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Matt shoots me a look of surprise. “Wine for you?”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
While I sip the wine, Lita chugs the bottle of water, then crushes the empty container and pitches it into the recycle bin across the room. “Thanks, you guys. For just . . . being here.”
I smile, glad to see her rebounded. “Anytime.”
“So, you’re good now?” Matt asks.
She nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Then, what’re you waiting for?” He fists his hands on his hips, then jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Get out there and slay, girl!”
“Okay, yeah. Dammit, I’m going to.” She stands up, smoothing her blue dress. Then, with her spine straight and shoulders squared, she marches out ahead of us.
Thank you, Matt mouths silently to me. “Join me at the bar?”
I lift my glass in salute. “Lead the way.”
We wend through the clusters of people, and I notice Lita approaching her sculpture display, where a small throng is gathered to look at her art. There is little trace of the anxious woman I consoled in the bathroom. She looks poised and confident and uniquely captivating. I don’t miss the fact that one of the gallery patrons—a hot twenty-something guy wearing jeans and a black oxford with the sleeves rolled up over his tattooed, muscular arms—has taken notice of her too.
With his rugged good looks, shaggy mane of silky dark hair, and bad boy swagger, he’s got former rockstar written all over him. The numerous awestruck side glances and whispers he leaves in his wake as he approaches my friend leave no doubt. To Lita’s credit, the smile she turns on him as he holds out his hand to her in greeting is cool and unaffected.
I shoot her a wink when she briefly looks my way.
Yeah, she’s going to be just fine.
The exhibit has brought an impressive variety of artists and patrons together, and the energy in the room is invigorating. As we head to the bar, Matt and I duck around a little throng of attendees listening indulgently to a young photographer waxing poetic about his love of painted doors as subject matter. Nearby, I hear a textile artist explaining how her sabbatical to Africa inspired the intricate beadwork and woven threads she has incorporated into her work. In another area of the gallery, painters chat up spectators, several of whom I see tapping on tablets and speaking quietly into handheld recorders.
The buzz of conversation and intermittent laughter fills the air—so much so, I hardly register the familiarity of the female voice ordering a very dry martini at the bar as Matt and I break through the crowd.
But Kathryn Tremont’s slender, willowy figure is unmistakable.
I freeze, but it’s too late to avoid her notice.
She turns her head toward me, and her brows lift in surprise over her dark eyes. “Oh. Hello . . . Avery, right?”
“Hi, Kathryn.”
I feel Matt pause beside me in question, but he must sense my unease. Instead of waiting for an introduction, he discreetly moves off to order a drink.
Kathryn’s gaze flicks past me for a second, almost undetectably. “Are you here with Dominic?”
“No. I’m here with friends.”
Am I imagining the subtle shift in her expression when she learns he’s not with me? I know Nick makes her uncomfortable. I saw that the day she bumped into us at lunch. As much as I’m certain he’ll be displeased to know I’m talking to her now, I can’t deny my curiosity about this woman from his past.
The bartender hands Kathryn the martini she ordered, and she leaves a twenty on the bar before turning to give me her full attention. “Quite an interesting exhibition. I wasn’t expecting much when I came here today, but I have to say, I’m intrigued.”
The way she scrutinizes me as she says it makes me wonder if she’s only talking about art. “One of my friends is a mixed media sculptor. Lita Frasier,” I add, gesturing toward the healthy crowd of people assembled near her art. “I came out to support her.”
Kathryn nods, then takes a sip of her cocktail. “Have you got some of your work on exhibit today too?”
The question takes me aback. “No. How do you know I—”
“Jared,” she explains breezily. “He mentioned you a few months ago, after meeting you at Dominic’s gallery.”
She tosses out Jared Rush’s name casually, as if she assumes I’m aware that she and the much younger, successful artist are intimates. I am aware that Kathryn and he share some kind of connection, but the fact that Jared has spoken to her about me is more than a little surprising.
