you.”
“You very much do just that. I read your bio. You haven’t done much self-promoting in the past. But your genius for showing your subject’s soul is amazing.”
“Genius is a very large word. Admittedly, I haven’t attempted to promote my work as much as I should have or as much as my agent would have preferred.”
“I can tell from the subjects in your paintings that it’s a labor of love,” she said. “What other artists have inspired your work?”
“So many. The artist inspiring me most is Cecilia Beaux. She was an American society portraitist. Not so well known, but I believe her to be one of the finest.”
“What are you working on now?”
“Just doing some sketching. I’ll later convert a few of them to oil, and I’ll shove some in a huge trunk. I call it my scribble dumpster.”
“What are the themes of your latest sketches?” she asked.
“You conduct a very in-depth interview,” I said lightly. “I never know what I’ll be interested in capturing. It could be an emotional moment, something from my past, a street scene that reminds me of something. Last night I made sketches of a street market. A place where I spent a portion of yesterday afternoon.”
“London is an interesting city.”
“Do you live here?”
“I’m in London with my husband and mother. We spend vacation time each year in England. Some of my husband’s family lives here. And I love England.”
Fiona materialized by my side. She was now slightly infused with wine, as was her custom at showings. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Wesley. She purchased Myths and Memories. She was asking questions about it. I pointed her in your direction.”
With a self-conscious smile, I said, “Mine’s a simple secret. I attempt to paint who people are, rather than just what they look like.”
“Ms. O’Hara was kind enough to give me some insight about the painting,” Mrs. Wesley told Fiona. “It looks as if it’s closing time. Thank you for your commentary on the painting.”
“Thank you for your interest,” I said. “I hope you’ll enjoy Myths and Memories.”
“I purchased it as gift for my mother.”
“If it isn’t to her taste, I’ll be happy to have it exchanged for any of my other work. Your mother might not like this portrait.”
“I rather think she will. She might have been the model.”
A sudden and very icy chill darted through my body. I found my voice. “Are you Samantha?”
Chapter 3
When the show closed for the evening, Samantha Meade Wesley and I walked to a small, all-night coffee shop called Crumpets and Brew that I had passed yesterday. Although the rain had ceased, remnants of a misty fog lingered.
The smells of various roasts wafted up as we opened the door. Walls were forest green with a mahogany coffee bar. Small round tables, placed systematically in a rectangular space, completed the décor. Their gold-flecked plastic tops flickered as light hit them.
The menu offered sandwiches and a wide array of pastries. I was certain the cinnamon buns, drenched in frosting, could cause a sugar coma in three bites.
The bleakness from outside had followed us, but our conversation was pleasant.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” she said nearly timidly as we sat at a table. “And for answering my questions.”
I frowned. “And I have questions for you. Did Molly know you were attending my exhibit?”
“No, I didn’t tell her. In my defense, I wasn’t certain I would go. I walked by the gallery several times before I summoned the courage to enter. Through the window, I saw the painting and knew immediately it was she. I had to purchase it.”
“She had told you about me?”
“Yes. Mostly my biological mother, Pamela, mentioned you over the years.”
“I’ve never met your mother. I spoke with her on the telephone only once. As you might imagine, the conversation was very brief.”
“I gathered the two of you never met. I look very much like Pamela. Or so I’m told.”
“And did she mention the circumstances…”
“Oh, yes. Your name came up quite a few times when she and my true mother, Molly, fought. At least when I was a child. Later they fought in, or maybe with, silence.”
“They must have cared. They’ve been together for thirty years.”
“Pamela died ten years ago. They were together a little over twenty years. I thought, romantically speaking, it had been a nineteen-year sleepwalk. It seemed meaningless. Even as a child, and later a young adult, I felt their lack of love. It wasn’t how my husband and I feel toward one another.”
“I’m sorry. Love rarely comes with a warning label. We sometimes make mistakes when selecting. I have.”
Samantha sighed and nodded with compassion as if she knew I was still in pain. “Everyone has their own marathon, I suppose. We stand, we run, we fall.”
“A very astute observation.”
“Both Mother and Pamela were philosophy professors and exposed me to constant wisdom. As far as marriage was concerned, I was prepared for imperfection. It amazes me that I married a man with so few imperfections.”
“Pamela…” I had to stop as I practically spat out her name. “Pamela was once an enemy. I harbored a hatred against her.”
“In truth… she wasn’t easy to live with,” Samantha said. “But my life hasn’t been entirely sad, thanks to Jeffery, my husband, and my mother Molly.” She exuded a mellow harmony, and her face reflected an arbitrator’s introspection.
“Molly told you about our meeting yesterday? She didn’t have time for a chat.”
“She was extremely shaken. It took her until late last night to tell me about seeing you. And yes, Mom was to meet up with Jeffery and me. Jeffery and I looked on the Internet gallery to view your wo
rk. He’s also impressed. Being somewhat of an art connoisseur, he believes that a painting should become the mind’s home. And the longer one stays in that home, the better the work of art. He observed your cyber gallery.”
I smiled. “I like his belief a great deal. When I do a portrait, it’s as if I want to introduce the person to the viewer. When I’m painting, if I’m unable to catch glimpses of my subject’s emotion, it’s similar to painting only a halftone.”
“I see that in your work. I’m very impressed.”
“Yet you came to my opening, and Molly didn’t.” I was curious but also wounded. Molly hadn’t called the hotel, nor had she taken the time to find me at the gallery. Even for old time’s sake. Her daughter had taken the trouble.
Finding out Pamela Meade died ten years ago confirmed that Molly was no longer thinking of me. She hadn’t attempted to contact me. She hadn’t merely run to Pamela all those years ago. She’d run away from me.
“Forgive me, but this is a shock.” I blinked back the tears that were welling in my eyes. “I feel a bit overwhelmed. Maybe I’ve put in too many hours uncrating and hanging my exhibit. I like hands-on when it comes to placement. Guess that makes me a temperamental artist.”
“Your work is absolutely wonderful. I’m so glad I got to see it and to meet you.”
I drank the last of my coffee and stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you as well. It’s been a hectic couple of days, and it’s getting late. I should go.”
She rose and embraced me. “Danielle, would you like my telephone number? I’m sure Mom would enjoy hearing from you.”
Returning her hug, I replied, “I’m not certain. As much as I wish to see her, I don’t believe she’s interested, and I’ll accept that.”
Choosing not to take a cab, I walked the few blocks back to my hotel. Fresh air, I believed, cures a foggy brain. At this point, my brain seemed nearly soggy, as well.
I passed by the gallery on my way to the hotel and saw Fiona and her assistant, Spencer Murphy, inside talking with Max. I rapped on the glass.
Max opened the door and gestured me inside. “The star of our show,” he gushed. “Have you come for your share of the takings?”
We laughed. “I think I can wait until tomorrow.”
Fiona pulled a chair toward me as I entered the office. “Glad you stopped by. We sold two more paintings since you left.”
“I was concerned that we might not even sell one in total.”
Spencer sniggered. “I figured at least three. They are extraordinary.” His boyish looks made him seem younger than his mid-twenties. Yet he had somehow become Fiona’s go-to assistant. He worked diligently on the many details in running one of the most successful agencies in the art world. He traveled with Fiona, kept her notes, and in general, kept her somewhat sober. Although romantically she liked younger men, he was not her lover. I strongly suspected he was gay.
“Spencer,” I said, “we were both wrong. I may be a hit after all.”
Fiona gave me a hug. I could tell she was somewhat inebriated. “The fools are coming to their senses. Now the collectors are like old lions with a piece of meat.” She cackled as she took another huge gulp of wine. “Want a sip? You haven’t done much celebrating, and it’s time you did. Past time.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather just go back to my hotel to sleep.” I stood, made my way to the door, and turned to see them toasting a night of success. For me, this was more than another great night—it was monumental. It marked the first night Fiona had sold so many of my paintings.
I was grateful for the triumphant evening in many ways. I also felt enriched that I’d met someone who’d played such an important part in Molly’s life. Although not biologically connected to Molly, Samantha had assimilated Molly’s kind and tender ways.
As to the future, I had but one guess. Molly wasn’t interested in meeting with me again, and I had to accept it finally. Or at least attempt to accept it.
Chapter 4
I waited for my best friend of forty-plus years, Esther Lilly, to arrive from Colorado. When I called her yesterday, she recognized that my seeing Molly again had upset me and said she’d join me in London today at noon. We were meeting for lunch. I suggested Clouds, a small, exclusive, as well as expensive, café with an outdoor area located near the hotel. I asked the hostess to seat us outside under one of the parasol-style umbrellas.
As I sipped wine, my thoughts drifted back to leaving my home a couple of days before. I missed both my residence and Clover, my sweet little seven-year-old schnauzer. With light-silver, nearly platinum-colored, hair, she had lovely eyes with heavy, long lashes. A local art student, Roxie Tate, was watching my home and Clover. Clover and I adored Roxie. She e-mailed me the happenings of each day and did so with a great deal of style and zest. Each morning, and most evenings, I checked for her messages on my compact notebook. She referred to Clover as “Lashes,” and hadn’t told me how she referred to me. Roxie would also be taking care of Esther’s dogs.
Esther and I became fast friends in college and remained best friends over the years. She had recently retired from her career as an astrobiology professor. She once told me that one teaspoon of a neutron star weighed one-hundred-million tons. Esther was the queen of minutia.
Just slightly over five feet, Esther was a force. Her curly, shoulder-length, blonde-grey hair surrounded an angular face. Piercing blue eyes gleamed as if she was constantly scrutinizing.
I’d just been seated and had ordered one of our favorite wines for each of us. I was sipping mine as she arrived and slowly approached. I gave her a wave to get her attention.
“And?” she said. She dropped her shoulder bag luggage next to her chair and pitched her oversized traveler’s handbag on the table. “Has Molly called your hotel yet?”
“No. But her daughter, Samantha, showed up at my opening.”
“Let me get this straight. Samantha attends, Molly is missing in action, and no call?”
“It’s a very strange situation, Esther. Surreal. My brain has been in a blender all morning. I can’t figure it out. Samantha not only attends but purchases Myths and Memories. Tells me it’s a gift for her mother. Then she alludes to the fact that the woman in the painting might very well be Molly. She knew damned well it was.”
Esther gave a low whistle. “Myths is one of your priciest works.”
“She put thirty grand on her charge card as if it were thirty bucks. Then when we had coffee together, she tells me her biological mother, Pamela, died ten years ago. Suddenly, it occurs to me that the woman I was in love with—”
“Are in love with,” Esther said. “And don’t bother denying it. I know you too well. When you saw Molly, it all came rushing back to you. She’s always been close to your heart.”
“Of course I was excited to see her, but it seems I’ve not remained close to her heart. What’s puzzling me is she says she’ll call and doesn’t. That was a clue to her not giving a flip about me. Add to that, if she were interested, she could have contacted me ten years ago after Pamela’s demise.”
“Danielle, all these years you’ve pined for her. You’ll be upset more if you don’t make an attempt to contact her. Resolve it.”
“I’ve carried on with my life.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve done some sporadic dating. You’ve never fallen in love or even come near to falling in love. And your encounter with Molly has stirred the dreams that you’ve held inside. Call her.”
“Even if I wanted to, I don’t have her phone number.”
“You said Samantha charged the painting. Maybe there’s a record.”
“They don’t give information out on a charge card.”
“So unless she contacts you by calling the hotel or the gallery, you have no way of contacting her?”
“No. Her daughter offered me her number, and I declined.”
Esther threw her hands up in the air. “Danielle, you are hopeless.”
“If she’d wanted to contact me, she wo
uld have. I refuse to chase her.” I swirled my glass of pinot Chardonnay and took a reverential sip. “Fiona wanted me to stay around this week. You know, drop in the gallery a few times. But if I want, I can go back to Denver anytime.”
“I didn’t just fly over the pond so I can leave before this jetlag finishes kicking me in the rear. Let’s rent a car and drive up to Scotland for a couple days. Maybe Ireland.”
“Fiona said someone in Ireland purchased two of my paintings. She isn’t certain who it was. It’s very strange. Everything’s seemed strange since I arrived.”
“Can’t you hear the pain in your voice? It’s especially obvious when you’re attempting to change the subject by talking about Ireland and someone else purchasing your paintings. You’re miserable.”
“I don’t need to hear the pain. I feel it, see it, and taste it. All I want to do is barricade myself in a cave and paint. If only she would’ve called to catch up. We spent eight years waking in one another’s arms. A quick call. Anything. It’s as if she ran away again as quickly as she could.”
“Maybe she’ll relent. Maybe she’s been busy with Samantha. Maybe she feels badly about dumping you thirty years ago. Maybe she couldn’t face you because she’s too ashamed. But you can’t run off, in case she gets it together and calls.”
I stared at Esther in disbelief. “Why are you so enthusiastic about my seeing Molly? You don’t even like her.”
“I don’t like what she did to you. There’s a difference. But that was thirty years ago, and you haven’t moved on. Let’s have a great lunch, walk, see the gallery, and then go back to the hotel. You need to paint, and I need to nap.”
The waiter arrived and we ordered divinely intricate salads and fancy burgers. Along with another glass of wine—we agreed we needed it.
“It was a long trip,” Esther said. “I should have had him bring an entire bottle. Or, better yet, a damned case. I have a feeling you’re not in the same frame of realism as I am.”
“As a realistic painter, I’m trained to search details. My brain feels rotted out by searching.”
