Now, however, a scant year later, the white light of his realization had dimmed. He still knew there was truth in it-that love, in a sense, was the most important thing-but he no longer saw it as the only true light in the universe. The gradual fading of its priority happened quietly and did not announce itself as a loss. It felt more like the growth of a more realistic perspective, surely not a bad thing. After all, one could not function long in the state of emotional intensity created by the Mellery affair, lest one forget to mow the lawn and buy food-or make the money one needed to buy food and lawn mowers. Wasn’t it in the very nature of intense experiences to settle down, permitting the ordinary rhythms of life to resume? So Gurney wasn’t especially concerned that now, from time to time, the “love is all that matters” idea seemed to have the ring of a sentimental shibboleth, a country-music title.
Which is not to say that his guard was completely down. There was an electricity in Sonya Reynolds that only a very foolish man would consider harmless. And when the pink-haired girl ushered the shapely, elegant Sonya into the dining room, that electricity was radiating like the hum of a power plant.
“David, my love, you look… exactly the same!” she cried, gliding toward him as if to music, offering him her cheek to kiss. “But of course you do! How else would you look? You’re such a rock! Such stability!” This last word she pronounced with an exotic delight, as though it were the perfect Italian term for something the English language was inadequate to express.
She was wearing very tight designer jeans and a silky T-shirt under a linen jacket so casually unconstructed it couldn’t have cost less than a thousand dollars. There was neither jewelry nor makeup to distract from her perfect olive skin.
“What are you looking at?” Her voice was playful, her eyes sparkling.
“You. You look… great.”
“I should be mad at you, you know that?”
“Because I stopped producing pictures?”
“Of course because you stopped producing pictures. Wonderful pictures. Pictures I loved. Pictures my customers loved. Pictures I could sell for you. Pictures I did sell for you. But with no warning you call me and you tell me you can’t do it anymore. You have personal reasons. Can’t make any more pictures, can’t talk about it. End of story. Don’t you think I should be mad at you?”
She didn’t sound mad at all, so he didn’t answer, just watched her, amazed at how much bright energy she managed to channel into every word. It was the first thing that had seized his attention in her art-appreciation class. That and those wide-set green eyes.
“But I forgive you. Because you’re going to make pictures again. Don’t shake your head at me. Believe me, when I explain what’s happening, you won’t shake your head.” She stopped, looked around the little dining room for the first time. “I’m thirsty. Let’s have a drink.”
When the pink-haired girl reappeared, Sonya ordered a vodka with grapefruit juice. Against his better judgment, so did Gurney.
“So, Mr. Retired Policeman,” she said after their drinks had arrived and been sampled, “before I tell you how your life is going to change, tell me about the way it is now.”
“My life?”
“You do have a life, yes?”
He had the disconcerting feeling that she already knew all about his life, complete with its reservations, doubts, conflicts. But there was no way she could know. Even when he was involved with her gallery, he’d never talked about those things. “My life is good.”
“Ah, but you say this in a way that makes it not true, like it’s something you’re supposed to say.”
“Is that the way it sounds?”
She took another sip of her drink. “You don’t want to tell me the truth?”
“What do you think the truth is?”
She cocked her head a little to the side, studied his face, shrugged. “It’s none of my business, right?” She looked out at the pond.
He consumed half his drink in two swallows. “I suppose it’s like everyone’s life-some of this and some of that.”
“You make this-and-that sound like a pretty grim combination.”
He laughed, not happily, and for a while they were both silent. He was the first to speak.
“I find that I’m not so much of a nature lover as I hoped I might be.”
“But your wife is?”
He nodded. “It’s not that I don’t find it beautiful up here, the mountains and all, but…”
She gave him a shrewd look. “But it gets you tangled up in double negatives when you try to explain it?”
“What? Oh. I see what you mean. Are my problems that obvious?”
“Discontent is always obvious, no? What’s the matter? You don’t like that word?”
“Discontent? It’s more like… what I’m good at, the way my mind works, isn’t very useful up here. I mean… I analyze situations, unravel the elements of a problem, focus on discrepancies, solve puzzles. None of which…” His voice trailed off.
“And, of course, your wife thinks you should be loving the daisies, not analyzing them. You should be saying ‘How beautiful!’ and not ‘What are they doing here?’ Am I right?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“So,” she said, changing the subject with sudden enthusiasm, “there’s a man you must meet. As soon as possible.”
“Why is that?”
“He wants to make you rich and famous.”
Gurney made a face.
“I know, I know, you’re not very interested in getting rich, and famous you’re not interested in at all. I’m sure you have good theoretical objections. But suppose I were to tell you something very specific.” She glanced around the dining room. The older couple were standing slowly, as though getting up from the table were a project to be undertaken with care. The BlackBerry couple were still at whatever it was they were at, texting away rapidly with the edges of their thumbs. The antic idea that they might be texting each other across the table popped into Gurney’s mind. Sonya’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Suppose I were to tell you he wants to buy one of your portrait prints for a hundred thousand dollars. What would you say to that?”
“I’d say he was crazy.”
“You think so?”
“How could he not be?”
“Last year at an auction in the city, Yves Saint-Laurent’s office chair sold for twenty-eight million dollars. That might be a little bit crazy. But a hundred thousand for one of your amazing serial-killer portraits? I don’t think that’s crazy at all. Wonderful, yes. Crazy, no. In fact, from what I know of this man and the way he operates, the price of your portraits is only going to go up.”
“You know him?”
“I just met him face-to-face for the first time. But I know of him. He’s a recluse, an eccentric who every so often emerges, shakes up the art world with some purchase or other, then disappears again. Dutch-sounding name, but no one knows where he lives. Switzerland? South America? Seems to like being a man of mystery. Very secretive, but more money than God. When Jykynstyl shows interest in an artist, the financial impact is huge. Huge.”
Cute little Pink Hair had added a chartreuse scarf to her eclectic ensemble and was clearing dessert plates and coffee cups from the vacated table across from them. Sonya caught her eye. “Darling, could I have another vodka grapefruit? And, I think, for my friend here, too?”
Chapter 27