If only she wasn’t so drop dead gorgeous.I kept that to myself.
We were at the gallery by then. I held the door open for Esme and Madison, who had stopped to pet a dog tied to a tree in front of the building.
The gallery was hopping, filled with art lovers sipping wine and gazing at the paintings. And in the front display window, sitting in a spot of sunlight watching the party with a disdainful glint in his eye? My old friend Poe.
“There he is, Dorian,” Madison said. “I knew he was here.”
Before I could respond, I noticed Delphine walking toward us. She looked spectacular in a dark gray dress that showed off her even more spectacular figure. And those long legs of hers? They made me lightheaded.
Esme had spotted Grady and excused herself before Delphine reached me. I was pretty sure that was on purpose.
“What are you doing here?” Delphine asked.
“I was going to come anyway.” A white lie. I’d wanted to come but had talked myself out of it. “But then Poe went missing. Madison said she saw him saunter in through your back door.”
Her eyes widened. “Poe? Here?”
I pointed toward the window. Poe was now stretched out lengthways with his chin in his paws, looking bored. “He snuck out.”
“And came here?” She smiled, playing with a necklace that hung low on her neck. “I wonder what made him do that?”
“I think he likes you. And he’s never thought too highly of me.”
“He did climb onto my lap. That’s the most male attention I’vehadin a while.” She seemed to immediately regret her words because she quickly suggested coaxing Poe out of the window so I could take him home.
“Would it be all right if I looked at the paintings first?” I asked. “He looks pretty cozy.”
“Yes, of course. Are you an art lover?”
“I like beautiful things in all their forms, whether made by nature or human.”
“You’re in for a treat then. Maren’s pieces are gorgeous.”
She led me over to the first one. I glanced around, seeing that she had them in a specific order, numbered from one to six.
“Are they meant to be seen in numerical order?” I asked.
“That’s what I’d like people to do. They don’t always cooperate. But I think a series has a story to tell, so I arrange them how I think they should go.”
“Does the artist ever disagree?”
“Not so far,” Delphine said.
We stopped in front of the first painting. Although an abstract, I could see right away that it was the sea—dark—almost angry—swirls of navy and charcoal, with thick ridges of paint that caught the gallery lights like actual water. It felt like standing too close to a storm.
“This one feels almost violent,” I said. Not the most articulate observation, but it was honest.
“It’s meant to be. Maren calls this oneSurge. She wants it to hit you before you’re ready.” Delphine stood beside me with her hands clasped in front of her. She was different here. Completely certain and confident. This was clearly her territory. “Most people stop at this one the longest. They’re drawn to the drama.”
“But you don’t want them to stay here.”
She glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, before she moved us to the second piece. This one was darker still, butquieter. Layers of blue so deep they were nearly black, with no horizon line, no sense of where the surface was. Looking at it felt like sinking.
“This one’s calledFathom,” Delphine said. “It’s the ocean at night. No light, no reference point. Just depth.”
“It’s disorienting.”
“That’s the idea.”
