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
“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
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