He had looked at her and studied her for a few seconds, his eyes crystal points of interest. “Maybe the artist would trade me for this watch?” He smiled. “I could kill two birds with one Cartier. I’d have the painting to keep me company, and I’d be free of this tyrant on my wrist.”
She studied him for a few long seconds. “You’d trade your watch for that canvas?”
“In a moment,” he said, smiling. “Do you work here?”
“No, but I know the owner.” She had looked around and caught the gallery owner’s eye. He walked over. “Arthur, this is…”
“Reid Dietrich,” Arthur said, smiling his wolfish smile. “Mr. Dietrich is newly arrived in New Orleans and a client of the gallery.”
“He wants to trade his watch for this painting,” she said.
“Well, it’s okay. But there’s the question of how you’d pay me the gallery’s commission.” He stretched up on his tiptoes and crossed his arms. “Possibly the band?”
Reid had blushed. “Your painting? Oh, you’re Laura Masterson? This is embarrassing.”
“No relation to Bat.”
“Dietrich. No relation to Marlene, either.”
They’d both laughed.
“I’ll just pay for the painting. Your husband must be terribly proud of you. Such work is truly amazing.”
“I’m divorced.”
“But the wedding band?”
“Keeps me from having to spend time being chased by men I’d rather avoid. Those awkward moments in the grocery store. I have two children.”
“I’m a widower.” He had fixed his eyes on hers and then touched her hand. “Please excuse me so I can conduct my business with Arthur before someone snatches my St. Sebastian from the wall.”
“I could always paint you another,” she’d said, surprising herself. She realized that she was flirting with Reid and was suddenly embarrassed. He had held her eyes for a few seconds longer and smiled what was, as far as she could discern, a perfect smile.
“Who was the model?” he had asked.
“My ex-husband,” she said.
“Have you considered the subliminal implications?”
“Believe it.”
Reid had written Arthur a check for the fourteen thousand dollars, and a red dot had appeared beside the title placard, signifying that the work had been purchased. Reid often commented that the painting had appreciated three hundred percent since he’d bought it, while the watch had not.
Laura had not been able to talk to him any more that evening because there were so many other people she had to greet and he had disappeared shortly after writing the check. Later in the week she had quizzed Arthur about him. He told her that Reid, a recent New York transplant, was a partner in a company that sold hightech, high-dollar diagnostic machines to hospitals. He was interested in Louisiana artists, came from an old Atlanta family, had a large sailboat on Lake Pontchartrain, and lived in the French Quarter. Most important, he wasn’t gay, though Arthur deemed that a shame.
Weeks later Arthur called her to ask if she would accompany him to Reid’s home and oversee the hanging of the painting, as Mr. Dietrich had requested. His house on Dumaine was four thousand square feet on three floors and filled with antiques and artwork. The house had a private courtyard protected by tall brick walls, and servants’ quarters that he used strictly for storage. The art movers hung St. Sebastian over the carved-marble fireplace in the living room.
She and Arthur had been met at the door by a casually dressed Reid.
In the living room there was a haunting egg-tempera portrait of a woman, painted in a style similar to that of Andrew Wyeth. Arthur said she was the dead wife. “Car wreck,” Arthur had whispered as they passed. “Decapitated,” he added, raising his blond eyebrows for emphasis.
Reid had insisted they stay for sandwiches, but Arthur begged off. Laura had needed to go, too, but when she looked at her watch with the intention of making an excuse, Reid had looked into her eyes and said, “Your drill sergeant?”
They had reclined on the Oriental, eaten pastrami sandwiches, and sipped dry red wine. They had struck up a friendship almost at once, and as if to make a wonderful dinner perfect, the clouds had opened and driving rain had covered the courtyard. He had built a fire below St. Sebastian to chase the damp chill from the room.
They had all but lived together for the past six months, each assuming that they would spend nights in each other’s company unless there was some reason not to. Reid, if not perfection, was as close as men came, to her way of thinking. And available just enough. And love grows.
Reid didn’t talk about the details of his wife’s death, and Laura didn’t ask. He had a way of changing the subject with unequaled grace when conversation strolled too close to something he didn’t care to discuss.
After five years of life without Paul she still dreamed sometimes that he was beside her in bed. She was very fond of Reid, but her soul had been pledged to Paul, and it remained with him despite her attempts to forget him and move forward. She knew she would never remarry strictly for love. Luckily there were enough other reasons so that she might decide to marry. But there was no hurry. Her life was full enough.
7
The Georgetown brownstone was smaller than many of the others on the tree-lined street. Paul smiled at the fact that there was nothing on the outside to offer evidence that the building was occupied by one of the most powerful men in America.
Paul Masterson pressed a white disk beside the outside door, and a short man with mean eyes dressed in a jogging suit opened it and frowned at Paul. “Yes?”
“I’m Paul Masterson,” he said.
“I know who you are. Mr. McMillan is expecting you.”
Paul stepped into the foyer. The floorboards were polished to a mirrorlike finish.
“Wait here and I’ll see where he wishes to receive you.” The man closed the door and slid a bolt into place.
Paul stood and admired a painting depicting several Indians on horseback riding amid a herd of buffalo. Two minutes dragged by, feeling more like twenty, when a door opened and a smiling Jack McMillan entered with an apron on. He walked up and hugged Paul dramatically. “Paul! Come in, boy! How the heck have you been?”
Paul had once decided that if God were to take human form, he’d probably model his appearance on Jack McMillan’s. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus without the facial hair and F.D.R. without the wheelchair. He was six feet tall and had wide shoulders, hands like steel, and a belly that was as flat as sheetrock. Paul knew Jack was in his sixties, but he could have passed for ten years less.
“I need to talk to you,” Paul said as he was released from the grip. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I always have time for you, Paul. Let’s talk inside. I have something going in the kitchen. You eaten?”
“Yes. But I could use a drink.”
Jack was cooking a casserole. He explained that he was having the Speaker of the House for dinner. Jack was married to Martha Hall, a retired actress whose B-movie career comprised three completely forgettable films. Jack had seen one of them, flew his plane out to Hollywood, and three months later came back to Washington with Martha seated beside him. She had been married to him for thirty-five years. Their sons, Terry and Jackson, ran successful businesses. Paul had saved Terry’s life when, as a boy, he’d been swept down a rain-swollen river in Montana. The event had made Paul, a stranger to the McMillans, into a kind of honorary son in Jack’s eyes.
Jack patted the man in the jogging suit on the shoulder. “Artie, get Paul a Scotch and then go watch television while we talk. Martha’s out of town-she’s with Terry in New York. He asks about you. You should call him. How’s Aaron?”
“Mean as a snake,” Paul said. He took the glass of single malt from Artie, and the personal assistant stared blankly at him before he sulked his way out of the room. The Scotch was dark amber, a signal that it had been aged in a sherry cask for seventeen years.