Paul snorted. “Too easy. Everyone likes Monet.”
He should have known the man was too smart to buy his feeble answer. Alex leaned back against the leather seat and considered how much to tell without appearing arrogant and bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. He recalled his first exposure to art, a cherished gift given to him by his mother. “Well, when I was a child I had a book illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. As I grew older, I developed a great appreciation forStars.”
Misunderstanding the reference, Paul replied with a puzzled expression, “A nude female?”
“It wasn’t the ‘nude’ part.” Alex contemplated the city passing outside the car window, the darkening evening the perfect shade of blue he remembered from the print, the lights reminiscent of the stars for which the artist named it. “I think it was more the woman’s wistful expression as she gazed up at the night sky.” Without knowing why, he voiced a sentiment he’d never before shared with anyone. “I believed I knew exactly how she felt. I’ve done the same thing, imagining myself anywhere but where I was.”
“Was your childhood that bad?” Paul asked quietly.
Alex turned to face Paul, his gaze falling into a pair of sympathetic brown eyes. He hated whining about his “poor little rich kid” upbringing, but the truth was, he’d spent a lot of years envious of less financially blessed friends and their close-knit, loving families. “Imagine growing up where you could have anything you wanted for the asking.”
“Many kids dream of that sort of thing.”
“Yeah? What if you lived in a sterile world without loving arms or kind words? Your only contact a bunch of perfect, painted dolls, and the only conversation based on what you should and shouldn’t do, and how to be a proper Anderson.”
Paul winced. “Doesn’t sound too thrilling when you put it that way.”
The conversation stalled until Alex said, “Tchaikovsky.”
“What?”
“You asked me who my favorite artist was. Art takes many forms, you know.” The corners of Paul’s mouth quirked up in a smile, and Alex knew he’d hit on yet another favorite topic.
“You like Tchaikovsky? Not Beethoven or Bach?”
Once again they’d found common ground on a topic. Few of Alex’s friends shared his passions if, indeed, they possessed any besides partying, spending their family’s money, and bragging over conquests. Paul, apparently, held many passions. Alex settled in for what he hoped might prove a lively debate. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay, just overexposed, and they never matched the fire of Russian composers, in my opinion. Who’s your favorite?”
Their earlier conversation about books came to mind when Paul asked, “What genre?”
Alex should have known. The man probably once held the title of official high school geek. A sexy geek, but a geek nonetheless. That whole “President of the Chess Club” thing lurked in Alex’s own past, however, so he wasn’t in a position to point fingers. He’d still bet scholarly Paul beat him in the geek department. “Don’t tell me you took Music Appreciation.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Paul replied with a grin.
Surprised? No. Impressed? Yes.“What do you play?
“Violin.” Paul’s eyes lit with passion as they always did when discussing a topic of personal interest. “I started playing when I was nine, right after my father died.” His sudden frown and averted eyes gave warning enough of his revisiting a painful memory.
Before Alex could offer words of comfort, the vehicle pulled to a stop in an older, trendy section of town. Alex stepped from the car and reached back to help Paul, only to find the driver already there. He nearly growled at the proprietary hand Isaac placed on Paul’s back, quickly schooling his frown into a more neutral expression—they were in public, after all. If nothing else, his pretentious grandparents had taught him how to keep up appearances.
He stood on the sidewalk waiting patiently for Paul, and together they passed under the twinkling lights and greenery-shrouded arbor leading into the stucco building housing the gallery.
Curious eyes observed their entrance, and they were immediately approached by a waiter who smiled and held out a tray filled with glasses of champagne, his wink and flirtatious grin offering Alex more than a beverage. A few weeks ago, the offer would have been gladly accepted. Now, Alex had no such inclinations. A quick glance to his right showed Paul was oblivious to the exchange, busy speaking with an elderly matron, and for some unfathomable reason, Alex felt relieved.
He soon found himself caught up in the colorful displays carefully arranged around the studio. He hadn’t been honest with Paul about his appreciation for the arts but didn’t want to flaunt his wealth by disclosing the priceless classical pieces housed in Boston or the recently acquired collection of Kandinsky woodcuts for his condo. Composers weren’t the only things he admired hailing from Russia.
Alex hadn’t known what to expect when asked to attend the opening, having never before heard of Edmond Strickland. Perusing a diverse collection of oils, watercolors, and sculptures, he respected the quality of the works on display and seriously considered adding a painting or two to his growing collection. One piece in particular caught his eye, and he wandered over for closer inspection: a beach at sunset, a storm gathering on the horizon. The somber grays, blues, and blacks of the oil-painted canvas created a striking contrast to the more vivid pinks and purples, and a single ray of golden sunlight penetrated a dark cloud, like hope shining through bleak circumstance.
Mesmerized, he imagined the roar of crashing waves battering the shoreline. In his mind’s eye, brilliant flashes of lightning descended from a particularly sinister cloud, illuminating the tableau in whites, purples, and blues. A droning roll of thunder wouldn’t have been out of place. The mastery enthralled him.
When his active imagination again conjured lightning from the violently roiling heavens, for one brief moment Alex spotted a solitary figure walking along the water’s edge—a man with flame-red hair. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he looked again, but saw only an extraordinary rendering of a stormy shoreline, nothing more.
“Yes, that’s one of my favorites too,” an intrusive voice said from his left. “I’m drawn to the whole somber ambiance.”
Whole somber ambiance? What an overinflated prick!Alex glanced over his shoulder to find a rather smallish man with dark-blond hair, artfully arranged to stand at attention, each dagger-like spike tipped in navy blue. Unlike most of the well-attired guests, this man was dressed simply, in dark gray slacks and a lightweight sweater that blended well with the colors of the painting. The newcomer sipped champagne while studying the canvas, head cocked attentively to the side.
Agitation at being interrupted subsiding for the sake of good manners, Alex inquired with feigned interest, “What draws you to it?”
“Well,” the stranger answered with a hesitant smile, “this piece brings back a special memory for me. I’ve always loved the beach, and one day a sick friend wanted to go, even though the forecast called for bad weather. So we—some other friends and I—bundled him up and drove down the coast, arriving about the same time the storm did. We found a little café and watched it roll in while we enjoyed coffee and bagels.” He added wistfully, “That was the last outing I enjoyed with my friend.” After a moment he recovered from his obviously unpleasant thoughts enough to ask, “What do you see?”
