She’d always been the type to appreciate each moment, but even with every intention of savoring, was it possible to make the joy one could squeeze out of a few thousand minutes serve for a lifetime?
She thought of what one could gain and lose in the flash of circumstance. She thought of meeting Peter the first time in that hal way. She thought of her brother. She thought of the single, upending instant Peter’s eyes had met hers as she lay on that chaise. She thought of opening that article f r o m Burlington Magazine, and she thought of Peter, buoyed at the notion of becoming a father, then losing the wife, the child and any reason to keep on living.
“Mertons, wait.”
He turned. “Yes?”
“I want him to be happy.”
“Painting, yes.”
“No, not just painting. I want him to have a wife
—someone who’l love and understand his work—and a child. At least one. He’d be such a good father. Do you think—I mean, it’s not too much to ask the Guild to do that, too, is it?”
Mertons’s eyes softened. “It’s not too much to ask. Every man deserves it. I wil try.”
“Thank you.”
Cam wished everyone’s future could be so easily ordered.
Peter inserted himself into the smal group of partygoers surrounding Woodson Bal .
“Howdy, Peter. How goes it?”
“Could I have a word in private? ’Tis a matter of some importance.”
Bal eyed him curiously, then put down his glass.
55
Jacket slouched against a wal in the crowded entry gal ery of the Carnegie. He decided that gazing dejectedly into his Yuengling and looking like he was passing a kidney stone was more effective than he’d expected at keeping people at bay.
“Jesus, you look like shit.”
Well, most people. He turned. It was Anastasia, looking like a cross between a real bad Idol contestant and a Knight of the Round Table. Christ Almighty, where did she get this stuff?
“Gee, thanks,” he said.
“And don’t bother adding I do, too. I already know it.”
“What? No,” he said. “You look great. Ready for battle.”
She blew her nose, hard into a napkin. Her eyes were red.
“Damned al ergies,” she said. “Have you seen Cam?
When is she coming down?”
“Yes, and I don’t know. Why?”
“I think you’re going to want to stick close to her this weekend. She’s going to need a lot of support.”
“Real y? Why’s that?”
“I’m going to be named executive director.”
“That’s been announced?” Jesus, what an ego. Missed her calling. Should have been an artist.
“No. But it wil .”
He gave her a look. “I wouldn’t count my chickens.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno. Surprising things happen sometimes. For example, tonight. Cam dumped me.” He took a long pul of beer.
“What?”
“For that bloke.” He gestured to Peter Lely, who was prowling the opposite corner of the room.
“Shit.”
He frowned. “What’s it to you?”
“Loyalty, my friend. You know I’ve always been your number one fan.”
He wondered if he’d had too much to drink. He swore he saw fangs when Anastasia smiled. “I’m sure she’s better off.”
Anastasia snorted. “Is he stil passing himself off as Peter Lely?”
“Funny thing about that. It turns out he’s a hel of a painter. Could probably pass himself off as anyone if he put his mind to it— Jesus.”
“What?”
“Look at her.”
Cam was floating down the stairs like a blossom down a lazy stream. His gaze cut to Lely, who was watching her, too. “Bel e of the bal .”
Anastasia sniffed. “Prosaic.”
“Cal me crazy. I like that kinda prose.”
He turned to see if his rival was equal y impressed, but Lely had disappeared.
56
Cam scanned the heads as she descended. Bal should be obvious. Apart from having that rich man’s luminescent glow, he was general y a head tal er than anyone else in the room.
She noted that the curtained Van Dyck painting had been removed and wondered if Lamont Packard had done the dirty work for her. Then she remembered they’d decided at the last minute to unveil it in the gal ery upstairs, not in the space being used for cocktails.
She didn’t spot Bal , and, more important, didn’t see Peter, either.
Crap.
Anastasia was in a tête-à-tête with Jacket—of course—
though when Jacket lifted his eyes and spotted Cam, he gave her a gentle smile.
Wow, this evening’s going to be more fun than my prom, when Bil y Schuler spil ed cherry brandy down the front
