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“Gorgeous, right?” a voice says by my right.
I answer without taking my eyes off her. “Yes, she really is.”
The man’s laughter is deep and surprised. “Well, I was actually talking about the painting behind her.Justice. There’s anger in it, too, can you see that?”
I chuckle and turn to the man beside me. He’s a head taller than me, in a navy linen shirt and with a beard that looks artfully unkempt. “There is, yes. Perhaps justice is often accompanied by anger. Anger at the things that aren’t so.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “The fantastic thing is that she managed to capture it in an abstract. I haven’t met a painter quite like her, ever, I think.”
“Nadine has always been talented at that. Making you feel things with her art.”
He smiles, then, and his dark brown eyes are warm. “So you’re the best friend. I suspected you were, but you also looked like you were contemplating a painting, and I didn’t know if you were a prospective buyer.”
“Best friend,” I say and stick out my hand. “And prospective buyer.”
He shakes it. “Supportive. I like that. I’m Jake.”
“Cecilia,” I say, my smile widening. So this is the messy closet-owner. “I heard you were instrumental in getting this gallery showing off the ground?”
He gives a half-smile. “I was there when Nadine pitched her art, yes. But I didn’t do any heavy lifting, believe me. My colleagues were almost as enamored by the portfolio she showed us as I was.”
My smile widens, watching as his eyes return to Nadine. There’s true appreciation in them. I wonder if it’s more than just for her art. Who should really organize his closet?
“She’s always evolving, too.” Pride laces my voice. “For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been experimenting with different mediums and expressions.”
“You two have been friends for a long while, right?”
“Yes. I think it’s… fourteen years now. Yes. Fourteen years exactly next month. We were neighbors, once upon a time.”
His smile widens. “Nothing like old friends.”
“No, and you can’t make new old friends,” I say.
“An unfortunate truth.” His gaze catches on something behind me. “Oh, someone’s coming our way. I wonder if management sent someone new?”
I know who it is before I turn, based on that comment alone. And yes. There he is, striding through the gallery, dark suit tailored to his tall, strong form.
“He’s with me,” I say.
Victor puts his arm around me and presses a kiss to my temple. The simple, brief touch stuns me. He extends a hand toward Jake and speaks in clipped tones.
“Victor St. Clair. Cecilia’s husband.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Jake says, shaking his hand. His gaze travels between us and then he takes a step back. “It was lovely talking to you, Cecilia.”
“Likewise,” I say. “I’m happy you were there that day when Nadine pitched her art.”
His smile deepens. “So was I. I’ll catch you later.”
The moment he’s out of earshot, I round on Victor. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he asks, his face a study in bored professionalism.
“You introduced yourself as my husband.”
“Isn’t that what I am?” He strolls toward one of the giant abstracts on the wall, one I’m familiar with. It’sCharity.
“Yes, but not inthatsense of the word.”
