Lilly hated herself for saying yes, but what art lover could turn down an invitation to visit Liam Jenner's house and see his private collection? Not that the invitation had been issued graciously. Lilly had just come in from a Sunday-morning walk when Amy handed her the telephone.
"If you want to see my paintings, come to my house this afternoon at two," he'd barked. "No earlier. I'm working, and I won't answer the bell."
She'd definitely been in L.A. too long, because she almost found his rudeness refreshing. As she turned off the highway and onto the side road he'd indicated, she realized how accustomed she'd grown to meaningless compliments and empty flattery. She'd nearly forgotten that people still existed who said exactly what was on their minds.
She spotted the weather-beaten turquoise mailbox he'd told her to look for. It perched crookedly on a battered metal pole set in a tractor tire filled with cement. The ditch behind the tire held rusted bedsprings and a twisted sheet of corrugated tin, which made the no trespassing sign at the top of the rutted, overgrown lane seem superfluous.
She turned in and slowed to a crawl. Even so, her car lurched alarmingly in the ruts. She'd just decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way when the overgrowth disappeared and fresh gravel smoothed the bumpy road surface. Moments later she caught her breath as the house came into view.
It was a sleekly modern structure with white concrete parapets, stone ledges, and glass. Everything about the design bore Liam Jenner's signature. As she got out of the car and made her way toward the niche that held the front door, she wondered where he'd found an architect saintly enough to work with him.
She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was exactly half an hour late for this command performance. Just as she'd intended.
The door swung open. She waited for him to bark at her for not being on time and was disappointed when he merely nodded, then stepped back to let her in.
She caught her breath. The glass wall opposite the entrance had been constructed in irregular sections bisected by a narrow iron catwalk some ten feet from the ground floor. Through the glass she could see the sweeping vista of lake, cliffs, and trees.
"What an amazing house."
"Thanks. Would you like something to drink?"
His request sounded cordial, but she was even more impressed that he'd traded in his paint-stained denim shirt and shorts for a black silk shirt and light gray slacks. Ironically, his civilized clothes only emphasized the Sturm und Drang of that rugged face.
She declined his offer for a drink. "I'd love a tour, though."
"All right."
The house hugged the terrain in two uneven sections, the larger of which held an open living area, kitchen, library, and cantilevered dining room, with several smaller bedrooms tucked into lower levels. The catwalk she'd seen when she'd entered led to a glass-enclosed tower that Liam told her held his studio. She hoped he'd let her see it, but he showed her only the master bedroom below, a space designed with an almost monastic simplicity.
Magnificent works of art were on display everywhere, and Liam talked about them with passion and discernment. An enormous Jasper Johns canvas hung not far from a contemplative composition in blues and beige by Agnes Martin. One of Bruce Nauman's neon sculptures flickered near the library archway. Across from it hung a work by David Hockney, then a portrait of Liam done by Chuck Close. An imposing Helen Frankenthaler canvas occupied one long wall of the living area, and a totemlike stone-and-wood sculpture dominated a hallway. The very best of the world's contemporary artists were represented in this house. All except Liam Jenner.
Lilly waited until the tour was over and they'd returned to the central living area before she asked about it. "Why haven't you hung any of your own paintings?"
"Looking at my work when I'm not in the studio feels too much like a busman's holiday."
"I suppose. But they'd be so joyous in this house."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then the craggy lines of his face softened in a smile. "You really are a fan, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid so. I bid on one of your paintings a few months ago-Composition #3. My business manager forced me to drop out at two hundred and fifty thousand."
"Obscene, isn't it?"
He looked so pleased that she laughed. "You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn't worth a penny over two hundred thousand. And I'm just beginning to realize how much I hate giving you compliments. You truly are the most overbearing man."
"It makes life easier."
"Keeps the masses at a distance?"
"I value my privacy."
"Which explains why you've built such an extraordinary house in the wilds of northern Michigan instead of Big Sur or Cap d'Antibes."
"Already you know me well."
"You're such a diva. I'm certain I've had my privacy invaded far more than you have, but it hasn't turned me into a hermit. Do you know that I still can't go anywhere without people recognizing me?"
"My nightmare."
"Why is it such a big deal to you?"
"Old baggage."
"Tell me."
"It's an incredibly boring story. You don't want to hear it."
"Believe me, I do." She sat on the couch to encourage him. "I love hearing people's stories."
He gazed at her, then sighed. "The critics discovered me just before my twenty-sixth birthday. Are you sure you want to hear this?"
"Definitely."
He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered toward the windows. "I became the proverbial overnight sensation-on everybody's guest list, the subject of national magazine articles. I had people throwing money at me."
"I remember what that was like."
The fact that she understood what he'd gone through in ways most people couldn't seemed to relax him. He left the windows to sprawl down across from her, dominating the chair he'd chosen in the same way he dominated every space he occupied. She felt a moment of uneasiness. Craig had been overpowering like that.
"It went to my head," he said, "and I started believing all the hype. Do you remember that, too?"
"I was lucky. My husband kept me grounded in reality." Too grounded, she thought now. Craig never understood that she'd needed his praise more than his criticism.
"I wasn't lucky. I forgot that it was about the work, not about the artist. I partied instead of painted. I drank too much. I developed a taste for nose candy and free sex."
"Except sex never is free, is it?"
"Not when you're married to a woman you love. Ah, but I justified my behavior, you see, because she was my true love and all that other sex was meaningless. I justified it because she was having a tough pregnancy, and the doctor had told me to leave her alone until after the baby was born."
Lilly heard his self-contempt. This was a man who judged himself even more harshly than he judged others.
"My wife found out, of course, and did the right thing by walking out on me. A week later she went into labor, but the baby was born dead."
"Oh, Liam…"
He turned away her sympathy with an arch twist of his mouth. "There's a happy ending. She married a magazine editor and went on to have three healthy, well-adjusted children. As for me… I learned an important lesson about what is important and what isn't."
"And you've lived in lonely isolation ever since?"
He smiled. "Hardly that. I do have friends, Lilly. Genuine ones."
"People you've known for a hundred years," she guessed. "Newcomers need not apply."
"I think all of us get set in our friendships as we grow older. Haven't you?"
"I suppose." She started to ask why he'd invited her here, since she was definitely a newcomer, but a more important question was on her mind. "Am I mistaken, or didn't you leave something important out of the house tour?"
He sank deeper into his chair and looked annoyed. "You want to see my studio."
"I'm sure you don't make a habit of opening it up to everyone, but-"