“I’m going to go take a shower at the Kaplans’, and do some laundry while I’m there,” she said. “Want to give me your stuff to wash?”
“Nah. But don’t be gone long, okay? I need to get some real shut-eye.”
Taryn was waiting when the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, holding the door to her apartment open. She looked impossibly glamorous in a black velour tracksuit, with her long hair done up in a topknot, her face dewy and impeccably made up, which made Kerry feel even more self-conscious about her own unkempt appearance.
“Right this way,” her hostess said, gesturing her down a wide hallway. The wood floor was painted in a black-and-white diamond pattern, and the walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with art of every description: portraits, landscapes, still lifes, oil paintings, charcoal drawings, sketches, watercolors, and prints.
They paused at a set of curtained French doors. “The laundry room,” Taryn said, opening the door to a long, narrow room. One wall held a washer and dryer and a table stacked high with folded clothing. The room was warm and smelled like bleach and lavender. “Go ahead and throw your clothes in,” Taryn said. She opened another door and pointed. “Guest bath. You should have everything you need.”
When Kerry emerged from the bathroom, pink-faced and relaxed after her shower, she could hear Taryn’s voice echoing from the back of the apartment. She padded, barefoot, down the hallway, drawn to the carefully arranged art.
She was so intent on studying a small vividly colored abstract collage she didn’t notice Taryn until she was standing right beside her.
“I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Taryn said. She pointed at the artwork Kerry was gazing at. “You like this piece?”
“I love everything you’ve got,” Kerry said. “The colors in this one, all these intense blues and greens, really appeal to me.”
“Me too,” Taryn said. “I bought it at a little street market in Greece in my college days, for five bucks. I’m transported back to Mykonos every time I look at it.”
Kerry’s gaze fell on a piece hanging nearby, a pen-and-ink study of a young man. He had a high, wide forehead, wavy hair, a delicate, aquiline nose, dark, moody eyes, and full lips that were curved into a tentative smile. The portrait was unsigned, except for an abstract silhouette of a tree in the lower right-hand corner.
“I really like this one. A lot,” Kerry said. “It’s so… evocative. I want to know this man.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” Taryn agreed. “Would you believe—I found it in a pile of trash on the street the first week we moved into this building. It was rolled up, with a rubber band around it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it. I snatched it up so fast, and ran with it to the framer’s.”
“Who would throw away something like this?” Kerry asked.
“Don’t know. But I have to admit, every time I see a pile of trash on the street out front, I stop to check—hoping maybe I’ll strike gold twice. It drives my husband insane.”
A loud buzzer sounded from the hallway. “There’s my laundry,” Kerry said.
chapter 11
Kerry was bent over her pad with a fine-tipped black marker, so immersed in her drawing she didn’t notice she had company until a small voice piped up.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
She glanced up. Austin stood beside the table, staring down at her sketch. He was dressed in his school uniform. Red mittens dangled from the sleeves of his jacket, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.
She pointed at the Brodys’ stand across the street. “It’s them.”
Kerry watched as the old gentleman in the black coat approached. He’d added a faded silk scarf to his ensemble today, and an equally faded black wool beret.
Queenie scrambled to her feet as the old man drew closer, her tail wagging. The man’s craggy face brightened, and he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a dog biscuit, offering it on the palm of his flattened hand.
“Good girl,” he said, scratching Queenie’s ears.
“What are we drawing today, then, hmm?” he asked, peering over the top of Austin’s head.
“Hi, Mr. Heinz,” Austin said. “She’s drawing those guys!” He pointed indignantly across the street. “They’re bad.”
“Oh?”
The old man glanced at the Brodys and then down at Kerry’s sketch pad. “This is a little better,” he said, tapping his index finger on the drawing. “You’re a moderately adequate draftsman, but your work lacks heart. Finally, here, I see something approaching emotion. What is this about?”
Kerry chewed the cap of her pen. “We don’t actually know yet.”
Heinz gestured to the sketch pad. “May I?”
