Now You See Her Linda Howard(23)
The most abnormal thing about her was that she saw ghosts, which really wasn't so bad, was it? Like maybe a sixty-seven on a scale of one to ten.
Sweeney snorted. She could stand there and philosophize all day, or she could pack up some canvases and get them over to the gallery.
Because she had said she would, and because it didn't matter which she chose, finally she just picked three at random. She thought they were all equally bad, so what difference did it make?
As an afterthought, she picked up the sketch she had done of the hot dog vendor. She was pleased with that, at least. She had just guessed at how he would have looked at six years of age, as a teenager, as a young man, but she had kept that same sweetness of expression in all the sketches in the collage. She hoped he would like it.
Her mind made up, she left the apartment before she could talk herself into dithering further. The rain the day before had left the air fresh and sweet; after a moment, surprised, Sweeney had to admit the weather forecast had been accurate: it was a beautiful day. That weird chill was gone, chased away by Richard's body heat, and she felt warmer than she had in a long time. If it wasn't for the anxiety that kept gnawing at her, she would have felt great. She decided to enjoy being warm and forget about how she had gotten that way.
The hot dog vendor wasn't in his usual spot. Sweeney stopped, disappointed and unaccountably uneasy. As if she could will it into appearing, she stared at the location where the cart was usually parked. He must be sick, because she had never before walked down this street without seeing him.
Worried, she walked on to the gallery. Kai rose from his desk and came forward to take the wrapped canvases from her. "Great! Candra and I have been talking about you. I can't wait to see what you're doing now."
"Neither can I," Candra said, coming out of her office and smiling warmly at Sweeney. "Don't look so worried. I don't think you're capable of doing a bad painting."
"You'd be surprised what I can do," Sweeney muttered. "Oh, I don't know," drawled a thin, black-clad man with stringy blond hair, sauntering out of Candra's office. "I don't think you've surprised any of us in a long time, darling."
Sweeney stifled a disgusted groan. VanDern. Just the person she least wanted to see.
"Leo, behave yourself," Candra admonished, giving him a stern look.
At least, Sweeney thought, seeing VanDern chased away her anxiety. Hostility overrode anxiety any day of the week. Her eyes narrowed warningly as she looked at him.
Like her mother, he epitomized what she despised most, dramatizing himself by wearing black leather pants, black turtleneck, black Cossack boots. Instead of a belt, a hammered silver chain was draped around his skinny waist. He wore three studs in one ear and a hoop in the other. He was never clean-shaven, but cultivated the three-day-stubble look, expending more energy on appearing not to shave than he would have on shaving. She suspected he went months, certainly weeks, without washing his hair. He could go on for hours about symbolism and the hopelessness of modern society, about how man had raped the universe and how his single glob of paint on a canvas captured the pain and despair of all mankind. In his own opinion, he was as profound as the Dalai Lama. In hers, he was as profound as a turd.
Candra unwrapped the canvases and in silence set them on some empty easels. Sweeney deliberately didn't look at them, though her stomach knotted.
"Wow," Kai said softly. He had said the same thing about her red sweater the day before, but this time the tone was different.
Candra was silent, tilting her head a little as she studied the paintings.
VanDern stepped forward, glancing at the paintings and dismissing them with a sneer. "Trite," he pronounced. "Landscapes. How original. I've never seen trees and water before." He examined his nails. "I may faint from the excitement."
"Leo," Candra said in warning. She was still looking at the canvases.
"Don't tell me you like this stuff," he scoffed. "You can buy pitchers' like this in any discount store in the country Oh, I know there's a market for it, people who don't know anything about art and just want something that's 'purty' but let's be honest, shall we?"
"By all means," Sweeney said in a low, dangerous voice, stepping closer to him. Hearing that tone, Candra snapped her head around, but she was too late to preserve the peace. Sweeney poked VanDern in the middle of his sunken chest. "If we're being honest, any monkey can throw a glob of paint on a canvas, and any idiot can call it art, but the fact is, it doesn't take any talent to do either one. It takes talent and skill to reproduce an object so the observer actually recognizes it."
He rolled his eyes. "What it takes, darling, is a total lack of imagination and interpretive skills to do the same old thing over and over again."
He had underestimated his target. Sweeney had been raised in the art world and by the queen of sly, savage remarks. She gave him a sweet smile. "What it takes, darling"—her tone was an almost exact mimicry of his—"is a lot of gall to pass your kind of con off on the public. Of course, I guess you have to have something to offset your total lack of talent."
"There's no point in this," Candra interjected, trying to pour oil on the waters.
" Oh, let her talk," VanDern said, languidly waving a dismissive hand. "If she could do what I do, she would be doing it, making real money instead of peddling her stuff to the Wal-Mart crowd."