Page 123 of Flirting with Forever

“You’re scaring me.”

“Where’s Peter?”

“In your office. At least he was fifteen minutes age.”

Cam flew to her office. The disputed Lely painting was tucked behind her door, but Peter was nowhere to be seen. She trotted down the hall.

“Are you looking for the hottie with Johnny Depp eyes?” a college student on the catering crew asked.

“I, um…maybe.”

“Old?” she said, realized her mistake, and flushed. “Older than you, I mean.”

“That’s the one.”

“He told me to tell you he’s with Ada.”

Cam laughed. “Thanks.”

When she stepped into the gallery, Peter was not, in fact, with Ada. He was eyeing a small painting in the corner, next to a couple both looking at their BlackBerrys.

Cam watched him for a moment, the line of his back, the tilt of his head as he considered the work before him, the gleam of light in his hair. Could she remember all that? Could she lock it up in a place where the memory would sit, unmuddied by events, longing or grief, for her to unwrap like a cherished holiday ornament to fill her heart when it was empty?

As if he felt her presence, his shoulders relaxed and he turned. He beamed as she approached, and the other couple drifted off absently, still working their keyboards.

“Ah, true love,” she said as Peter watched their egress.

“I have observed practices that have raised a considerable number of questions for me regarding relationships.”

“You and me both. It’s a religious thing.”

“In truth?”

“Cult of the Self-Absorbed. Every member’s a one-person church. So, what are you looking at?”

He stepped aside to let her see.

“Ah, the Bonnard.” It was one of the many paintings Pierre Bonnard had done of his wife. In a bathroom as luminescent and richly colored as a Matisse, Pierre’s wife, Marte, lay peaceful and still in her shimmering bath. “He always painted her at the same age, no matter how old she’d gotten. It was as if he wanted her frozen in time.” She thought of the gorgeous portrait Peter had done of her, just a few rooms away, and put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “I thank you for my painting.”

“Which part?” he asked, smiling. “Painting it or giving it away?”

“Both. How did you think to go to Ball?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Collectors place an enormous amount of importance on what others think of their paintings. I suspected he’d be open to a timely trade. And he was. He’s a decent cove. A damned fine eye as well. The only problem was your car. I’m afraid the window is, well, shall we say, a trifle out of sorts—which will, perhaps, be more of a problem than I’d originally anticipated, given the incipient snow.”

Cam glanced out the window and saw the steady downfall of white. “Oh, fuck—Oops.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

“But on that topic, here is a question. Could it possibly be considered within the bounds of acceptable behavior here to describe oneself as a fornicator?”

She frowned for a moment, and then it hit her. Ball. She threw her head back and laughed. “Well, only if your parents were as well, I suppose.”

“Ball did mention something to that effect. I could barely summon a reply. When it comes down to it, I suppose all of our parents were, but to state it so unashamedly… ’Tis quite shocking, and yet he seemed to be so proud.”

“It is a mark of distinction—especially where he comes from.”

“I am amazed.”

“Oh, Peter, the painting you did is beautiful. I could see that, even while I was telling Mertons to shove it up his, er, storage facility. Is that really how you see me?”