The Good Twin(4)

Now, it seemed like he was an afterthought. That’s why he hadn’t wanted a child so soon. It would push him even farther down the ladder, in her eyes. First, the child, then the gallery—or maybe even the reverse; he couldn’t be sure—and last, him. Being last had never been acceptable. Valedictorian in his high school class, top 5 percent in his college class. Marrying the beautiful and popular Charlotte Jensen was part of the plan to stay on top. Only it hadn’t worked out that way.

He felt no guilt for his affair with Lisa. Like his previous liaisons, it hadn’t been planned. This time, though, it had lasted longer. He’d bumped into Lisa at a Barnes & Noble as they browsed through the books in the history section. He’d recommended the biography she’d had in her hand, and from that, a conversation had ensued, then coffee. It had started so innocently, through their shared interest in historical figures. She knew from the start he was married—the wedding band on his finger announced that fact. They met there again the following week, at the same time. They hadn’t arranged it, but both showed up. He’d been pleased to see her again, and once more, they’d finished their book purchases and then had coffee together. When he’d suggested a drink after work, she’d hesitated only for a moment before accepting his offer. Their affair had begun that night, almost a year ago. He would leave Charly in an instant if it didn’t mean giving up everything he had. Everything he’d gotten so used to.





CHAPTER 3

Wednesday through Sunday were the days I worked. Noon to 10:00 p.m., with an hour off for dinner between 3:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. It was an absurd time for dinner, but that was the slow hour. Usually, I found a stool in the kitchen and sketched, then grabbed a bite just before 5:00 p.m. when it really started to pick up. Mondays and Tuesdays were the days I lived for. That was when I took art classes at the Manhattan Institute of Art, on West Twenty-Third Street in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. It was the reason I came to New York. It was the reason I lived in the boardinghouse. Every dollar I saved went for art classes.

I arrived ten minutes early for my class in portraits and set up my easel next to Brian Swann. Brian was fifty-two, with curly hair that had already begun to have sprinklings of gray and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. More important, he had no interest in dating me, or any other woman, for that matter, which was just what I wanted. I wasn’t going to let myself get distracted by a romance. I was in New York for one reason only—to study art, to become recognized as an artist. I’d put my life on hold for too long in Scranton. Now, I only focused on my goal.

“Hi,” Brian said, as he leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “You doing good?”

I smiled at him. “Just peachy.” I went to the storeroom in the back and rummaged through the canvases until I found mine. The model for the past three classes had been a woman in her seventies, her face filled with creases, her hair a silver white, her eyes a pale green. She dressed the same for each class—a flowing emerald-green gown, a necklace dangling down her neckline that I assumed was rhinestones, a similar bracelet on her right wrist, and draped over her lap, a silk scarf in colors of magenta, turquoise, puce, and gold. I found my canvas, then returned to my space and set it up on the easel. The first two classes we’d focused on drawing her; then last week we’d begun to paint.

The remaining students straggled in over the next few minutes, a total of fourteen, ranging in age from early twenties to one woman, Clara, who proudly proclaimed at the start of the new class that she was ninety years young. When they were all settled at their easels, Professor Greenblatt strode in. He was thirty-two years old, with long, almost black, wavy hair that he wore pulled back into a ponytail. With his aquiline nose, full lips, and thickly lashed eyes, I thought he was dreamy. When I allowed myself to fantasize about a relationship, I pictured his face. I suspected every other woman in the class, except perhaps Clara, felt the same way.

“Come by for dinner tonight,” Brian whispered. “Stan is making boeuf bourguignon.”

It was tempting. I liked Brian’s husband, and he was a gourmet cook. Even if he weren’t, just getting away from The Dump was a treat. I’d planned, though, to stop by the art gallery that Findly had mentioned. I’d looked it up, and it was only a few blocks away, near West Twenty-Seventh Street. I knew it was silly, but he’d made me curious. It was in the opposite direction from Brian’s apartment, though. Still, I supposed I could go to the gallery anytime.

“Sure,” I answered, just before the teacher began to speak.



When the class finished, I headed with Brian to his condominium in the West Village. As soon as I walked into the apartment, I was bombarded with the rich odor of beef cooking in a wine sauce. I headed into the brightly lit kitchen, where Stan stood over the stove. Stan’s bulbous nose matched his bushy, carrot-colored hair. “Thanks for the invite. It smells yummy.”

“Glad you could make it, sweetie.”

It was funny, I thought. Whenever any other man called me sweetie, or another term of endearment, I bristled. But not with Stan. He was so affectionate with everyone—man or woman—that it never seemed offensive.

“I would have brought something if I’d known in advance.”

“Oh, honey, I’m just glad to see you. You never need to bring anything.”