The Shape of Night(37)

    “Donna Branca and Ben Gordon—are they, um, involved?” I ask Ned.

“Involved?”

“I mean are they seeing each other?”

He frowns at me. “Why do you ask?”

“She seemed a little peeved when she saw me and Ben together the other day.”

“Are you seeing him?”

“I’m just curious about him. He was kind enough to make a house call after I fainted last week.”

For a long time Ned doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I, the outsider, have blundered into some forbidden topic. In a town as small as Tucker Cove, everyone knows each other so well that every romance must seem halfway incestuous.

“I thought you had a fellow down in Boston,” he says.

“What fellow?”

“I heard you talking on the phone to someone named Simon. I assumed…”

I laugh. “He’s my editor. And he’s married, to a very nice man named Scott.”

“Oh.”

“So he’s definitely not a prospect.”

Ned eyes me curiously. “Are you looking for one?”

I survey the men in the gallery, some of them attractive, all of them very much alive. It’s been months since I’ve felt any interest in the opposite sex, months during which all desire has been in hibernation.

“Maybe I am.” I pick up a fresh flute of champagne and head into the next room, weaving past women in little black dresses. Like them, I too am a summer visitor, but in this crowd I feel like an outsider. Neither a Mainer nor an art collector, but in a category all my own: the cat lady who lives in the haunted house. I haven’t eaten dinner, the champagne has gone straight to my head, and the room seems too noisy, too bright. Too full of art. I scan the walls, eyeing muddy abstracts and giant photos of old cars. I truly hope I don’t hate Ben Gordon’s paintings because I’m not a good enough liar to pull off a fake love your work! Then I spot a telltale red dot affixed to one of the frames, indicating it’s been sold and I understand at a glance why someone would pay $2,500 for this piece. The painting captures the sea in all its liquid turmoil, the waves wind-tossed, the horizon an unsettling smear of storm clouds. The artist’s signature, B. Gordon, is almost hidden in a swirl of green water.

    Hanging beside it is another B. Gordon painting, still available for purchase. Unlike the ominous seascape, this image is of a beach with calm water lapping at the pebbles. The image seems so realistic it might be mistaken for a photograph, and I lean in closer to confirm the brushstrokes. Every detail, from the tree with its tortuously twisted trunk, to the seaweed-clad rocks, to the shoreline curving to a rocky exclamation point of an island, tells me this is a portrait of a real place. I wonder how many hours, how many days he sat painting on this beach as shadows grew and daylight faded.

“Do I dare ask for your opinion, or should I just slink away now?”

I’ve been so enchanted by the painting, I didn’t notice that Ben is standing right beside me. Despite the press of people all around us, he is focused only on me, and his gaze is so intent I’m forced to turn away. I look instead at his painting.

“I’ll be absolutely honest with you,” I tell him.

“I guess I should brace myself.”

“When you told me you were an artist, I didn’t imagine your paintings would be this good. It seems so real I can feel the pebbles under my feet. It’s almost a shame you became a doctor instead.”

“Well, medicine wasn’t my first choice.”

“Then why did you go through all those years of training?”

    “You’ve been in my office. You saw the photos of my dad and my grandfather. It seems like there’s always been a Dr. Gordon in Tucker Cove, and who was I to break the tradition?” He gives a rueful laugh. “My father used to tell me I could always paint in my spare time. I wasn’t brave enough to disappoint him.” He stares at the seascape as if seeing his own life in those turbulent green waters.

“It’s never too late to be a rebel.”

For a moment we smile at each other as the crowd mills around us and harp music floats through the room. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns to face a trim brunette who’s just ushered an older couple to meet him.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Ben, but this is Mr. and Mrs. Weber from Cambridge. They’re very impressed by your piece View from the Beach and they wanted to meet the artist.”

“Is this painting a real location?” Mrs. Weber asks. “Because it looks just too perfect.”

“Yes, it’s a real beach, but I cleaned it up a little. Left out the flotsam. I always choose real locations to paint.”

As the Webers move in for a closer view and to pitch more questions, I retreat to let Ben close the sale. He snags my arm and murmurs, “Can you stay a bit, Ava? Maybe we can get a bite together later?”

I don’t have time to think about it because the Webers and the brunette are both watching us. I just give a nod and move on.

Dinner with my doctor. Not what I was expecting tonight.

I wander the room, sipping champagne and mulling whether I’ve read more than I should into Ben’s invitation. It’s eight o’clock and the gallery is now so crowded I can’t get close enough to view the most popular items in the collection. I don’t count myself as an art expert but I do know what I like, and there are a few treasures to admire. A red sticker now adorns Ned’s puffin carving, and he’s been backed into a corner by a woman wearing a bright purple caftan. After too many nights spent alone in my house on the hill, I feel as if I’ve finally emerged from a coma. For this I have Ben Gordon to thank.