gabardine suit with a persimmon silk blouse and a very pretty straw hat, and a little straw bag clutched under her arm. “You look very chic.”
“Don’t look so surprised.” Kim smiled and collapsed in a chair. “I hope this guy is easy. I don’t feel like arguing business on a Saturday morning.” She yawned and watched Deanna finish the coffee in her cup.
“Who am I supposed to be by the way? Your secretary or your chaperon?” Deanna’s eyes sparkled over her cup.
“Neither, you jerk. Just my friend.”
“Won’t he think it a little strange that you bring along your friends?”
“Too bad if he does.” Kim yawned again and stood up. “We’d better go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive took only five minutes, with Deanna reading the instructions to Kim. The address was on a pretty street, the houses all set back from the road and hidden by trees. But she saw when they got out of the car that it was a small, pleasant house. Not elaborate, and far from pretentious. It had a windswept, natural look to it. A small black foreign car was parked outside, something convenient, not handsome. None of the evidence suggested that the promised art collection would be impressive or rare. But the inside of the house told a different tale, as a small tidy woman in a housekeeper’s apron opened the door. She had the look of someone who came once or twice a week, efficient rather than warm.
“Mr. Thompson said to wait for him in his den. He’s upstairs on the phone. To London.” She added the last words with disapproval, as though she thought it a shocking expense. But not nearly as great an expense, Deanna thought, as the paintings on the walls. She looked at them with awe as they followed the housekeeper to the den. The man had a magnificent collection of English and Early American paintings. None of them were what Deanna would have collected herself, but they were a joy to behold. She wanted to linger so she could study each piece, but the woman in the apron marched them quickly and firmly into the den, glared at them long and hard, muttered, “Sit down,” then disappeared back to her chores.
“My God, Kim, did you see what he has on his walls?”
Kimberly grinned, readjusting her hat. “Beautiful stuff, isn’t it? Not my cup of tea, but he has some awfully good pieces. Though they’re not all really his.” Deanna raised an eyebrow in question. “He owns two galleries. One in San Francisco, and one in L.A. I suspect he borrows some of these from his galleries. But what the hell, it’s beautiful work.”
Deanna nodded in rapid agreement and continued to look around. They were seated in a room with a wide picture window that looked out at the sea. A simple pine desk, two couches, and a chair. Like the exterior of the house and the modest car, it was functional rather than impressive. But the art collection amply made up for that. Even here, he had hung two very fine, perfectly framed black-and-white sketches. She leaned closer to peer at the signatures then turned to look at a painting that hung behind her, the only ornament on a totally bare, white wall. Even as she turned to look, she felt herself gasp. It was the painting. The Wyeth. The woman on the dune, her face partially hidden as she rested it on her knees. And even Deanna could see that the woman was startlingly like her. The length and color of her hair, the shape of her shoulders, even the hint of a smile. She was surrounded by a bleak, damp-looking beach and accompanied only by the passing of one lonely gull.
“Good morning.” She heard his voice behind her before she could comment on the painting. Her eyes met his in surprise. “How do you do, I’m Ben Thompson. Miss Houghton?” There was an unspoken question in his eyes, but she quickly shook her head and pointed to Kim, who stepped forward with an extended hand and a smile.
“I’m Kimberly Houghton. And this is my friend, Deanna Duras. We heard so much about your collection that I had to bring her along. She’s an amazingly gifted artist herself, though she won’t admit it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“See!” Kim’s eyes danced as she took in the good-looking man who stood before them. He looked to be somewhere in his late thirties, and he had extraordinarily beautiful eyes.
Deanna was smiling at them both and shaking her head. “Really. I’m not.”
“How do you like my Wyeth?” He said it straight into Deanna’s eyes, and she felt a little pull at her heart.
“I… it’s a very, very fine piece. But you already know that.” She found herself blushing when she spoke to him. She wasn’t sure what to say. Should she admit having met him before? Should she pretend that there had been no meeting? Would he?
“Do you like it though?” His eyes held hers, and she felt herself grow warm under his gaze.
“Very much.” He nodded, pleased. And then she understood. He would say nothing about the night before on the beach. But she found herself smiling as they sat down. It was a strange feeling, having this secret between them, stranger still to know that she had met the “new client” before Kim.
“Ladies, some coffee?” They both nodded, and he stepped into the hall to call to the housekeeper. “One medium, two black.” As he came back into the room, he grinned at them. “They’ll either all be medium or all black. Mrs. Meacham doesn’t approve. Of anything. Coffee. Visitors. Or me. But I can trust her to clean the house when I’m gone. She thinks all this stuff is crap.” He waved airily around the room, a gesture encompassing the Wyeth and both sketches as well as the pieces they had seen on their way in. Kim and Deanna both laughed.
When the coffee arrived, all three cups were black. “Perfect. Thank you.” He smiled boyishly at the housekeeper as she left the room. “Miss Houghton…?”
“Kimberly, please.”
“Okay, Kimberly, you’ve seen the ads we ran last year?” She nodded. “What did you think?”
“Not enough style. Not the right look. Not aimed at the right marketplace for what you want.”
He nodded, but his glance kept wandering back to Deanna, who was still drinking in the Wyeth behind him. His eyes betrayed nothing as he watched her, and his words showed that he knew what he wanted from Kim. He was quick, funny, astute, and very businesslike, and their meeting was over in less than an hour. She promised to give him some fresh ideas within two weeks.
“Will Deanna be consulting on the account?” It was hard to tell if he was teasing. Deanna shook her head rapidly and held up a hand, laughing.
“Good God, no. I have no idea how Kim comes up with any of her wizardly ideas.”
“Blood, sweat, and a lot of black coffee.” Kimberly grinned.
“What do you paint?” He was looking again at Deanna, with the same gentle eyes she had seen on the beach the night before.
Her voice was very soft as she answered. “Still lifes, young girls. The usual Impressionist themes.”
“And mothers with young babies on their knees?” The eyes were always teasing, but unrelentingly kind.
“Only once.” She had done a portrait of herself and Pilar. Her mother-in-law had hung it in the Paris apartment and then ignored it for the next dozen years.
“I’d like to see some of your work. Do you show?” Again no betrayal of the night before, and she wondered why.
“No, I don’t. I haven’t shown in years. I’m not ready.”
“Now that’s crap, to use your housekeeper’s word.” Kimberly looked first at Ben Thompson and then at Deanna. “You should show him some of your work.”
“Don’t be silly.” Deanna felt awkward and looked away. No one had seen her work in too many years. Only Marc and Pilar, and now and then Kim. “One day, but not yet. Thank you anyway though.” Her smile thanked him for his silence as well as his kindness. It was strange that he too should wish to remain mute about their meeting on the beach.
The conversation drew to a close with the usual amenities and a brief tour of his collection, conducted beneath the buzzardlike gaze of the housekeeper as she swept. Kimberly promised to call him the following week.
There was nothing unusual in his farewell to Deanna. No inappropriate pressure of her hand, no message in his eyes, only the warmth that she had already seen, and the smile he left them as he closed the door.
“What a nice guy,” Kim said as she started the little MG. The engine grumbled, then came to life. “He’s going to be a pleasure to work with. Don’t you think?”
Deanna just nodded. She was lost in her own thoughts until Kim screeched to a halt outside their hotel.
“Why the hell don’t you let him see your work?” Deanna’s reticence always annoyed Kim. She had been the only one in art school who had really had a notable talent, and the only one who had buried her light under a bushel for almost twenty years. The others had all tried to make it and eventually failed.
“I told you. I’m not ready.”
