Brian, p.5
Brian, page 5
“What kind of questions? I can’t imagine Harper’s in trouble with the FBI.”
“She’s not in trouble.”
Yet.
“We’re simply following up on some information we’ve been provided. I’m curious,” Gage smiled at the woman, turning on the charm, “I know Ms. Westbrook is an artist. I hear she’s preparing for a showing in Austin.”
Simone nodded, waving around the hand holding the cigarette. “Yes, yes. Esme Dubois raves about her work. Claims she’s gained a local following and has gotten several commissioned pieces. Esme knows I love to find and nurture new and upcoming artists, so we planned for her to come out. Only the scheduling got screwed up, and Harper ended up coming the same night as our charity auction.”
“So, this was a planned meeting, between you and Ms. Westbrook?” Brian watched Simone closely, watching for any telltale signs of deception. Other than her initial shock at learning he worked for the FBI, she hadn’t seemed phased. Of course, she might be an accomplished liar, good at hiding her emotions.
“Absolutely. As a matter of fact, I’m supposed to meet her tomorrow morning. Esme couldn’t come tonight, but she’ll be here tomorrow, so we can discuss Harper’s work. Personally, I’ve only seen photographs, but if her work is as good as Esme says, I’d say Harper’s got a bright future ahead of her.”
“Excellent. Is it unusual for two different gallery owners to express interest in, what would you call it, mentoring the same artist?”
“Unusual, yes, but not unheard of.” Simone gave Gage a flirtatious smile. “I’ll only agree to mentorship if the artist is extraordinary. I’ve only done it a few times and have never shared in sponsoring an artist. Truthfully, I’m simply doing a favor for a friend. Chances are good while Harper may be a good artist, I’ll probably turn down the opportunity. Unless she’s willing to relocate to Flagstaff and sign an exclusive contract with my gallery, it’s unlikely to transpire.” Simone stood and ground out the glowing tip of her cigarette in a decorative ashtray on her desktop. “Now, gentlemen, unless you have any further questions, I really need to get back to my guests. The women’s shelter needs the donations, and I’m very good at loosening people’s purse strings.”
Brian knew they weren’t going to get anything else from Simone tonight. She hadn’t acted like Harper was anything more than what she appeared, an artist trying to establish her career. Though, he’d like to talk to Esme Dubois, since she seemed to be the puppet master pulling the strings behind the scenes. It would be interesting to get her take on Harper.
“Guess we’re staying in Flagstaff overnight, right?”
Brian nodded and headed toward the front door. Good thing they’d already secured rooms. One less thing to worry about.
“I wish I knew where and why Harper disappeared. I’d think she’d be right in her element, with other people who love art.”
Gage walked beside him, and they rounded the corner and walked across the parking lot toward their rental car. “Probably not. From what I’ve seen in my research, most artists are solitary people, wanting to be alone to work with their muse. Not saying they can’t be extraverts, but most of them would rather stay out of the spotlight. Unless, of course, they’re narcissists. They we’re talking a whole different kind of nutjob.”
“Harper isn’t a narcissist. Nor is she a sociopath.” Brian practically growled the words, frustration eating at him. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned, especially since she’d managed to give them the slip. A slight doubt niggled at the back of his mind—had she done it deliberately, knowing she was being watched? He’d made sure to stay out of sight, but maybe she’d felt eyes on her anyway.
“I’m reserving judgment. Don’t get me wrong, man, I really hope she’s as innocent as a little lamb, just for Ms. Patti’s sake. And Jill’s, because she’s her best friend.”
“Yeah. Might as well head to the hotel, check in, and get a little work done. I plan on being back here bright and early. I don’t plan on missing the meeting.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ve got a few calls to make, too, before we call it a night.” Gage stretched his legs out in front of him and buckled his seatbelt. “You’re really gone on this girl, aren’t you?”
Brian glanced over, noting that Gage’s eyes were closed as he slumped in the seat, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“No. Yes. Okay, maybe. There’s something about Harper. I can’t describe it, can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t believe she’s involved in something this heinous. There’s a lightness to her you don’t see every day. I know, I sound like an idiot.”
“Nope, I get it. Felt the same about a woman like Harper before. Sweet, kind. I thought she was the one, right up to the point where she ripped my heart out and stomped on it before she walked away. I hate to think I’m not seeing the true Harper because of my past. I’ll try to do better. I just don’t want you to be hurt if it turns out Harper’s not as squeaky clean as you think.”
“Whatever we find, I’ll deal. Because I don’t want to be the cause of another man being killed because I made a mistake.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Now, remember, Simone might seem like a lovely person, but underneath all her calm and cool demeanor lies a shark. If she likes you, you’re golden. But cross her, and she’ll chew you up into itsy-bitsy pieces.”
Harper took a deep breath, as the car service Esme had secured to take them to Simone’s gallery pulled up in front of the unassuming-looking building. By the light of day, it didn’t have the same je ne sais quoi she’d perceived the prior evening. Of course, last night high rollers and big-time investors had been milling around, perusing and bidding on beautiful pieces of artwork. She’d been in awe of some of the magnificent creations she’d seen on display, and immediately was hit with a huge dose of imposter syndrome. No way, no how, did she belong in the same gallery as these true artists, and she’d felt like the biggest fraud.
Today, in the light of day and with reality setting it, she knew this meeting with Simone could be a make it or break it proposition. Esme raved about the other woman, claiming she had the kind of connections Harper dreamed about, and getting the chance to be promoted by Simone was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. She wiped her palms against her skirt, trying to hide her nervousness.
“Not exactly the words of encouragement I need, heading into one of the biggest meetings of my life, Esme. Aren’t you supposed to be my cheerleader, doing the whole rah-rah, you’re gonna do great, Simone’s gonna love your work, Harper cheer? Because right now I feel like I want to throw up.”
“Harper, you’ve earned this chance. You’ve worked hard. Every single piece you’ve placed in my gallery has sold. My biggest criticism is you don’t produce enough work fast enough.”
“You know I need to keep my job, at least until I’ve got enough saved to cover the bills for several months. I wish I was the type who could throw caution to the wind and live carefree, without wondering where their next paycheck might come in. But I can’t. That’s not me.”
And never will be again. I can’t go back to that life. I’ll keep the miserable insurance company job for the rest of my life, if it means I don’t have to go back.
Esme stopped on the sidewalk in front of the gallery’s door and turned to face Harper, placing her hands on Harper’s shoulders. “I wish I had connections with the movers and shakers, but my gallery is small and hasn’t been around long enough to have the kind of cachet and reputation Simone’s does. I have confidence in your work and in you, Harper. You are going places and with the right backer, you’ll be able to demand top dollar for your work. In a few years, you could well be a recognized name in the artworld.”
“No pressure, right?”
Esme smiled and pulled Harper close in a quick hug. “You are going to nail this. Simone might be a shark, but she’s also got some of the best instincts in the business. I knew the minute I sent her photos of your paintings she was hooked. Now all you need to do is go in there and seal the deal. I’ll be right here, just in case, but I know you—you’re gonna rock her world.”
Harper blew out a short breath and, not for the first time, wondered if she’d lost her mind. It seemed like yesterday when she’d run into Esme juggling those two paintings outside a building in Austin. Now here she was, getting ready to go into a meeting with somebody who could make all her dreams a reality.
“I’m ready.”
“Good girl.”
Harper pulled open the door and walked inside, the air conditioning cool against her skin. Arizona heat was similar to Texas, the kind that slapped you in the face, and you are intimately aware the temperature is one step away from standing inside a gigantic oven. Simone kept her gallery at a chilly seventy degrees. A necessity when dealing with artwork, because paintings ideally needed to be kept in a climate-controlled environment. Harper knew there’d be humidifiers as well, because the artwork in the gallery was worth a small fortune.
Though the gallery’s front door had been unlocked, Harper didn’t spot anybody inside the main room. She turned to Esme. “Are we early?”
Esme shook her head. “We’re right on time. Ah, there she is.” She gestured toward a doorway off to the right. Simone stood silhouetted against the stark whiteness of the walls, her dark hair framing her face, a slash of bright red lipstick on her mouth. Dressed in a sleek black leather catsuit, she would have fit fabulously on a fashion runway in Europe or during New York’s fashion week. Harper grinned, knowing if she’d been wearing the same outfit, she’d look more like the villain out of a comic book.
“Ladies, welcome. Forgive the mess, we’re still recovering from last night’s soiree. Come, make yourselves comfortable in my office. I just need to relock the door. We don’t want anybody walking in and disturbing our meeting—or walking out with anything they shouldn’t.”
Within minutes, they were seated across from Simone’s desk, a tray of hot tea and macarons in front of them, which had been delivered by her assistant. Despite the cool temperature, Harper’s palms were clammy with sweat. She hadn’t felt this nervous in forever. Of course, she’d never been in a situation where the person across from her literally held her future in the palm of her hand.
No pressure, right?
“You know last night’s event was fabulous. I swear I’m stealing some of your ideas for my next exclusive gathering.” Esme sipped her tea, seeming calm, cool, and collected. Harper envied her friend the ease with which she transitioned from girl next door friendly to suave and sophisticated gallery owner.
“It turned out better than I hoped, and raised a lot of funds for the charity, which was the goal. We moved several pieces, including one to Zachary Bennett. His showing up was a nice surprise.”
“A bit of a coup, having him attend. Since he’s living in Dallas now, I hope I’ll be able to lure him to my gallery.” Esme reached over and patted Harper’s arm. “Would you like to see some of Harper’s work? We brought a couple of original pieces. Photographs are nice, but it’s not the same as seeing the real thing, is it?”
Simone carefully placed her cup onto the tray and dabbed at her lips with the linen napkin before turning and smiling at Harper. “I will admit, the photographs of your work piqued my interest. How long have you been painting?”
“On and off from the time I was seventeen, though I didn’t get into it seriously until I turned twenty.”
“And you’re what? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
“Actually, I’m thirty.”
Simone studied her face, and it took everything Harper had to sit still and quiet, because the intensity in the other woman’s gaze was not only nerve wracking, it was also intimidating.”
“Good bone structure and a great moisturizing routine.” She smiled again and this time it lit her face, turning her from striking to gorgeous. Something must have shown on Harper’s face, because Simone quickly added, “Probably a little more personal than you were expecting, right?”
“A bit, but it’s a nice compliment. Thank you.”
“Okay. Pleasantries out of the way, let’s get down to business.” She held her hand out. “Let me see your artwork.”
Harper turned in her chair and grabbed the large tote she’d hung on the back of her chair. The canvases were unmounted and rolled into long tubes to help protect them and make them easier to transport. Her hands shook as she handed them over to Simone. Even though she had several sales under her belt, even had a patron who ordered work, she wasn’t used to having her work scrutinized by a professional critic. Because that’s what it boiled down to; Simone was judging her. Judging her work. Deciding if she was the real deal or a pathetic hack who’d had a couple of lucky breaks and should pack her bags and head home with her tail between her legs.
Opening the cardboard tube, Simone pulled free the first picture, and Harper fought to keep from throwing up. She felt like the biggest imposter. Would anybody in their right mind think her work was good enough, especially somebody who knew what good art was? Seriously, Simone owned a prestigious gallery, had connections with the finest galleries and museums in New York and London. Esme reached across and squeezed her hand, as if she felt Harper’s tension, and just the small gesture helped her take a normal breath.
“This is good.” Simone studied the unfurled canvas, tilting it to get better light exposure. It was a piece Harper had finished six months earlier, the shadings subtle and nuanced. Softer than many of her other landscapes, the pinks and purples, yellows and oranges of the sunrise peeking through the branches of the strong oak tree, standing in solitary splendor gave a picture of hope and a promise of a beautiful day approaching. She was particularly proud of that piece. The painting was done during a time when she’d lost a friend to cancer, had watched her struggle, and bravely face every day as a new challenge, never wavering or giving up hope. Gretchen always looked at life as a gift with endless possibilities and hope. This picture reminded her of her friend, and she missed her every day.
“I thought you might like that one,” Esme smiled. “It’s an amazing scene, pulls at the emotions. Not many artists can do landscapes that don’t look like they’re paintings for cheap motel décor. Harper tugs at the heartstrings, evokes emotions and brings forth memories. That is a special gift.”
“Like I said, it’s good. Let me look at the next one.”
Harper knotted her hands together. This was the part of the business she hated. Give her paint, give her a canvas and she was in heaven. Having to deal with pleasing somebody else? Ugh.
Simone lifted the second painting high, studying it intently. While still being a landscape, it was the complete opposite of the first. Where the other painting was light, a breath of sweetness into the upcoming day, this was dark and gloomy. Probably because it reminded her of home, Harper couldn’t help thinking. The bald cypress trees dotted both sides of a murky bayou scene. Spanish moss draped from the gnarled branches, giving the appearance of melted candle wax dripping from branches overhanging the brackish water. A half-submerged log protruded from the water, and the full moon’s glow reflected off its murky depths. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight, and touched her heart, making her feel homesick, although Harper had no intention of ever going back to northern Louisiana. She’d run as far and as fast as she could away from every memory of her hometown and had never looked back.
“I truly love this. The depth and despair are almost palpable. I can feel the torment and anguish with every stroke. Stunning.” Simone ran a fingertip across the water, as though she could feel the wetness beneath her touch.
“Right? That’s my favorite of everything Harper’s done. You can almost smell the brackish saltwater wafting off the bayou, hear the crawdad’s singing.”
Harper’s eyes widened at Esme’s description. She’d never mentioned it was her favorite painting.
“Tell me, Harper, what makes you concentrate on landscapes? I’ll be honest, they are a hard sell for serious collectors. Most want more contemporary works; abstracts, thought-provoking and original work crafted by unique and up-and-coming geniuses. Vivid colors, bold strokes, provocative images that pull the viewer into the piece. They want to have an emotional connection with the air gracing their walls. Landscapes, while beautiful, need to have something—different—to gain a foothold in today’s collectors’ market.”
Harper almost winced at Simone’s words. She’d heard it before, from Esme, as well as connoisseurs who felt her stuff was too pedestrian for their tastes and their collections. Landscapes didn’t touch the soul, she’d been told. Not unless it was a place they were familiar with, which wasn’t what Harper painted. She wanted to paint the beauty of nature, evoke the imagery provided by Mother Nature herself, because when she looked around, she saw beauty. Sometimes it was renewal or rebirth, something as simple as a flower peaking up through a clod of dirt. Or tiny bird eggs in a raggedy nest, perched on the limb of a dying tree. Art should be about evoking emotion, touching the soul. Not about making the most money or being the biggest and newest thing to come along since the last popular flash in the pan. Harper wanted her work to stand the test of time. To be hung on the walls of a home, and bring joy for decades, and not be up for a year or two, until the latest decorating fad said it was passe.
“I love the subtlety landscapes bring. The nuances and shades nature in all its glory presents. I feel that it’s such an undervalued medium. A well-done landscape or seascape should tug on your emotions, make you want to step into the painting. Feel like you are right there, in the moment, in the location.”
The corners of Simone’s lips tugged upward at the corners. “Good answer. And I happen to agree. Landscapes have been out of fashion for a while, but I believe with the right artist they can have a revival. I think you have the talent. The big question is do you have the drive? The drive to climb to the top, to be noticed by collectors and reputable galleries takes more than talent. It takes a certain kind of desperation. A hunger that goes beyond simply putting paint on a canvas. It takes a raging fire burning deep inside that can’t be quenched.”
