Impossible

Life is an art form.

Two hopelessly mismatched people—

Is it possible that this is love?

Impossible … or not?

IMPOSSIBLE

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“Steel pulls out all the emotional stops … She delivers.”—Publishers Weekly“Steel is one of the best!”—Los Angeles Times“The world's most popular author tells a good, well-paced story and explores some important issues … Steel affirm[s] life while admitting its turbulence, melodramas, and misfiring passions.”—Booklist“Danielle Steel writes boldly and with practiced vividness about tragedy—both national and personal … with insight and power.”—Nashville Banner“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—Pittsburgh Press“One of the things that keeps Danielle Steel fresh is her bent for timely storylines … the combination of Steel's comprehensive research and her skill at creating credible characters makes for a gripping read.”—Newark Star-Ledger“What counts for the reader is the ring of authenticity.”—San Francisco Chronicle“Steel knows how to wring the emotion out of the briefest scene.”—People“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner“Danielle Steel has again uplifted her readers while skillfully communicating some of life's bittersweet verities. Who could ask for a finer gift than that?”—Philadelphia Inquirer

PRAISE FOR THE RECENT NOVELS OF

DANIELLE STEELIMPOSSIBLE“Dramatic, suspenseful … Steel knows what her fans want and this solid, meaty tale will not disappoint them.”—BooklistMIRACLE“Steel is almost as much a part of the beach as sunscreen and jellyfish.”—New York Post“Another Steel page-turner. Three strangers' lives become linked after a terrible storm ravages northern California.”—Lowell SunECHOES“Courage of conviction, strength of character and love of family that transcends loss are the traits that echo through three generations of women …a moving story that is Steel at her finest.”—Chattanooga Times Free Press“Get out your hankies … Steel put her all into this one.”—Kirkus Reviews“A compelling tale of love and loss.”—BooklistSECOND CHANCE“Vintage Steel”—St. Paul Pioneer Press“Gazillions of readers around the globe worship Steel's books.”—New York PostRANSOM“This suspense novel has automatic appeal for Steel fans.”—Booklist“A surefire best seller.”—New York Daily NewsA MAIN SELECTION OF

THE LITERARY GUILD

AND THE DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

Also by Danielle Steel

TOXIC BACHELORS ACCIDENT MIRACLE VANISHED ECHOES MIXED BLESSINGS SECOND CHANCE JEWELS RANSOM NO GREATER LOVE SAFE HARBOUR HEARTBEAT JOHNNY ANGEL MESSAGE FROM NAM DATING GAME DADDY ANSWERED PRAYERS STAR SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ ZOYA THE COTTAGE KALEIDOSCOPE THE KISS FINE THINGS LEAP OF FAITH WANDERLUST LONE EAGLE SECRETS JOURNEY FAMILY ALBUM THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET FULL CIRCLE THE WEDDING CHANGES IRRESISTIBLE FORCES THURSTON HOUSE GRANNY DAN CROSSINGS BITTERSWEET ONCE IN A LIFETIME MIRROR IMAGE A PERFECT STRANGER HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: REMEMBRANCE THE STORY OF NICK TRAINA PALOMINO THE KLONE AND I LOVE: POEMS THE LONG ROAD HOME THE RING THE GHOST LOVING SPECIAL DELIVERY TO LOVE AGAIN THE RANCH SUMMER'S END SILENT HONOR SEASON OF PASSION MALICE THE PROMISE FIVE DAYS IN PARIS NOW AND FOREVER LIGHTNING PASSION'S PROMISE WINGS GOING HOME THE GIFT a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010

To my exceptionally wonderful, loving

children, Beatrix, Trevor, Todd, Nick,

Samantha, Victoria, Vanessa, Maxx & Zara,

who not only make my life possible, but

joyful, happy, and loving in every way.

How blessed and fortunate I am to have

you, with all your laughter, love and

tender moments that we share so

abundantly. I celebrate you, I thank you, I

appreciate you more than I can ever say.

May you be as blessed as I am, with

children like you one day.

with all my love,

Mom

What does that mean—“tame”?It is an act too often neglected …It means to establish ties.To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you on your part have no need of me …But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world …If you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow … Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! …Please—tame me!One only understands the things that one tames … there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship … If you want a friend, tame me …What must I do to tame you?You must be very patient … first you will sit down at a little distance from me—like that—in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me every day …As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one … But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,

The Little Prince

Chapter 1

The Suvery Gallery in Paris was housed in an impressive building, an elegant eighteenth-century hôtel particulier on the Faubourg St. Honoré. Collectors came there by appointment, through the enormous bronze doors into the courtyard. Straight ahead was the main gallery, to the left the offices of Simon de Suvery, the owner. And to the right was his daughter's addition to the gallery, the contemporary wing. Behind the house was a large elegant garden filled with sculptures, mainly Rodins. Simon de Suvery had been there for more than forty years. His father, Antoine, had been one of the most important collectors in Europe, and Simon had been a scholar of Renaissance paintings and Dutch masters before opening the gallery. Now he was consulted by museums all over Europe, held in awe by private collectors, and admired although often feared by all who knew him.

Simon de Suvery was a daunting figure, tall, powerfully built, with stern features and dark eyes that pierced through you right to your soul. Simon had been in no hurry to get married. In his youth, he was too busy establishing his business to waste time on romance. At forty he had married the daughter of an important American collector. It had been a successful and happy union. Marjorie de Suvery had never involved herself directly in the gallery, which was well established before Simon married her. She was fascinated by it, and admired the work he showed. She loved him profoundly and had taken a passionate interest in everything he did. Marjorie had been an artist but never felt comfortable showing her work. She did genteel landscapes and portraits, and often gave them as gifts to friends. In truth, Simon had been affected but never impressed by her work. He was ruthless in his choices, merciless in his decisions for the gallery. He had a will of iron, a mind as sharp as a diamond, a keen business sense, and buried far, far beneath the surface, well concealed at all times, was a kind heart. Or so Marjorie said. Though not everyone believed her. He was fair to his employees, honest with his clients, and relentless in his pursuit of whatever he felt the gallery should have. Sometimes it took him years to acquire a particular painting or sculpture, but he never rested until it was his. He had pursued his wife, before their marriage, in much the same way. And once he had her, he kept her as a treasure—mostly to himself. He only socialized when he felt he had to, entertaining clients in one wing of the house.

They decided to have children late in their marriage. In fact it was Simon's decision, and they waited ten years to have a child. Knowing how Marjorie longed for children, Simon had finally acceded to her wishes, and was only mildly disappointed when Marjorie gave birth to a daughter and not a son. Simon was fifty when Sasha was born, and Marjorie thirty-nine. Sasha instantly became the love of her mother's life. They were constantly together. Marjorie spent hours with her, chortling and cooing, playing with her in the garden. She nearly went into mourning when Sasha began school, and they had to be apart. She was a beautiful and loving child. Sasha was an interesting blend of her parents. She had her father's dark looks and her mother's ethereal softness. Marjorie was an angelic-looking blonde with blue eyes, and looked like a madonna in an Italian painting. Sasha had delicate features like her mother, dark hair and eyes like her father, but unlike both her parents, Sasha was fragile and small. Her father used to tease her benevolently and say that she looked like a miniature of a child. But there was nothing small about Sasha's soul. She had the strength and iron will of her father, the warmth and gentle kindness of her mother, and the directness she learned early on from her father. She was four or five before he took serious notice of her, and once he did, all he spoke to her about was art. In his spare time, he would wander through the gallery with her, identifying paintings and masters, showing her their work in art books, and he expected her to repeat their names and even spell them, once she was old enough to write. Rather than rebelling, she drank it all in, and retained every shred of information her father imparted. He was very proud of her. And ever more in love with his wife, who became ill three years after Sasha was born.

Marjorie's illness was a mystery at first, and had all their doctors stumped. Simon secretly believed it was psychosomatic. He had no patience with illness or weakness, and thought that anything physical could be mastered and overcome. But rather than overcome it, Marjorie became weaker with time. It was a full year before they got a diagnosis in London, and a confirmation in New York. She had a rare degenerative disease that was attacking her nerves and muscles, and ultimately would cripple her lungs and heart. Simon chose not to accept the prognosis, and Marjorie was valiant about it, complaining little, doing whatever she could for as long as she was able, spending as much time as she had the strength for with her husband and daughter, and resting as much as possible in between. The disease never snuffed out her spirit, but eventually, as predicted, her body succumbed. She was bedridden by the time Sasha was seven, and died shortly after she turned nine. Despite all the doctors had told him, Simon was stunned. And so was Sasha. Neither of her parents had prepared Sasha for her mother's death. Sasha and Simon had both grown accustomed to Marjorie being interested in all they did, and participating in their lives, even while in bed. The sudden realization that she had disappeared from their world hit them both like a bomb, and fused Sasha and her father closer together than they had ever been. Other than the gallery, Sasha then became the focus of Simon's life.

Sasha grew up eating, drinking, sleeping, loving art. It was all she knew, all she did, and all she loved, other than her father. She was as devoted to him as he was to her. Even as a child, she knew as much about the gallery, and its complicated and intriguing workings, as any of his employees. And sometimes he thought, even as a young girl, she was smarter about it, and far more creative than anyone he employed. The only thing that annoyed him, and he made no bones about it, was her ever increasing passion for modern and contemporary art. Contemporary work irritated him particularly, and he never hesitated to call it junk, privately or otherwise. He loved and respected the Great Masters, and nothing else.

As her father had before her, Sasha attended the Sorbonne, and got a “license,” a master's degree, in the history of art. And as she had promised her mother she would, she earned her PhD at Columbia in New York. Then she spent two years working as an intern at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which rounded out her education. During that time, she returned frequently to Paris, sometimes just for a weekend, and Simon visited her as often as possible in New York. It gave him an excuse to visit his clients, as well as museums and collectors in the States. All he really wanted to do was see Sasha, and he used any excuse to do so. What he wanted more than anything else was for Sasha to come home. He was irritable and impatient during her years in New York.

The one thing Simon had never expected was the appearance of Arthur Boardman in Sasha's life. She met him the first week of her doctoral studies at Columbia. She was twenty-two at the time, and married him, despite her father's grumbling protests, within six months. At first, Simon was horrified at her marrying so young, and the only thing that mollified him, and made him consent to the marriage, was that Arthur assured his father-in-law that when Sasha was finished with her studies and apprenticeship in New York, he would move to Paris with her and live there. Simon nearly made him sign it in blood. But even he couldn't resist seeing Sasha as happy as she was. Simon finally conceded that Arthur Boardman was a good man, and the right one for her.

Arthur was thirty-two, ten years older than Sasha. He had gone to Princeton, and had an MBA from Harvard. He had a respectable position in a Wall Street investment bank, which conveniently had a Paris office. Early on in their marriage, he began lobbying to run it. Within a year, their son Xavier was born. Two years later, Tatianna arrived. In spite of that, Sasha never missed a beat with her studies. Miraculously, both her babies managed to arrive in the summer, right after she finished her classes. She hired a nanny to help her with them while she was in school and working at the museum. She had learned how to keep many balls in the air, while watching her father run the gallery when she was a child. She loved her busy life, and adored Arthur and her two children. And although Simon was a somewhat hesitant grandfather at first, he warmed to it quickly. They were enchanting children.

Sasha spent every spare moment with them she could, singing the same songs and playing the same nursery games her mother had played with her. In fact, Tatianna looked so much like her maternal grandmother that it unnerved Simon at first, but as Tatianna grew older, he loved just sitting and watching her, and thinking of his late wife. It was like seeing her reborn as a little girl.

True to his word, Arthur moved the entire family to Paris when Sasha finished her two-year internship at the Met in New York. The investment bank was literally giving him the Paris office to run, at thirty-six, and had full confidence in him, as did Sasha. She was going to be even busier there than she had been in New York, where she'd been working only part time at the museum, and spent the rest of her time caring for her children. In Paris, she was going to work at the gallery with her father. She was ready for it now. He had agreed to let her leave by three o'clock every day, so she could be with her children. And she knew she would have a lot of entertaining to do for her husband. She returned to Paris, victorious, educated, excited, and undaunted, and thrilled to be home again. And so was Simon to have her home, and working with him at last. He had waited twenty-six years for that moment, and it had finally come, much to their mutual delight.

He still appeared as stern as he had when she was a child, but even Arthur noticed, once they moved to Paris, that Simon was softening almost imperceptibly with age. He even chatted with his grandchildren from time to time, although most of the time, when he visited, he preferred to just sit and observe them. He had never felt at ease with young children, not even Sasha when she was small. By the time they moved back to Paris, he was seventy-six years old. And Sasha's life began in earnest from that moment.

Their first decision was where to live, and Simon stunned them by solving their dilemma for them. Sasha had been planning to look for an apartment on the Left Bank. Their small family was already too large for the apartment the bank owned in the sixteenth arrondissement. Simon volunteered to move out of his wing of the house, the elegant three-floor domain he had occupied for his entire marriage, and the years before and after. He insisted it was far too big for him, and claimed the stairs were hard on his knees, although Sasha didn't quite believe him. Her father still walked for miles. He volunteered to move to the other side of the courtyard, on the top floor of the wing they used for additional offices and storage. He quickly set to work remodeling it with charming oeil de boeuf windows under a mansard roof, and put in a funny little motorized seat, which sped up and down the stairs, and delighted his grandchildren, when he let them ride it. He walked up the stairs beside them while they squealed with excitement. Sasha helped him with the decorating and remodeling, which instantly gave her an idea. Not one he liked at first. It was a plan she'd had for years, and had dreamed of all her life. She wanted to expand the gallery to include contemporary artists. The wing that had previously been used for storage was perfect for her plan. It was across the courtyard from their offices and her father's new home. Admittedly, opening the ground floor would cramp their storage space, but she had already consulted an architect to build highly efficient storage racks upstairs. At her first mention of selling contemporary work, Simon went through the roof. He was not going to corrupt the gallery, and its venerable name, selling the garbage that Sasha liked, by unknown artists he insisted had no talent. It took her almost a year of bitter arguments to convince him.

It was only when she threatened to leave the gallery and set up shop on her own that Simon finally relented—albeit with considerable rancor and a ferocious amount of grumbling. Although gentler in style, Sasha was as tough as he was, and had held her ground. Once the plan was agreed to, she didn't even dare meet her new artists in their main offices because her father was so rude to them. But Sasha was as stubborn as he was. A year after they moved back to Paris, she opened the contemporary arm of the gallery with style and fanfare. And much to her father's astonishment, to unfailingly great reviews, not just because she was Sasha de Suvery but because she had an eye for good, solid contemporary work, just as her father did in what he knew best.

Remarkably, Sasha kept a foot in both worlds. She was knowledgeable about what he sold so competently and brilliant about newer work. By the time she was thirty, three years after she had opened Suvery Contemporary on his premises, it was the most important contemporary gallery in Paris, and perhaps in Europe. And she'd never had so much fun in her life. Nor had Arthur. He loved what she did, and supported her in every move, every decision, every investment, even more than her father, who remained reluctant though ultimately respectful of what she'd accomplished with contemporary work. In fact, she had brought his gallery into the present with a bang.

Arthur loved the contrast between her business life and his own. He loved the playfulness of the art she showed, and the zaniness of her artists, in contrast to the bankers he dealt with. He traveled with her frequently to other cities when she went to see new artists, and loved going to art fairs with her. They had transformed their three-floor wing of the house into nearly a museum of contemporary art by emerging artists. And the work she sold at Suvery Contemporary was far more financially accessible than the Impressionists and Old Masters sold by her father. Their business thrived on both.

Sasha had been running her arm of the business for eight years when they faced their first real crisis. The bank Arthur had become a partner of years before insisted that he come back to Wall Street to run it. Two of the partners had died in a private plane crash, and everyone insisted Arthur was the obvious choice to run the bank at home. In fact he was the only choice. There was no way for Arthur to refuse to do it, in good conscience. His career was important to him too, and the bank was not letting him off the hook. They needed him in New York.

Sasha cried copiously when she explained the situation to her father, and there had been tears in his eyes as well. For all the thirteen years of their marriage, Arthur had fully supported her and every aspect of her career, and now she knew she had to do the same for him, and move back to New York. It was too much to ask of him to expect him to leave his career for hers, so she could stay at the gallery with her father, although, undeniably, he was growing old. Sasha was thirty-five by then, and although he didn't look or act it, Simon was eighty-five years old. And they'd been fortunate that Arthur had been able to stay in Paris for as long as he had, without damaging his career. But now it was time for him to go home, and for Sasha to leave with him.

In typical Sasha fashion, it took her exactly six weeks to come up with an idea. They were moving back to New York within a month. She took her father's breath away and horrified him at first. He was totally opposed to it, just as he had been when she suggested selling contemporary art. But this time she didn't threaten him, she begged him. What Sasha wanted was to open a branch of their gallery in New York, for both traditional and contemporary work. Her father thought the idea was insane. Suvery Gallery was the most respected gallery in Paris. Americans contacted them daily for important purchases, as well as museums around the world. They had absolutely no need to open a branch in New York, except now Sasha would be there, and she wanted to work for her father, and the gallery she loved, as she had for nine years.

It was a turning point for them. Arthur thought it was brilliant, and gave the idea his full support. In the end, he convinced her father for her, although even when they left, Simon insisted it was a mad idea. Sasha offered to put her own money into the project, and Arthur volunteered as well. But in the end, her father came through for her, as he always did. As soon as she got to New York, she found an apartment on Park Avenue for them, and a brownstone on Sixty-fourth Street, between Madison and Fifth avenues, for Suvery New York. And as always, when Sasha put her mind to something, and backed it with an incredible amount of energy and work, it turned out to be a brilliant idea. Her father came to visit several times, and grudgingly admitted that the space was perfect for them, on a small scale of course. And by the time he came to the opening of the New York gallery nine months later, he was wreathed in smiles. Sasha was the toast of the art world in New York. At thirty-five, she was becoming one of the most important dealers in the world, as her father had been and still was, and she had just joined the boards of both the Metropolitan and Modern Art museums, an unheard of honor for her, to be on both.

Xavier and Tatianna were twelve and ten by then. Xavier loved to draw, and Tatianna would grab any camera she could lay her hands on and take incredibly funny pictures of startled adults. Tatianna looked like a small blond elf, and Xavier looked like his father, only with his mother and grandfather's nearly jet-black hair. They were beautiful and loving children, and both were bilingual. Sasha and Arthur agreed to put them in the Lycée in New York, and Tatianna talked constantly about wanting to go back to Paris. She missed her friends. Xavier decided almost instantly that he preferred New York.

For the next two years, Sasha enjoyed running her gallery in New York. She traveled frequently to Paris, usually twice a month. Sometimes she took the Concorde for important meetings with her father, and returned the same night to Arthur and her children in New York. And in summer, she always took the children back to France. She spent time with her father in the house he had rented for years in St. Jean Cap Ferrat, but she stayed at the Eden Roc with the children. Although Simon loved them, the children made him nervous if he spent too much time with them. And although Sasha didn't like admitting it, her father was getting old. He was eighty-seven, and little by little, he was slowing down.

With great regret, they had talked about what she would do when she would be alone running the business. She couldn't imagine it, but he could. He had led a long life, and had no fears about moving on. And he had trained his people well. In time, she would be able to live in New York or Paris, and have competent people to work for her in either place. She would have to spend time in both galleries, of course, and commute regularly, but the choice of where to live was hers, thanks to her father's competence and foresight. They had excellent managers in both places. But Paris still felt like home to her, although she enjoyed living and working in New York. There was no question that Arthur was too entrenched at the bank by then to live anywhere but New York. She knew she was stuck there until he retired. And since he was only forty-seven years old, he was nowhere near retirement. She was just lucky that her father was still running his end of the business at eighty-seven years of age. He was remarkable, although he had slowed down almost imperceptibly. But despite that, or perhaps because of it, Sasha was stunned when he died suddenly at eighty-nine. She had expected him to live forever. Simon died exactly as he would have wanted to. He had a massive stroke at his desk. The doctors said he didn't suffer. He was gone in an instant, having just concluded an enormous deal with a collector from Holland.

Sasha flew to Paris in a state of shock that night, and moved around the gallery aimlessly, unable to believe that he was gone. The funeral was dignified and important. The president of the French Republic attended, as well as the minister of culture. Every person of importance in the art world came to pay their respects, his friends, clients, Arthur and the children. It was a cold November day, and pouring rain, when they buried him at Père Lachaise cemetery, in the twentieth arrondissement, on the eastern edge of Paris. He was surrounded by the likes of Proust, Balzac, and Chopin, a fitting resting place for him.

After the funeral, Sasha spent the next four weeks in Paris, working with the lawyers, organizing things, putting away her father's papers and personal effects. She stayed longer than she had to, but she couldn't bear leaving this time. For the first time since she had left Paris, she wanted to stay home, and be near where her father had lived and worked. She felt like an orphan a month later, when she finally flew home to New York. The stores and streets decorated for Christmas seemed like an affront after the loss she had just sustained. It was a long hard year for her. But in spite of that, both branches of the gallery flourished. The ensuing years were peaceful, happy, and productive. She missed her father, but slowly put down roots in New York, as her children grew up. And she still returned to Paris twice a month, to continue to oversee the gallery there.

Eight years after her father's death, both galleries were strong and equally successful. Arthur was talking about retiring at fifty-seven. His career had been respectable and productive, but he privately admitted to Sasha he was bored. Xavier was twenty-four, living and painting in London, and showing at a small gallery in Soho. And although Sasha loved his paintings, he was not ready for her to show. Her love for him did not blind her to the progress he still needed to make. He was talented, but as an artist not yet fully mature. But he was passionate about his work. He loved everything about the art world he was part of in London, and Sasha was proud of him. She thought he would be a great artist one day. And in time, she hoped to show his work.

Tatianna had graduated from Brown four months before, with a degree in fine arts and photography, and had just started a job as the third assistant to a well-known photographer in New York, which meant she got to change film for him occasionally, bring him coffee, and sweep the floors. Her mother assured her that that was the way it worked at first. Neither of her children had any interest in working at the gallery with her. They thought what she did was wonderful, but they wanted to pursue their own lives and work. Sasha realized how rare it had been to learn all she had from her father, the opportunity he had given her, and the priceless education she'd had of growing into the business with him. She was sorry she couldn't do the same with her children.

Sasha wondered if one day Xavier would want to work at the gallery with her, but it seemed less than likely for the time being. Now that Arthur was talking about retiring, she felt as though she was drifting toward her roots in Paris again. As much as she loved the excitement of New York, life always seemed gentler to her when she went home. Paris was still home to her, despite dual nationality, thanks to her mother, and sixteen of her forty-seven years, a third of her life, spent in New York. At her core she was still French. Arthur wasn't opposed to the idea of living in Paris again once he retired, and they had been talking about it more seriously that fall.

It was October and the very last of the hot weather, on a sunny Friday afternoon, as Sasha made a brief inspection tour of some paintings they were planning to sell to a museum in Boston. They kept their Old Masters and more traditional work on the brownstone's two upper floors. The contemporary work they were also now famous for was on the first and second floors. Sasha's office was tucked away in a back corner on the main floor.

After her tour of the upper floors, she put some papers in her briefcase, and looked out at the sculpture garden behind her office. Like most of their contemporary work, it was a reflection of Sasha's taste. She loved looking out at the pieces in the garden, especially when it snowed. But snow was still two months away, as she picked up her bulging briefcase. She was going to be out of the gallery the following week. She was leaving on Sunday morning for Paris, to check on things there. She still made a routine visit every two weeks, as she had since her father's death eight years before. She was a hands-on dealer, in both cities, and was used to the commute by now. It seemed easy to her. She managed to have a life, and friends, as well as clients, in both cities. Sasha was as much at ease in Paris as New York.

She was thinking about the weekend ahead, as the phone rang, just as she was about to leave her office. It was Xavier, calling her from London, as she glanced at her watch and realized it was nearly midnight there. She smiled the moment she heard his voice. Both her children were precious to her, but in some ways she was closer to Xavier. He had always been easier for her. Tatianna was closer to her father, and also like Sasha's father in some ways. There had always been something hard and judgmental about her, and she was less inclined to bend and compromise than her older brother. Xavier and his mother were soul mates in many ways, equally gentle, equally kind, always willing to forgive a loved one or a friend. Tatianna had a harder line about people and life.

“I was afraid you'd already left,” Xavier said with a smile and a yawn. As she closed her eyes, thinking of him, she could see his face. He had always been a beautiful child, and was now a handsome young man.

“I was about to leave. You just caught me. What are you doing home on a Friday night?” Xavier had an active social life in the London artists' scene, and a weakness for pretty women. Lots of them. It always amused his mother, and she teased him frequently about it.

“I just got in,” he explained, defending his reputation.

“Alone? How disappointing,” she teased. “Did you have fun?”

“I went to a gallery opening with a friend, and then we had dinner. Everyone got drunk, and things started to get a little wild, so I thought I'd get home before we all got arrested.”

“That sounds interesting.” Sasha sat down at her desk again, and looked out at the garden, thinking of how much she missed him. “What were they doing to get arrested?” Despite his fondness for women, most of Xavier's pursuits were harmless and fairly tame. He was just a young man who liked to have fun and still acted like a boy at times, full of mischief. His sister liked to claim she was far more respectable than he was, and thought the women he went out with were disgusting. She never failed to say so, not only to her mother but to her brother, who hotly defended them, no matter who they were, or how racy.

“I went to the opening with an artist I know. He's a bit of a madman, but a hell of a good artist. I want you to meet him sometime. Liam Allison. He does fantastic abstracts. It was a pretty good show tonight, although he didn't think so. He got bored at the opening, and got drunk. Then he got drunker when we had dinner at the pub.” Xavier loved calling her and telling her about his friends. He had few secrets from her. And his tales of his exploits always amused her. She had missed him ever since he left home.

“That's charming, his getting drunk I mean.” She assumed his friend was about his own age. Two boys misbehaving, all in good fun.

“Actually, it was. He's very funny. He took his pants off while we sat at the bar. The funny thing was that absolutely no one noticed, until he asked some girl to dance. I think he'd forgotten it himself by then, until he got out on the dance floor in his jockey shorts, and some old woman hit him with her purse. So he asked her to dance and swung her around a few times. It was the funniest damn thing I've ever seen. She was about four feet tall, and she kept hitting him with her purse. It looked like a scene from Monty Python. He's a terrific dancer.” Sasha was laughing as she listened, imagining the scene, of the artist in jockey shorts, dancing with some old woman while she hit him. “He was very polite to her, and everyone was laughing their heads off, but then the barkeep said he'd call the police, so I took him home to his wife.”

“He's married?” Sasha sounded startled by that piece of information. “At your age?”

“He's not my age, Mom. He's thirty-eight years old, and he has three kids. They're cute kids. Nice wife, too.”

“Where was she then?” Disapproval crept into her voice.

“She hates going out with him,” Xavier said matter-of-factly. Liam Allison had become one of his closest friends in London. He was a serious artist, with a light touch about life, an outrageous sense of humor, and a fondness for practical jokes, mischief, and pranks.

“I can see why his wife hates going out with him,” Sasha commented about her son's friend. “I'm not sure I'd enjoy going out with a husband who takes his trousers off in public and asks old ladies to dance.”

“That was pretty much what she said when I got him home. He passed out on the couch before I left, so I had a glass of wine with her, and then I left. She's a good woman.”

“She'd have to be, to put up with that. Is he an alcoholic?” Sasha sounded serious for a moment, wondering what sort of people he was hanging out with. Xavier's friend didn't sound like an ideal companion, or not a good influence in any case.

“No, he isn't an alcoholic.” Xavier laughed. “He was just bored, and he made a bet with me that no one would notice for an hour if he took his pants off in the pub. He won. No one noticed till he started dancing.”

“Well, I hope you kept yours on,” she said, sounding like a mother, as Xavier laughed at her. He adored her.

“Actually, I did. Liam thought that was pretty cowardly of me. He said he'd pay double or nothing if I took mine off, too. I didn't.”

“Thank you, darling. I'm relieved to hear it.” She glanced at her watch then. She had promised to meet Arthur at six, and it was already ten after. She loved talking to her son. “I hate to do this, but I promised to meet your father at home ten minutes ago. We're driving out to the Hamptons after dinner.”

“I figured you would. I just wanted to check in.”

“I'm glad you did. Anything special planned for this weekend?” She liked knowing what he did, and Tatianna as well, although she checked in less often. She was trying to spread her wings. And she was more likely to call Arthur these days than her mother. Sasha hadn't spoken to her all week.

“I'm not doing anything. The weather has been disgusting. I thought I'd paint.”

“Good. I'm flying to Paris on Sunday. I'll call you when I get in. Do you have time to come over and see me this week?”

“Maybe. I'll talk to you Sunday night. Have a nice weekend. Give Dad my love.”

“I will. I love you… and tell your friend to keep his pants on next time. You're lucky you didn't both wind up in jail. Causing a riot, or indecent exposure, or having too much fun or something.” Xavier always had a good time wherever he was, and apparently so did his friend Liam. Xavier had mentioned him before, and always said he wanted his mother to see his work. One of these days she would, although there was never enough time. She was always rushing, and when she went to London, she had artists to visit whom she already represented, and wanted to see Xavier. She had told him to tell Liam to send her slides of his work, but he never had, which suggested to her that he was either not serious about it, or didn't feel ready to show it to her. Either way, he sounded like a somewhat outrageous character. She already represented several of those, and wasn't sure she wanted one more, no matter how entertaining Xavier thought he was. It was a lot easier dealing with artists who were serious about their careers, and behaved like grown-ups. Badly behaved nearly forty-year-old men who took their clothes off in public were a headache, and she didn't need one more of those. “I'll talk to you Sunday.”

“I'll call you in Paris. “Bye, Mom,” Xavier said cheerily, and then hung up, and Sasha smiled as she rushed out of her office. She didn't want to keep Arthur waiting, and she still had to make dinner for them. But it had been wonderful talking to her son.

She waved at everyone as she left the office in a hurry, and hailed a cab for the short ride to the apartment, still thinking of Xavier. She knew Arthur would be waiting for her, and anxious to leave town. The traffic was always awful on Fridays, though slightly better if they waited until after dinner. The weather had been gorgeous. Even though it was October, it was warm and sunny. She sat back in the cab for a minute, and closed her eyes. It had been a long week, and she was tired.

The apartment she was going home to was the only thing in their life she felt she had outgrown. They had lived there for twelve years, since they had moved back from Paris, and now that the children were gone, it seemed much too large for them. She kept trying to get Arthur to sell it, and move to a smaller co-op on Fifth Avenue, with a view of the park. But if they were going to move back to Paris when he retired, they had agreed to wait until they firmed up their plans. If they moved to Paris, all they needed was a tiny pied-à-terre in New York. It was one of those rare times in their lives when she felt their life in flux. It had seemed that way to her since Tatianna graduated and moved to her own place. Sasha's life felt empty at times now with the children gone. Arthur teased her about it whenever she said it, and reminded her that she was one of the busiest women in New York, or anywhere else. But she missed the children anyway. They had been an integral and vital part of her life, and she felt sad at times, diminished and less useful now that they were gone. She was grateful that she and Arthur enjoyed traveling and spending time together. If possible, they were even closer now than they had ever been, and even more in love. Twenty-five years had not diminished their love and passion for each other. If anything, familiarity and time had added a bond to them that attached them more and more to each other with age.

Arthur was waiting for her at the apartment when she got home, and smiled the moment he saw her. He was still wearing the white shirt he had worn to the office, with his sleeves rolled up. His jacket was casually tossed over the back of a chair. He had already put a few things into a bag for the weekend at their house in Southampton. She was planning to toss a salad and put some cold chicken on a plate. They liked leaving after the traffic; it was murder on summer and fall weekends.

“How was your day?” he asked, planting a kiss somewhere on the top of her head. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a knot, as she had for her entire lifetime. In the Hamptons on the weekends, she wore it down her back in a long braid. She loved wearing old clothes, jeans, tattered sweaters, or faded T-shirts. It was a relief not to have to be dressed as she was in the gallery every day. Arthur loved to play golf and walk on the beach. He had been an avid sailor in his youth, as their children were, and he loved playing tennis with her. Most of the time, on the weekends, she did some gardening, or curled up with a book. She tried not to work on weekends, although she brought papers with her sometimes.

Like the city apartment, the house in the Hamptons was too large for them now, but it bothered her less there. She could easily imagine grandchildren there one day, and the children often came to stay and brought their friends. The house in the Hamptons always seemed alive to her, perhaps because of their view of the ocean. The apartment in the city seemed lonely and dead to her now.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she apologized as she hurried into the kitchen, after kissing him. After all these years, they still loved each other and had fun together. “Xavier called just as I was leaving.”

“How was he?”

“A little drunk, I think. He'd been out with some very badly behaved friend.”

“A woman?” Arthur asked with interest.

“No. An artist. He took his pants off at the pub.”

“Xavier took his pants off?” Arthur looked stunned, as Sasha tossed the salad.

“No, his friend did. Another crazy artist.” She shook her head as she put the chicken on a platter.

Arthur stood and chatted with her, as she organized dinner for them, and set it on the kitchen table, with linen placemats and napkins, on pretty plates. She enjoyed doing things like that for him, and he always noticed it, and complimented her.

“That's a mighty full briefcase you brought home, Sasha,” he said, eyeing it as he served himself some salad, looking relaxed and happy. He loved their weekends at the beach. They were sacred to both of them. They never allowed anything to interfere with their weekends, except major illness, or some sort of unavoidable event. Otherwise, every Friday, rain or shine, winter or summer, they were on the road to Southampton by seven P.M.

“I'm leaving for Paris on Sunday,” she reminded him as they ate their salad, and she served him a piece of the chicken the housekeeper had left for them.

“I forgot. How long are you staying?”

“Four days. Maybe five. I'll be home by the weekend.”

They exchanged the classic patter of people who have been married forever, and were used to each other. Nothing important was said, it was just good to be there together. He told her about someone retiring, a minor business deal that hadn't gone according to plan. She told him about a new artist they'd signed, a very talented young painter from Brazil. And she mentioned that Xavier had said he'd try to come to Paris to see her the following week. He was good about doing that, and made his own schedule, unlike Tatianna, who was at the mercy of the photographer she worked for. Her employer worked long hours, and she liked spending the rest of her time with her friends. But then again, she was two years younger than her brother, and still fighting for her independence.

“Who's the girl of the week?” Arthur asked with a look of amusement. He knew his son well, as did Sasha. And as she looked over at Arthur with a smile, she noticed, as she often did, how handsome he still was. Tall, lean, fit, with chiseled features and a strong chin. She had been in love with him since the moment he walked into her life. More so now than ever, in fact. She knew how lucky she was. Many of her friends in New York were divorced, one or two were widowed, and none of them ever seemed to be able to find a man. They never failed to tell her how lucky she was. She knew it anyway. Arthur had been the love of her life since the day they met.

“The last time I asked it was some artist's model he met in drawing class.” Sasha grinned. Xavier was famous among his friends and in the family for having a constantly changing chorus line of adoring women at his feet. He was extremely handsome, and a nice person on top of it, and women always found him irresistible. He was equally unable to resist them. “I don't even ask their names anymore,” Sasha said, clearing the table, as her husband smiled admiringly at her. She put their dishes in the dishwasher. They had a low-maintenance life these days, although when the children were still at home, they had had serious dinners together every night. Now he and Sasha ate a light, easy meal at night in the kitchen, which was simpler.

“I haven't asked Xavier the names of his girlfriends in years.” Arthur laughed at her comment. “Every time I called one of them by name, it turned out he'd had five since then. I know better now.” He went to change into khaki pants, and a comfortable old sweater, and Sasha did the same.

Twenty minutes later they were ready to leave, and took off in Sasha's station wagon. She still kept it after the kids left, because it was useful to pick up work from young artists. She had some groceries in the back, and a small overnight bag for each of them. They kept their beach clothes in Southampton, so they didn't have to bring much with them. She also had her suitcase for Paris, and the bulging briefcase he had mentioned. She was planning to go to the airport from Southampton on Sunday morning, and would be leaving nearly at dawn, in order to get to Paris at a decent hour in the evening. When she had to, she took the red-eye, but there was nothing pressing, and it made more sense for her to take the day flight, although she hated to miss Sunday with Arthur.

They were in Southampton at ten o'clock, and Sasha was surprised to realize she was tired. As always, Arthur had done the driving, and she had dozed off on the trip out, and was happy to climb into bed with him before midnight. They sat on the deck before that, and looked at the ocean in the moonlight. The weather was warm and balmy, the night crystal clear. And once in bed, they fell asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow.

As they so often did at the beach, they made love when they woke up in the morning. Afterward, they lay together and cuddled. Their loving had not suffered from boredom over the years, if anything it had gotten better from familiarity and deep affection. He followed her into the bathroom afterward, and she bathed while he showered. She loved their lazy Southampton mornings. Afterward, they went down to the kitchen together, she made breakfast, and they took a long walk on the beach. It was a glorious day, hot and sunny, with barely even a breeze. It was the first week in October, and fall would put a chill in the air soon, but not just yet. Summer still seemed to be here.

Arthur took Sasha out to dinner on Saturday at a small Italian restaurant they both loved. They sat on the deck at the house afterward, drinking wine and talking. Life seemed easy and peaceful. They went to bed early that night, as Sasha had to get up early the next morning to go to the airport and catch the flight to Paris. She hated to leave him, but it was an ordinary occurrence in their lives. Leaving him for four or five days was nothing. She snuggled up to him in bed that night, and kept her arms around him, her body pressed close to his as they fell asleep. She had to get up at four, and leave at five, to be at the airport by seven, for a nine A.M. flight. It would land her in Paris at nine P.M. Paris time, and she'd be at their house by eleven at night, local time, and get a decent night's sleep before working the next day.

When the alarm went off at four, she heard it and turned it off quickly, held Arthur for a long moment, and then got up regretfully. She tiptoed to the bathroom in the dark, and dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater. She wore a comfortable pair of old Hermès loafers that had seen better days. But she had long since stopped dressing fashionably for long flights. Comfort seemed more important. She usually slept on planes. She stood for a long moment and looked at Arthur before she left, and then she bent to kiss him gently on the top of his head, so as not to wake him. He stirred anyway, he always did, and smiled in his sleep. A moment later, he squinted at her through half-closed eyes and his smile grew broader, as he held out a hand and pulled her close to him.

“I love you, Sash,” he whispered sleepily. “Come home soon. I'll miss you.” He always said things like that, and she loved him all the more for it. She kissed him on the cheek after he said it, and then tucked him in just as she used to do for their children.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep. I'll call you when I get to Paris.” She always did. She knew she'd catch him before he drove back to the city, and wished she could stay there with him.

It would be nice when he retired and could travel everywhere with her. She liked the idea of that more than ever, as she softly closed the bedroom door behind her, and then walked out of the house. She had called for a cab the night before. The driver was waiting just outside, and hadn't rung the bell, as she'd requested. She told him what airline and which airport, and looked out the window as they drove, smiling to herself. She was well aware of her blessings. She was a lucky woman with a lucky life, a husband she loved who loved her, two children who were terrific, and two galleries that had given her endless joy and a good living all her life. There was nothing more she wanted, or could have. Sasha de Suvery Boardman knew she had it all.

Chapter 2

The flight to Paris was uneventful. Sasha had lunch, watched a movie, slept for three hours, and woke up as they landed at Charles de Gaulle airport. She knew most of the attendants on the flight, and the chief purser, and knowing her habits, they left her alone. She was an easy passenger and pleasant person, who drank nothing but water on the flight. She was well versed in what to do to avoid jet lag. She ate lightly, slept, drank water, and went to bed as soon as she got home, and she knew in the morning she'd be fine, and adjusted to the time change. She had been commuting between Paris and New York for twelve years.

The weather in Paris was cool and rainy. Although it was Indian summer in New York, it was winter here. She had brought a cashmere shawl to put over her jacket when she landed, and as always, a car and driver were waiting for her. They chatted about the weather and the flight on the drive in to Paris, and the house was quiet when she got home. The cleaning woman who came daily during the week had left food in the refrigerator, as she always did. And as soon as Sasha walked in the door, she picked up the phone and called Arthur. It was five in the afternoon for him and he sounded delighted to hear her. He was just closing up the house in Southampton and about to head home.

“I miss you,” he said, after she reported on the weather in Paris. Sometimes she forgot how depressing the winters were there. “Maybe you should open a gallery in Miami,” he said, teasing. He knew that despite the bad weather, in her heart of hearts she wanted to move back to Paris, and he was willing to do that with her, in the coming year, when he retired. He had enjoyed living there too in the early days of their marriage. He liked both cities. All he cared about was being with her, and he enjoyed sharing life with her.

“I'm going to Brussels for the day on Tuesday, to see a new artist, and check on one of our old ones,” Sasha mentioned.

“Just be home for the weekend.” They had plans to go to a birthday party for one of her best friends. The honoree had been widowed the previous year, and was going out with a new man no one seemed to like. She had dated several people in the last year, none of whom was a hit with her friends. Everyone was very fond of her, and hoped the latest new man would vanish soon. Her late husband had been one of Arthur's closest friends, and had died a long, slow death from cancer. He had died at fifty-two, and his widow was the same age. She made bad jokes about how depressing it was to be back on the market after twenty-nine years of marriage. Arthur and Sasha both felt sorry for her, so they put up with her grim dates. Sasha knew better than anyone, from their conversations, how lonely she was.

“I'll try to come home Thursday, otherwise Friday. I want to see Xavier and it depends when he can come.” Sasha filled him in on her plans.

“Give him my love,” Arthur said, and they chatted for a few more minutes. She made herself a salad after they hung up, went through some papers the gallery manager had left for her to look at, and opened her Paris mail. There were invitations to several parties, a flood of announcements of art openings, and a letter from a friend. She rarely went to dinner parties in Paris, except when given by important clients, where she felt she had to go. She didn't like going out without Arthur, and enjoyed the quiet life they led, except for art events, or dinners with close friends.

She called Xavier, as promised, and he was out. She left a message on his machine. She was in bed by midnight, asleep shortly after, and in the morning awoke at eight to the sound of her alarm. It was raining and misty, and looked like the heart of winter. She put on her raincoat to run across the courtyard to the gallery at nine-thirty, and met with her manager at ten o'clock. The gallery was closed on Mondays, which gave them all a peaceful day to work. She and Bernard, the manager, were planning shows and ad schedules for the following year.

She ate at her desk, and the afternoon sped by. It was nearly six o'clock when her secretary told her that her daughter was on the line from New York. Xavier called her far more often than Tatianna, and she had spoken to him twice that day. He was coming to have dinner with her on Wednesday, so she could get back to Arthur on Thursday. Sasha picked up the phone with a smile, anticipating more complaints about the photographer Tatianna worked for. She just hoped Tatianna hadn't quit. She was headstrong at times, and didn't like being subservient to other people, or treated unfairly, and Sasha knew she thought her new boss wasn't treating her well. With a fine arts degree from Brown, she had expected to do more than pour him coffee and sweep the studio after he left.

“Bonjour, chérie,” Sasha said in French unconsciously, and was surprised to hear silence on the other end. She assumed they had been cut off, and Tatianna would call again. She was about to hang up when she heard a guttural sound that sounded more animal than human. “Tati? C'est toi? Is that you? Darling, what's wrong?” She could tell now that her daughter was crying, sobbing into the phone. It was a long time before she spoke.

“Mommy… come home …” For all her brand-new sophistication, she suddenly sounded five years old.

“What happened? Did you get fired?” It was the only thing Sasha could think of that would put her in such a state. Tatianna had no boyfriend at the moment, so it couldn't be a romantic disaster.

“Daddy…,” she said, and broke into sobs again, as Sasha's heart gave a lurch and nearly leaped out of her chest. What in God's name could have happened to him?

“Tatianna, tell me what happened. Quickly. You're scaring me.”

“He… they called me from his office a few minutes ago …” It was nearly noon in New York. Sasha knew that if he had had an accident on the way into the city, someone would have called her the night before. He carried all her numbers on him, as she did his.

“Is he all right?” Sasha could feel a vise squeezing her chest as she asked the question, and Tatianna continued crying uncontrollably.

“He had a heart attack…in his office… they called the paramedics…”

“Oh my God …” Sasha squeezed her eyes shut as she listened, waiting for the rest as her hand shook as it gripped the phone.

“Mommy… he's dead.” The entire world stopped for Sasha as Tatianna said it. The room turned upside down. Without realizing it, she held the phone with one hand, and with the other she clutched what had once been her father's desk, as though to steady herself. She felt as though she were falling into an abyss.

“He's not. It's a mistake,” Sasha said, as though she could deny it or will it not to happen. “That's not true!” she shouted, as tears sprang to her eyes. She felt as though every fiber of her being had received a nearly fatal electric shock. She was fighting for air.

“It is true,” Tatianna wailed miserably. “Mrs. Jenkins called me. They took him to the hospital, but he was dead. Mommy… come home…”

“I'm coming,” she said, and stood up with a look of panic, glancing around the room, as though she expected someone to materialize to help her and tell her it wasn't true. But no one came. She was alone in the room. “Where are you?”

“I'm at work.”

“Go home… no, don't go home. Go to the gallery. I don't want you to be alone. Tell them what happened. They'll understand.” All Tatianna did was cry as she listened. Sasha knew there was a flight to New York at nine o'clock, and she'd be in New York seven hours later. And it was six hours earlier in New York. She'd be in the city by eleven o'clock that night, New York time, five A.M. in Paris. She knew her faithful assistant would take Tatianna to her parents' apartment. “Stay where you are, Tati. I'll have Marcie pick you up.” Marcie had worked for Sasha since she'd opened the gallery. She was a kind woman in her early forties, never married, with no children, and she loved Sasha's as her own. And then as an afterthought in the midst of lightning and chaos, “I love you, Tati. I'll be home as soon as I can.” Sasha was shaking from head to foot as soon as she put down the phone. And in a moment of total madness, she dialed Arthur's cell phone. His secretary, Mrs. Jenkins, picked it up. She had been just about to call Sasha. Tatianna had gotten to her first. For an insane instant, Sasha wanted to believe Arthur would answer his phone. His secretary did instead.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Boardman…I'm so sorry…it was so sudden. I didn't know … he never called me… I saw him five minutes before. I went in to have him sign some papers, and he was slumped over his desk. He was already gone. They tried … but they couldn't do anything.” She spared Sasha the scene of horror that she'd seen when they tried to revive him and failed. She was crying, too. “I'll do everything I can. Is there someone I should call? The hospital? The funeral home? I'm so sorry…”

“I'll do it all when I get home.” Or Marcie would. She didn't want anyone else making decisions about her husband. She didn't even want to be making them herself. And first, she had to call their son.

Sasha quickly told Eugénie, her secretary in Paris, what had happened, asked her to get her on a flight, and to go next door to pick up her things. Her secretary was stunned. She didn't want to believe it at first, but when she saw the look on Sasha's face, she knew it was true. Sasha was sheet white and looked like she was in shock. Eugénie watched Sasha's hands shake like leaves when she picked up the phone to call Xavier.

Eugénie left the room then, and came back a moment later with a cup of tea, and then disappeared to make her flight arrangements. By then, Sasha was crying on the phone to Xavier, who was as distraught as she was. He offered to fly to Paris to meet her, and fly home with her. But if his flight was delayed, she knew they might miss each other. She told him to go straight to New York, that night if he could. Not that it would make a difference to his father now, but it would to her, and Tatianna. Xavier was crying softly when he hung up. The rest of the night was a blur.

Eugénie had packed Sasha's bag as she'd asked her to do, and canceled her plans for the week. Her trip to Brussels would have to wait. Her whole life had just been destroyed in a single moment. Sasha couldn't even get her mind around it, and didn't want to try. Her secretary and her gallery manager drove her to the airport, and after hovering over her like worried parents, they put her on the plane. They discreetly explained to the agent at the gate what had happened, after she boarded. They were both afraid of how she would be on the plane. Bernard, her manager, had offered to fly with her, but Sasha had bravely declined, and regretted it the moment the plane took off. She was overwhelmed by a wave of panic so powerful, she was afraid she would have a heart attack herself. One of the flight attendants told another that Sasha had literally turned green and broken out in a sweat. They covered her in blankets, asked the passenger next to her to move to another seat, and the purser had sat next to her for a short time. They asked her if she had tranquilizers with her and she said she didn't, and never took them. But she had never before lost her husband, either. She hadn't even felt this way when her father died, which was bad enough. But he had been eighty-nine years old, and he himself had warned her frequently that it would happen one day, and she knew it would. She had been prepared for it, more or less. But not for this. Not Arthur. He had told her he loved her only the day before. She had left him asleep in bed in Southampton, and now he was gone. It wasn't possible. It wasn't happening. Except it was. The only time she remembered feeling this way, totally out of control and frightened, was when her mother had died when she was nine. Now she felt like a child again. An orphan. She cried all the way to New York. And after a call from Bernard in Paris, Marcie had come to the airport, and was waiting for Sasha as she came through customs. She had left Tatianna with a friend at the apartment.

Marcie didn't ask her how she was. She didn't need to. Sasha could hardly talk. She was the most capable woman Marcie had ever known, and she looked utterly destroyed. Marcie quietly put her arms around her, hugged her close, and led her from the airport, as Sasha cried and strangers watched. She got her into the car a moment later, and the driver sped off toward New York. Sasha was too distraught to talk, and then halfway into town she began babbling, asking questions, to which none of the answers mattered now. No matter who or how or where or when, Arthur was gone. Without a warning. Without a sound. Without saying good-bye to his children or wife. Gone.

The reunion between Sasha and Tatianna half an hour later at the apartment was painful to watch. Marcie just stood silently and cried. Feeling helpless, she made sandwiches for them, which no one ate. She poured water and coffee, which no one drank. She tried to talk Sasha into having a drink, which she didn't want either. And at two in the morning Xavier arrived from London. He had called a friend to pick him up. One of his young artist friends was right behind him as he came through the door and went straight to his mother. He put his arms around her and Tatianna, and the three of them just stood there hugging and crying. It nearly killed Marcie to watch them. They sat up and talked through most of the night. The only one who ate the food Marcie made was Xavier's friend. The others ate and drank nothing.

And in the morning, reality set in. Sasha went to the hospital, and insisted on seeing her husband. She wanted to be alone with him, and when she came out of the room, she looked like a ghost, but she wasn't crying. She looked shell-shocked. She had said good-bye to him. After that they went to the funeral home and made arrangements. The minister came to see her at the apartment, and Marcie was with her the entire time. Xavier had gone to Tatianna's apartment with her. After the minister left, she turned and looked at Marcie.

“Is this really happening? I can't believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tell me it's all a terrible joke. But it isn't, is it?” Marcie shook her head.

They got through the day, with Sasha looking and feeling like a zombie, and trying to comfort her children. They finally ate pizza that night, and nothing else. Tatianna went to sleep in her old bedroom, Xavier went out with friends and came home drunk. Sasha sat in the living room staring into space. She couldn't stand going back to their bedroom, all she wanted was him. And when she finally went to bed that night, too exhausted to sleep, she could smell his aftershave on his pillow, and burrowed her face in it and sobbed. Marcie stayed and slept on the couch, faithful friend that she was. She spent hours that night calling their friends and telling them about the funeral. She called the gallery in Paris. Everyone there was coming.

Marcie ordered the flowers, Sasha picked the music. Friends began to drop by and offered to help. Ushers were chosen from among Arthur's partners and best friends. Sasha felt as though she would die when she had to pick his clothes. And somehow they all got to the funeral dressed, and on time. People came to the house afterward. And long after, Sasha admitted that she remembered absolutely nothing. Not the music or the flowers, or the people who were there. She had no recollection of who had come to the apartment. She had appeared normal and sane, and as composed as was possible. But essentially, she was in shock. And so were her children. They clung to each other like people off a ship that sank, and were drowning. And Sasha was. The hardest part came the day after. Real life, without Arthur. The day-to-day horror of living without him. The pain of it was beyond belief. Like surgery without anesthesia, Sasha could not believe what it was like waking up every day, knowing she would not see him and never would again. Everything that had once been dear and wonderful and easy was now agonizing and excruciatingly hard. There were no rewards to getting through the days without him, no point getting up in the morning, nothing to look forward to, no reason to stay alive, except for her children.

Xavier went back to London after two weeks. He called his mother often. Tatianna had gone back to work after a week. Sasha called her every day, and most of the time, Tatianna just cried whenever she heard her mother's voice. The only comfort Sasha got, other than the discreet sympathy of her employees and the staunch support of Marcie, was when she talked to friends who had gone through the same thing. She hated talking to them, and most of the time it depressed her, but at least they told her honestly what to expect. And none of it sounded good.

Alana Applebaum, whose husband had been Arthur's friend, and whose birthday Sasha had missed because Arthur's funeral had been the day before, told her the first year had been torture from beginning to end. And sometimes it still was. But after the anniversary marking the first year, she had made a concerted effort to go out with other men. She said that most of them were jerks, and she hadn't met a decent one yet, but at least she wasn't at home, crying and alone. Her theory was that no matter how bad a man she went out with was, it was better than being alone.

One of Sasha's closest friends in Paris, who had lost her husband three years before in a skiing accident in Val d'Isère, saw it differently. She said she'd rather be alone than with a jerk. She was forty-five years old, had been widowed at forty-two, and said there just were no decent men available, all the good ones were married. The others were idiots, or worse. She insisted she was happier alone. But Sasha was acutely aware that in the past year or two, she had started drinking too much. And often when she called Sasha to comfort her, having miscalculated the time difference, she had been drunk. She wasn't managing so well, either.

Sasha commented on their calls to Marcie, “Maybe the only way to survive this is to become a drunk.” It was depressing listening to all of them. And the divorcées Sasha knew were no better. They didn't have intolerable grief to live with, and they could hide behind their hatred of their ex-husbands, particularly if they'd been left for other, younger women. It was frightening listening to all of them. As a result, Sasha avoided them, isolated herself, and tried to get lost in her work. Sometimes it helped. Most of the time, it didn't.

The first Christmas without Arthur came and went in a series of large and small agonies. Xavier and Tatianna spent the night with her on Christmas Eve, and by midnight they were all sitting in the living room, sobbing. None of them wanted to open their presents, least of all Sasha. Tatianna had given her a heavy cashmere stole to wear, since Sasha seemed to be cold all the time, probably because she rarely ate or slept. And Xavier gave her a series of art books he knew she wanted. But it wasn't Christmas without Arthur.

The next day both her children went skiing with friends. She took a sleeping pill at eight o'clock on New Year's Eve, and woke up at two o'clock the next afternoon, grateful that she had missed it. She and Arthur had never done anything spectacular on New Year's Eve, but at least he had been there with her.

It was May before she felt even halfway human again. By then, it was seven months since Arthur's death. All she had done since then was travel to Paris once a month, where she sat huddled and freezing in the house at night, finished her work as quickly as possible, and flew back to New York. She delegated as much as possible to both her gallery managers during those months, and she was grateful for their help. Without them, she would have been utterly and totally lost, and nearly was. Sundays were the worst days of all for her, in either city, because she couldn't go to work. She hadn't been to the house in the Hamptons since he died. She didn't want to go back without him, nor did she want to sell it. She just let it sit there, and told her children to use it whenever they wanted. She wasn't going to. She had absolutely no idea what to do with the rest of her life. Other than work, which was now completely devoid of joy for her, but it was the only saving grace she had. The rest looked like a wasteland of despair. She had never felt as lost or without hope in her entire life.

Both of her gallery managers, and even Marcie, were urging her to see friends. She hadn't returned any calls, except for those from the gallery, in months. And even those calls she handed off to others whenever she could. She hadn't wanted to talk to anyone since Arthur died.

In May, she finally felt a little better. Much to her own amazement, she accepted a dinner invitation from Alana in June, and regretted it as soon as she did. She regretted it even more when the night arrived. The last thing she wanted was to put on clothes and go out. Marcie had told her that Arthur would want her to go out. He would have been devastated if he could see the state she was in. She had lost nearly twenty pounds. People who didn't know her well said she looked fabulous, and had no idea why. To them, being emaciated from grief looked fashionable and trim.

So, on a fateful night in June, she went out for the first time. She wore a black silk pantsuit and high heels, and her hair straight back in a bun. The diamond earrings she wore had been a gift from Arthur the Christmas before he died. She cried when she put them on. And her clothes hung on her. She was rail thin, and everything she owned was suddenly too big.

The dinner party she went to started out more pleasantly than she had expected it to, and most of the faces were familiar. Alana had yet another new beau by then, and this one seemed unexpectedly decent. He chatted with Sasha for a little while, and she discovered that he was a collector of contemporary art, and had been a client of her gallery once or twice. The agony for Sasha came when she discovered that Alana had asked him to bring a friend, who launched himself at Sasha during dinner. He was intelligent and might have been interesting, except that he proceeded to interview Sasha, as though she had signed up for computer dating, which she hadn't, and had no intention of doing, now or ever. She knew that Alana had met men on Internet dating services more than once. The thought of it horrified Sasha. She didn't want to date anyone, not this one or any other. She intended to mourn Arthur forever.

“So how many children do you have at home?” he asked her bluntly before they sat down to dinner, while Sasha was wondering if she could claim a sudden migraine and vanish. But she knew Alana would be insulted. She knew her hostess meant well, but this was not what Sasha wanted. All she wanted was to be left alone. Her wounds were still wide open. And she had no desire to replace Arthur. Ever.

“I have two grown children,” Sasha said bleakly.

“That's good,” he said with a look of relief. She knew he was a stockbroker, and he had volunteered that he had been divorced for the past fourteen years. He looked to be around fifty, two years older than Sasha.

“Actually, it's not good,” she said honestly, smiling sadly at him. “They're gone. I miss them terribly. I wish they were younger and still at home.” He looked more than a little uncomfortable with her answer.

“You're not planning to have more, are you?” She had the feeling that he had a checklist and was working his way down the questions.

“I'd love to, but I'm a widow.” For her, that answered the question. For him, it didn't.

“You'll probably end up remarried.” Poof, with one fell swoop, he had erased Arthur, and moved on to the next one. Sasha hadn't.

“I will not remarry,” Sasha said, looking stubborn, as they moved in to dinner, and she discovered with dismay that he was seated next to her. Alana clearly had a plan.

“How long were you married?” he asked with renewed interest. Women who were shopping for husbands were not what he wanted. In that case, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

“Twenty-five years,” she said primly, as they sat down. He didn't miss a beat or his questions for a minute.

“Well, then I can see why you don't want to remarry. Gets boring, doesn't it, after all those years? I was married for eleven, that did it for me.” Sasha looked at him with horror, and didn't answer for a long moment.

“I was not bored in my marriage,” she said firmly. “I was very much in love with my husband.”

“That's too bad,” he said, digging into the first course. It was the only breather from him Sasha had gotten. “You probably remember it better than it was. Most widowed people suffer from that kind of delusion. They all think they were married to saints, after they're gone. While they were here, they weren't that crazy about them.”

“I assure you,” Sasha said, looking haughtily at him, wanting to throw something at him, “I was crazy about my husband. That is a fact, not a delusion.” Her tone was glacial.

“All right, fine,” he said, looking nonplussed, “I'll take your word for it. So how many men have you been out with since he died?” Alana happened to look over then, saw the look on her face, and realized it was not going well. Sasha was white with outrage.

“I have not been out with anyone, nor do I intend to go out with anyone. Ever. My husband died eight months ago, and this is the first social invitation I've accepted.” Her dinner partner stared at her in amazement.

“Oh my God, you're a virgin.” He seemed to first view it as an oddity, and then as he looked at her with interest, as a challenge. But he had met his match in Sasha.

“No, I'm not a virgin, as you put it. Nor do I intend to be deflowered. I am a forty-eight-year-old widow, who was very much in love with her husband.” And with that, she turned her back on him, and spoke to her dinner partner on her other side, who was a man she and Arthur had known well. He was married, and she and Arthur had been fond of him and his wife.

“Are you all right?” Her old friend looked at her with concern as she turned to him with her eyes blazing. He spoke in an undertone, and her eyes were filled with tears as she nodded. The man on her left had been not only insulting but depressing. This was what she had to look forward to now as a widow. She was beginning to wonder if in the future she should just tell people she met that she was married. She had no desire to be someone's “virgin.” It robbed her of all the dignity and respect she'd taken for granted while married to Arthur. Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she realized now that overnight she had become embarrassingly vulnerable, and had lost the social protection of a loving husband, and the safe, comfortable shield of marriage.

“I'm fine,” she said softly to her seatmate.

“I'm so sorry, Sasha,” he said sympathetically, patting her hand, which made the tears in her eyes spill onto her cheeks, and she had to dig in her evening bag for her hankie. She could no longer afford to be without one. And as she blew her nose into it, she felt pathetic and embarrassed.

For the rest of the meal, she picked at what was on her plate, and disappeared with as much aplomb as she could muster while the others were moving into the living room for coffee. She didn't even have the strength to tell Alana, and promised herself she'd call her the next morning.

She didn't have to. Alana called her at the office. It was a Saturday, but as usual now, Sasha was at the gallery, working. No more weekend trips to the Hamptons, which she'd loved with Arthur and couldn't face alone.

“What happened?” Alana sounded plaintive. “He's a really nice guy when you get to know him. And he liked you. He thought you were terrific!” Sasha found that piece of news even more depressing.

“That's nice of him. I didn't want a date, Alana. I just wanted to come to dinner.”

“You can't stay alone forever. Sasha, sooner or later, you have to get out there. You're a young woman. And look, realistically, there just aren't that many decent guys around. This one's a good one.” Or at least Alana thought so. But she had proven over the past year that her judgment had been colored by desperation.

“I don't want a good one,” Sasha said sadly. She liked her friend, or always had, but hated what she was becoming. Her good taste, good judgment, and dignity seemed to have gone out the window the moment she became a widow. Sasha was sure that not all widows were like her. Alana also had severe money problems, and was desperate to find a husband to solve them. And as Arthur had said before he died, men could smell it. Eau de Panic, as Arthur had called it. It was not a perfume men liked.

“You want Arthur,” Alana said, rubbing salt in her wounds. “Well, if you want to know the truth, I want Toby. But they're gone, Sash. They're not coming back, and we're stuck here without them. We have to make the best of a bad situation, any way we can.”

“I'm not ready to do that,” Sasha said kindly. She didn't tell her friend how foolish she looked, or how embarrassing she was becoming. “Maybe staying alone is the right answer. I can't even imagine dating.” Nor did she want to.

“Sasha, you're forty-eight years old, I'm fifty-three. We're too young to be alone forever.” Sasha had felt young when she was married to Arthur. Since he had died, she felt ancient.

“I don't know, Alana. I don't know what the answer is. I just know that right now I'd rather be dead than dating.” As always, she was painfully honest.

“Be patient with yourself. Give these guys a chance, sooner or later you'll find one you want.” Judging by the men Alana had been dating for the past year, with the exception of the current one, none of them were men most sane women would have wanted, except maybe for their money. Alana had a whole different agenda than Sasha. All Sasha was trying to do was survive Arthur's loss. “In a few months, you'll feel different. Wait till after the first year. Then you'll be ready.”

“I hope not. I have my children, my galleries, and my artists.” Although without Arthur, nothing but the children meant anything to her. She could hardly concentrate on her work now. All it did was get her out of the apartment in New York, or her house in Paris. But nothing in her life brought her joy.

“That's not enough, and you know it,” Alana chided.

“Maybe it is for me.”

“Well, it isn't for me,” Alana said firmly. “I want to find a nice guy and get married.” Or if not a nice one, a rich one. Sasha had no interest in either. “Give yourself another six months, and you'll be out there looking too.”

“God, I hope not,” Sasha said grimly. Just thinking about it depressed her more.

“We'll see,” Alana said, as though she knew better. But one thing was for sure, it wasn't easy for anyone, divorced or widowed, to find men these days. Alana said she'd been hearing that from all her friends. So had Sasha, not that she cared.

She went back to Paris the following week, and stayed for two weeks this time. For the first time in months, she visited her artists, in several cities in Europe—Brussels, Amsterdam, and Munich. And she stopped in London on the way home to visit her son. He was in much better spirits, and producing some very interesting new work. She was impressed when she saw it. She gave him the name of a gallery she thought he should talk to, and he was pleased. He didn't want to show at Suvery. It reeked of nepotism to him, and he was determined to make it on his own.

Xavier had mentioned his friend Liam Allison to her again several times in recent months. He insisted that Liam was one of the most talented artists he had ever known, and he wanted her to see his work.

“I'd be happy to, but I want him to send me slides first.” She didn't want to waste her time, and seeing his slides was a screening process for her. But no matter how many times she told Xavier that, his friend never sent them to her. Xavier claimed he was shy, which wasn't unusual for a young artist, or even an older one, but he sounded anything but shy from the tales Xavier always regaled her with. Every time Xavier got out of control or misbehaved, went to a wild party, or did something outrageous or irresponsible, miraculously Liam seemed to be there. Most recently, they had gone to lunch together on a lazy Sunday afternoon, drank too much wine, took a cab to the airport afterward, and went to Marrakech for four days. Xavier said he had never had so much fun in his life. He called his mother when he got back. She'd been worried after he hadn't returned her calls for nearly a week.

“Let me guess,” she said when he finally surfaced again, and told her where he'd been. “That Liam character was part of it.” She could almost predict it now. Every time Xavier did something unexpected or slightly insane, the next thing he said to her was that Liam had been with him. “He must be completely mad. His wife must be a saint.”

“She's a good sport,” Xavier conceded easily, “although she gets a little fed up with it sometimes. She works, and she expects him to keep an eye on the kids.”

“She's probably supporting him, and the kids,” Sasha said knowingly. She knew other artists like him, though none quite so exuberant or as indifferent to accepted standards of behavior, from what Xavier said at least. “If I were in her shoes, I'd kill him.”

“I think she threatened to a few times. I don't think the trip to Morocco was a high point in their marriage.”

“No small wonder. He sounds like one of those children I wouldn't let you play with when you were little, because they always got you in trouble. One of these days he will, or get himself into some mess that will be awkward to get out of.”

“He's not mean-spirited, and he never does anything dangerous. He just likes to have a good time, and he hates being told how to behave. I think he grew up with a lot of rules or something. He's allergic to doing what's expected of him. He likes to have free rein.”

“Apparently. I can hardly wait to meet him,” Sasha said ruefully. In fact, she was hoping, if he ever sent her slides, that she would hate his work. He sounded like a headache she just didn't need. Although sometimes people with his energy and personality had enormous talent. What artists like Liam needed, according to Sasha, was to be harnessed, scolded severely, and whipped into shape, or they forgot to get to work. Although Xavier claimed Liam was diligent and conscientious about his painting. He was just irresponsible about everything else. And Xavier was still determined to introduce them. He was convinced that Suvery was the perfect gallery for his friend. But so far, Xavier had never been able to get them together, much to Sasha's relief.

Sasha spent the month of July in New York, but never went near the house in the Hamptons. She just couldn't, and told Tatianna to use it. Sasha didn't even want to see it. And in August, she went to St. Tropez for two weeks to visit friends. She felt oddly detached these days and rootless. She spent the rest of the month in the house in Paris, feeling like a marble in a shoebox. The whole world felt too big for her now without Arthur. Her life was like a pair of shoes that no longer fit. She had never felt so small in her entire life. Even when her father died, she had Arthur around constantly to buffer it for her. Now she had no one, except memories of him, and occasional visits with her kids.

She went back to New York at the end of August, and was finally brave enough to go to Southampton over the Labor Day weekend. It was the first time she had been back in nearly a year, and in some ways it was a relief. It was like finding a piece of him again, a piece she had sorely missed. The closet was still full of his things, and when she looked at their bed, she remembered the last time she had seen him. He had whispered that he loved her the morning she left, she had kissed him, and he went back to sleep. The memories were overpowering here, and she spent hours thinking of him and walking on the beach. But here, finally, she felt the healing begin.

She went back to the gallery looking better after the Labor Day weekend. For nearly a month now, she had been toying with an idea. She hadn't made a decision yet. It was something she had planned with Arthur. And now it made even more sense to her than before. She wanted to go home. Being in New York without him was too hard for her.

September sped by with an opening for a new artist, which she curated, and another solo show. She curated all their shows, choosing which work to hang, and where to hang it, seeking contrasts and combinations that would set each painting off to its best advantage. She had an instinctive knack for it and always loved it. She also met with several old, familiar clients, sat on her museum boards, and was planning a memorial service for Arthur, to mark the first year since his death. Xavier had promised to fly in for it. The service was, predictably, a somber moment for all of them. All of his partners were there, her children, and their close friends. Their friends were saddened to see how serious and unhappy she looked. As they left the church, it was hard to believe it had been a year.

Tatianna told her that night, after the memorial, that she had quit her job, and was going to travel in India for several months with friends. She wanted to take photographs, and when she got back, she was going to look for a job on a magazine. She promised to be back by Christmas. She was twenty-three years old, and said she needed to spread her wings, which worried Sasha a little, but Sasha knew she had no choice but to set her free. And then she shared her own plans with them. She had decided to move back to Paris, run the gallery there, and reverse the commute she had been doing for thirteen years. Ever since Arthur's death, all she wanted was to go back to her roots. And with Tatianna gone, at least in Paris she would be closer to Xavier. Tatianna was startled by her decision, but Xavier was pleased.

“I think that will be good for you,” he said kindly. He had worried about her all year. In the past, she had always seemed happier to him in Paris, and maybe now she would be. She had been so utterly miserable for the past year.

“Are you selling the apartment?” Tatianna asked, looking worried. She rarely stayed there anymore, but she liked knowing it was there. She didn't know of her father's plans to retire, and their conversations about selling the apartment and buying a pied-à-terre.

“Not yet. I'll use it when I'm here.” Tatianna looked relieved. In fact, moving to Paris would change little for Sasha. She would be in Paris for three weeks a month now, instead of one or two, and in New York for a week, or more if she needed to. She had her feet firmly planted in both cities, and had already lived that way for thirteen years. Her managers in both places were perfectly trained to do what she wanted, and were in constant communication with her, whenever she was away. It was going to be an easy adjustment for her.

Sasha waited till November to move to Paris. October was always a busy month in the art world in New York. She had board meetings to go to, shows to organize, and before she shifted the bulk of her time to Paris, she wanted to see some friends in New York. She hadn't seen most of them for nearly a year. She gave a small dinner party for Alana, who had just become engaged and looked enormously relieved. She was marrying the man she had introduced to Sasha the previous June, and they both seemed pleased. And as usual, Alana couldn't resist asking her if she was ready to date. She asked Sasha that every time they spoke. It was a mantra Sasha had come to hate.

“Not yet.” Sasha smiled pleasantly, and drifted away. Not ever, she told herself. She spent a last weekend in the Hamptons before she left, and celebrated Thanksgiving with friends. Xavier was back in London, and Tatianna was in India, traveling with her friends. It was easier for Sasha to be at someone else's house for Thanksgiving. It seemed more impersonal, and less painful that way. At her own home, the year before, Arthur's absence had been too fresh and too acute for all of them. This year was better. And she was surprised to run into an old friend at the dinner he went to, and discover that, after thirty-four years of marriage, he had just gotten divorced. He was Arthur's age, and they hadn't seen him in years. He told Sasha discreetly over dinner that his wife had become an alcoholic, and had had severe mental problems for the last twenty years of their marriage. He was sad, but relieved, to be out of it, and sorry to hear that Sasha was moving away. They had a nice time talking over dinner, and Sasha saw their hostess watching them hopefully. She had hoped that something might come of it when she invited both of them. They were the only single people there. And Sasha was startled to hear from him the next day. He called as she was packing her things for Paris. She was leaving the following day.

“I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me,” he said, sounding hesitant, and somewhat awkward. He had always liked her and Arthur, and like Sasha, he hadn't dated anyone in years. He sounded nervous and unsure.

“I'd have loved it,” she said easily. She knew she was leaving, so it was not an issue for her, and wouldn't have been anyway. As far as she was concerned, they were nothing more than old friends, nor would they be. “I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow. I'm moving back,” she said with relief. She knew she had made the right decision for her. Even her children agreed.

“I'm sorry to hear it. I was hoping I could get you to a movie sometime, or dinner.” He had been pleased to run into her again. And even Sasha would have had to admit, there was nothing wrong with him. He was a nice man. He just wasn't Arthur, and she had no interest in being involved with anyone else.

“I'll be back for a few days every month. You'll have to come to one of our openings sometime,” she said vaguely, and he promised he would.

“I'll call you if I come to Paris. I have business there once in a while.” But he was looking for someone more geographically and emotionally accessible, and she knew she'd never hear from him. She didn't really care. He wished her luck, and the next morning, she took a cab to the airport. By nine o'clock she was in the air, and half an hour later, she was sound asleep. It had been a crisp sunny day in New York when she left, and when she arrived in Paris, it was bitter cold and pouring rain. Sometimes she forgot how depressing Paris winters could be. But she was glad to be there anyway. She went to sleep that night, in her bed in Paris, to the sound of the pouring rain.

When she awoke on Sunday morning, the fog was so low it was nearly sitting on the rooftops. It was cold and gray and the house was damp. And when she slipped into her bed that night, even her sheets felt uncomfortable, and she was chilled to the bone. Just for a moment, she missed the warm, cozy apartment in New York. What she realized as she tried to sleep was that wherever she went now, her miseries came with her. It didn't matter what city she lived in, or in which bed she slept. Wherever she was, in whatever country, or city, her bed was always empty, and she was alone.

Chapter 3

Sasha's life was busy in Paris in December. The gallery was doing a booming business. She met with many of their most important clients, who seemed to want to make important purchases, or sell part of their collections, before the end of the year. And she spoke to Xavier in London nearly every day. She had arranged a skiing trip for herself and both her children. They were leaving the day after Christmas for St. Moritz. She also had several important clients there.

Her social life in Paris was far more formal than it normally was in New York. Her clients in New York were successful but often more informal, and many of them had become friends over the years. The people she liked there were interesting and varied in their origins and lines of work. In Paris, there were certain social lines drawn that were more typical of Europe. Her major clients came from aristocratic, often titled, backgrounds, or fortunes that had been established for generations, like the Rothschilds, and others who entertained lavishly, many of whom had been her father's friends as well. The parties she was invited to were infinitely dressier and more elaborate than those she went to in New York, or did when Arthur was alive. And here the invitations were harder to turn down, since many of the people who invited her had bought important pieces of work from her. She felt obliged to go. She complained about it to Xavier, and he insisted it would do her good. But even at her age, she was often by far the youngest person in the room, and more often than not, she was bored. For business reasons, if no other, she went anyway. And was always happy to go home.

In mid-December, working in her office on yet another gray foggy day, her secretary told her that a client had come to see her. She had met him at a dinner party the night before. He was interested in buying an important piece of Flemish work, and she was pleased that he had followed up on their conversation. She left her office to see him, and showed him several paintings that he seemed to like.

It was obvious to everyone except Sasha, in the course of his two-and-a-half-hour visit, that he liked the gallery owner as well. He invited her to dinner at Alain Ducasse the next day to discuss his eventual purchase with her. It was one of the finest restaurants in Paris, and she knew it would be a three- or four-hour meal, which she found boring and tedious. But she saw it as an opportunity to close a million-dollar sale. All she thought about now was work, except when she called Tatianna or Xavier.

“Maybe he's interested in more than just the painting, Mom,” Xavier teased her when she told him about the dinner she had accepted for the next day.

“Don't be silly, my father went to dinners like that with clients all the time. And believe me, no one was pursuing him.” Although she knew a few women had after her mother died. But she never saw her father show romantic interest in anyone. Like her, he had been faithful to his wife's memory till the end. Or at least, it was the impression he had given her. She had never discussed it with him. If there were women in his life over the years, he had been extremely discreet, but she doubted that there were.

“You never know,” Xavier said hopefully. Neither he nor his sister wanted her to wind up alone. “You're a beautiful woman, and you're still young.”

“No, I'm not. I'm forty-eight years old.”

“Sounds young to me. One of my friends is going out with a woman older than you.”

“That's disgusting. That's child molestation,” she said, laughing at him. The idea of a younger man seemed ridiculous to her.

“You wouldn't say that if it were a man your age going out with a young woman.”

“That's different,” she said emphatically, and this time Xavier laughed at her.

“No, it's not. You're just used to seeing that. It makes just as much sense if the woman is older, going out with a younger man.”

“Are you telling me that your latest paramour is twice your age? If you are, I don't want to know about it.” And at least, Sasha knew if that was the case, the woman would be gone within a week. With Xavier, they always were, whatever their age. Where women were concerned, he had the attention span of a flea.

“No, I haven't tried that yet, but I would if I met an older woman I liked and wanted to go out with. Don't be so stuffy, Mom.” She wasn't usually, in fact he loved how open-minded she always was about him. She was very French about those things, and never got upset about his active love life. She had been far more liberal than other people's mothers when he had gone to school in New York and had American friends. She had made a habit of buying condoms for him and all his friends, and leaving them in a giant mason jar in his room. She asked no questions, but kept the jar filled regularly. She preferred to be realistic about such things. In that sense, she was very French.

“I warn you, if you marry a woman twice your age, I'm not coming to the wedding, particularly if it's to one of my friends.”

“You never know. I just think you should keep an open mind for yourself.” He knew she hadn't dated yet. They were so open with each other that he knew she would tell him if she had.

“Maybe I should start hanging out at the local preschool, or hand out my phone number at the Lycée. I can adopt one of them, if I don't find a date.” She was laughing at him, and the utterly absurd and somewhat disgusting visual of herself with a young boy, or even a much younger man. She was used to being with someone older than she.

“When you want to find a date, Mom, you will,” Xavier said calmly.

“I don't want to,” she said firmly, the laughter fading from her voice. It was a subject she didn't want to explore with him, or anyone else.

“I know. But hopefully one of these days, you will.” His father had been gone for fourteen months, and he knew better than anyone how lonely she was. She called him night after night from home, and he could hear the sadness in her voice, whenever she wasn't at work. He hated to think of her that way. Tatianna was off in India and much less in touch with their mother than he. And he had the feeling that his mother spoke more openly to him. They had that special bond that sometimes exists between mothers and sons, as confidants and friends.

She told him she was going to New York for a board meeting the following week, and she was flying back the day before Christmas Eve.

He and Tatianna were due to arrive in Paris the afternoon of Christmas Eve. And the day after Christmas, they were off to St. Moritz. They were all looking forward to it. Her new prospective client had a house there, too. She hoped to have made the sale by then.

The following day her client came to pick her up for dinner, and took her to Alain Ducasse at the Plaza Athénée. She would far rather have had a simple but elegant dinner at Le Voltaire, but this was business, and she had to go where the client wanted. It was easy to figure out that he was trying to impress her, but she had never been particularly fascinated by complicated, rich food, however many stars the chef had. Alain Ducasse had three.

Predictably, it was an astounding meal. The conversation had been interesting, and the sale seemed imminent as Gonzague de St. Mallory drove her home. He was charming, well educated, extremely rich, a count, and an enormous snob. Le Comte de St. Mallory. He had been married twice, had five children he spoke about and acknowledged, and three she knew he didn't. In matters of that nature, France was a small country, and Paris a small city. His affairs were legendary, his mistresses well taken care of, and his illegitimate children the talk of the town.

“I was thinking that I might like to try the painting in the house in St. Moritz, before I make a decision,” the count said pensively, as he drove her home in his Ferrari. A car like his was a rare sight in Paris, where large cars were inconvenient. Sasha drove a tiny Renault, which was easier to park and maneuver. She felt no need to show off with an expensive car in Paris, or anywhere else. “Perhaps you could come and see it and tell me what you think,” he said as they pulled up in front of the hôtel particulier that housed the gallery, and her home.

“I could do that easily,” she said pleasantly. “We can ship it to you in St. Moritz, and I'll be there with my children in two weeks.” He looked annoyed the moment she said it.

“I was thinking you could stay with me. Perhaps you'd like to take them there some other time.” Her children were easily dispensed with, as far as he was concerned. She didn't agree.

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” Sasha said clearly, looking him straight in the eye. “We've planned this trip for a long time. And even if not, I'm looking forward to a holiday with my children.” She was trying to give him the message that he was barking up the wrong tree, regardless of her children. She had no intention of mixing business and pleasure, particularly not with him. He had an extremely racy reputation. He was fifty-four years old, and well known for carousing with young women.

“I assume you want to sell the painting,” Gonzague said just as clearly. “I think you understand, Mademoiselle de Suvery.”

“I do, Monsieur le Comte. The painting is for sale. I'm not. Even for a million dollars. I'll be happy to come and look at it while I'm there,” she said, a little more gently. But by then, his eyes were blazing. They had both made themselves clear. And he didn't like what he was hearing. Women never said no to him, particularly not women Sasha's age. As far as he was concerned, he'd have been doing her a favor to sleep with her. She looked like a sad, lonely woman to him. But apparently not as lonely as he thought. And not desperate for a sale.

“There's no need to come and see it,” he said coldly. “I've decided not to buy the painting after all. In fact, I have some serious concerns that it might be a fake.” As he said it, he got out of the car, and came around to open her door politely. She was already standing on the sidewalk, looking at him with fury, as he reached her side of the car.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said coolly. “I had no idea, from your reputation, that you purchase women, and at such high prices. I would think that a man with your charm and intelligence would be able to get them for free. Thank you for a delightful evening.” And before he could say another word, she walked to the bronze door, let herself in with the code, and disappeared. Seconds later, she heard him race away. She was shaking with outrage as she let herself into her house. The bastard had tried to buy her along with the painting, and thought she was so hungry for the sale that she would sleep with him. It was beyond insulting. No one would ever have dared treat her that way when Arthur was alive. She was still shaking when she called Xavier and told him the story moments later. He positively crowed with glee when she told him what she had said to him at the end.

“You're fantastic, Mother. You're lucky he didn't run you down with the Ferrari when he left.”

“I'm sure he would have liked to. What a total rotter he is,” she said, and he laughed again.

“Yeah, I'd say. But you should be flattered. I hear he goes out with girls younger than Tatianna. He spends a lot of time at Annabel's over here.”

“I'm not surprised.” It was a private nightclub in London, frequented by all the most elegant people, as well as a lot of old men and much younger women. She and Arthur had been there many times. They were members of the club, as well as Harry's Bar, both of which were owned by the same man. “How do men get away with behaving that way?”

“Some women love it. Most gallery owners would probably have slept with him to sell the painting.”

“Yes, and when they did, the next day the painting would come back anyway.” Her father had warned her about men like that when she came into the business. Gonzague de St. Mallory was anything but unique, and certainly ill mannered, as far as Sasha was concerned.

She was still fuming about it when she lay in bed that night. And the next morning she told her gallery manager that they would not be selling the painting to the count.

“Oh? I thought you were having dinner with him last night,” Bernard commented.

“I did. The count behaved very badly, and is lucky he didn't get slapped. Apparently, he was expecting to buy my services along with the painting. He thought I should stay with him in St. Moritz, and cancel my holiday with the children.”

“And you didn't accept?” Bernard pretended to be shocked. “What bad salesmanship on your part, Sasha. My God, think of it, a million dollars. Have you no sense of responsibility to your father's business?” He loved to tease her. After fifteen years at the gallery, they were friends.

“Oh shut up, Bernard,” she said with a half smile, marched into her office, and went back to work. As far as Sasha was concerned, it was the most insulting offer she'd ever had. And the following week she told her manager about it in New York, who was genuinely shocked.

“Americans don't behave that way,” Karen said, staunchly defending her fellow countrymen.

“Some of them probably behave worse. I'm beginning to think it's about men, not nationalities, although admittedly the French might be a little bolder about things like that. But I'm sure it happens here as well. Hasn't anyone ever implied that you should sleep with them in order to sell a painting?” Sasha sat back in her desk chair with a chuckle. It was finally beginning to seem funny. Karen, her New York gallery manager, thought about it for a minute, and then shook her head.

“I don't think so. Maybe I missed the point.”

“And what would you have done?” Sasha was playing with her now.

“I would have slept with him, and paid him the million dollars,” Marcie, her assistant, piped up. “I saw him in a magazine. He's gorgeous, Sash.”

“Yes, he was,” Sasha admitted, looking unimpressed. She thought her late husband was far more handsome. She didn't like the overpolished, sleazy looks of the count. She preferred Arthur's far more clean-cut Gary Cooper appearance. Men like Gonzague de St. Mallory were a dime a dozen, with or without a Ferrari. She knew the type.

The three days Sasha spent in New York were busy and went quickly. She had a number of artists to see, big clients she had promised to have meetings with, and the board meeting that had brought her over. The first two nights she spent in her apartment, going through some of Arthur's things. She had promised herself she would put at least some of them away. It had taken her fourteen months, and her closets looked empty and sad when she had done it. But it was time.

On her last night she went to a Christmas party given by friends. There was something very bittersweet for her about being in New York before Christmas. It reminded her of when her children were small and she took them skating at Rockefeller Center, and of when Arthur was alive, two Christmases before. It was hard for her being there. She was glad to see her friends, but tired of explaining to them that there was no man in her life. It seemed to be the only question anyone asked her anymore. As though she didn't exist unless she was attached to a man. It made her feel like a failure, in an odd way, that her husband had died, and she was now alone. Watching all her married friends leave with each other made her feel like the only single species on Noah's ark. She was relieved to go back to Paris the next day, and excited that her children would be there the day after.

She had someone come in and cook Christmas goose for them on Christmas Eve, and she had decorated a tree, and put decorations around the house. She was thrilled to see Tatianna, whom she hadn't seen in two months. She looked well and happy and had had a wonderful time. She could hardly wait to show her mother the photographs. They were sorting through them, as Xavier told her about Gonzague.

“Mom nearly canceled our trip to St. Moritz” was his opening volley. Tatianna looked surprised. “She was going to go without us, to a sell a million-dollar painting to a French count.”

“No, I wasn't, you rotten kid.” She told Tatianna the story then, who looked shocked that a Parisian playboy had tried to bed her mother, with the lure of his purchasing a million-dollar painting.

“That's disgusting, Mom,” Tatianna said with feeling, and sympathy for her mother. She could easily imagine how humiliating it must have been for her.

“No, it wasn't. I think she should be flattered,” Xavier added.

“You're a disgusting chauvinist,” Tatianna said, glaring at her brother. “That's horrible for Mom.”

“All right, all right. You both win. I'll go and punch him out. Where does he live?” He turned to his mother and she laughed.

“I never should have told you. You'll never let me live it down.”

“Yes, I will. And by the way, I keep forgetting to tell you. Liam is finally sending you slides. He showed them to me. They're good,” he said proudly on behalf of his friend.

“I'm looking forward to seeing them.” She knew that sometimes Xavier had a good eye, and sometimes he tried to help his friends, at her expense. She was never sure which to expect, but it was worth a look. She had been hearing about the young American artist in London for ages. Far more about his adventures and escapades than his art.

“I think you'll be impressed by his work,” Xavier reassured her. Sasha nodded and didn't comment. She still hoped she wouldn't. He sounded like a handful to her.

“What's his last name again?” she asked vaguely.

“Liam Allison. He's from Vermont. But he's been living in London since he got out of college.”

“I'll remember the name. If I like the slides, I'll try to see him next time I come.” Once in a while, Xavier did some good scouting for her, and this might just be one of those times. She was always willing to look. It was why she had the reputation she did. Sasha had an adventuresome spirit, and an unfailing eye. But she also knew in advance that Liam was a loose cannon. It was an unavoidable conclusion after all the mischief Xavier had gotten into with him.

They went to midnight mass that night, and spent a cozy day together the next day. Tatianna had brought her mother a beautiful sari from India, and some lovely gold sandals to go with it. And Xavier had bought her a gold bracelet from an antique shop in London. It was the sort of thing his father would have given her, and it warmed his heart to see her face light up when she put it on.

She looked at both of them when they went to bed on Christmas night, and smiled lovingly at both her children. “I'm the luckiest woman in the world,” she said, and meant every word of it. For the first time in a long time, she knew she was.

Chapter 4

Sasha and her children had a wonderful time in St. Moritz, although they teased her mercilessly about Gonzague. They stayed at the Palace Hotel in opulent accommodations. She enjoyed spoiling them once in a while, particularly on vacations. She and Arthur always had. They felt fortunate to be able to, and the trips they had taken were memories they all cherished. St. Moritz that year was one of them.

She skied with the children some of the time, and the rest of the time on her own. Xavier was an outstanding skier, and Tatianna was as skilled as he, just a trifle more sensible and less daring. Both of them met people they went out with at night. And more often than not, Sasha ate dinner in her room alone. She didn't mind. She had brought several books with her, and she didn't want to be part of the nightlife. She was rested, happy, and relaxed, when they went back to Paris. Tatianna only stayed a few days, she wanted to get back to New York to find a job, and Xavier lingered a day or two after she left, and then went back to his studio in London. Before he left, his friend Liam Allison's slides arrived. And much to her surprise and chagrin, they were even better than Xavier had promised. Sasha was impressed, although in order to make a decision about representing him, she needed to see his paintings in the flesh.

“I'll try to come over next week, or maybe the week after,” she told Xavier, and meant it. But it was the last week in January when she finally went to London, to see three of her artists, and meet Liam. She fitted him into her schedule on her last afternoon in London, with some trepidation. The adventures and bad behavior Xavier had described to her did not make her anxious to represent him, but his talent was impossible to ignore. She felt she had to see him. And once in his studio, she was glad she'd come.

Liam let her into the studio himself with a look of anxiety, and a nervous smile. Xavier had accompanied her, and patted his friend on the shoulder to give him courage. He knew how anxious Liam was. Sasha seemed cool and businesslike when she walked in, and almost stern. She had worn black jeans and a black sweater, black boots, her hair looked almost as black as the sweater, and as she often did, she had pulled it tightly back and wound it into a bun. And even as small as she was, Liam thought she looked terrifying when he shook her hand. He knew that whatever she said, or thought, about his work would have an impact on his life forever. If she dismissed it as inadequate, or decided it wasn't worthy of being represented by her gallery, he would feel it almost like a physical blow. As he watched her cross the studio, he felt vulnerable and afraid. She thanked him politely for inviting her to come. He had no way of knowing, despite everything Xavier had said, that what appeared to be coolness to him was in fact that she herself was shy. What interested her was the art, even more than the person. But undeniably, Liam himself was hard to ignore. She had heard too many stories about him from her son. She knew what an outrageous, often badly behaved, person he was. The only mitigating factor, she hoped, was his wife and three children. She thought that he couldn't be totally irresponsible and without merit, if he had a wife and family. Xavier had never suggested that he was promiscuous, only that he was “irrepressible” and a prankster of the first order, and he didn't like being told how to behave. He resisted any effort to modify his behavior, or expectation of his acting like a grown-up, as a form of “control.” According to Xavier, he leaned heavily on the fact that he was an artist, and felt it gave him license not to live by anyone else's rules, and to do anything he wanted. It was a style she wasn't unfamiliar with, but she often found people like him hard to deal with. They worked when they wanted to, played when they didn't, and usually missed their deadlines for shows. Men like him wanted to be treated like children. Apparently, his wife was willing to do that. Sasha wasn't, no matter how handsome or charming he was.

If he was serious about his work, to some extent at least, she expected him to act like an adult, or at least pretend to be one. Given all she'd heard, she wasn't at all sure that Liam was prepared to grow up. And in the end, charming or not, his work would have to speak for itself.

She walked slowly across the studio to where he had hung several large, bright paintings. There were three more smaller paintings set up on easels. Liam's work was stunning and powerful, his use of colors was strong, and the size of his larger canvases made the work even more so. She stood looking at his work for a long time, quietly nodding, while he held his breath. Xavier knew her silence was a good sign, but Liam didn't. Watching her concentrate silently on his work, Liam was dying. He was literally holding his breath when she turned to him finally, and said five words. “It's fantastic. I want it.” Afterward, he admitted to her he nearly fainted with relief. Instead, he let out a war whoop of glee, grabbed her, spun her around, and swept her right off her feet, and was grinning at her when he finally set her down.

“Oh my God, I can't believe it…I love you! Oh my God! I thought you were going to tell me you hated it, and it was utter shit.”

“It's not shit.” She smiled at him, excited for him, and grateful to Xavier for finding Liam and telling her about him. “It's brilliant. Your use of color absolutely makes my heart pound and my eyes water. We can't give you a show for almost a year though. We're overbooked as it is. I want you to open in New York, not Paris.” Paris openings were always quieter. She preferred doing openings of important contemporary work in New York. Xavier also knew that was a good sign, and promised himself to tell Liam later. He didn't want to give away all his mother's secrets while she was standing there. He was thrilled he had made the introduction. He too had been convinced that Liam's work was great, and was relieved and thrilled that his mother agreed.

“Oh my God,” Liam said again, sat down on the floor, and nearly cried. He had been working toward this for nearly twenty years, and now it had finally come. He was going to have a show at Suvery Gallery in New York. It was beyond belief. And Sasha herself was sitting in his studio, and loving his work. She was telling him that he would have to work hard to get ready for the show. “What can I ever do to thank you?” He looked at her like a vision that had just materialized in his studio. He felt like a boy who had seen a virgin with a stigmata.

“Just paint me some good stuff. I brought a contract with me from Paris, just in case. You can show it to a lawyer if you like. There's no rush to get it back.” She never pressured anyone to sign.

“My ass there's no rush. What if you change your mind? Where is it? Just give it to me, I'll sign it.” He was practically flying. As she looked at him, he hardly looked older than her son.

She knew from the bio he had sent her with the slides that he was thirty-nine. Looking at him, she would never have believed it. He had studied with some very important artists, and had had a few minor shows at small galleries. But he looked like a kid. Everything about him seemed loose and free and young. He was tall, lanky, and handsome. He had straight blond hair that hung down his back most of the time. He had tied it in a ponytail to meet her. But his face was smooth and youthful. He had powerful shoulders, long graceful hands, and he bounced around his studio like a teenager in sneakers, blue jeans, and T-shirt, all covered with paint. He towered over her like an anxious child, as he begged her for the contract.

“It's at the hotel,” she told him reassuringly, suddenly sounding like a mother. Now that he was about to become one of her artists, she felt protective of him. “I'll drop it off before I leave, or send it by messenger. I'm not going to change my mind, Liam. I never do that,” she said gently. Her voice was calm, and it touched her that he was so excited. He said this was one of the defining moments of his life. She didn't think it was, but she was happy it meant so much to him. That was what she loved best about showing emerging artists. She was able to give them a chance. She had always loved that about that side of the business, working with young artists like him. Although Xavier was right, he wasn't that young, but he looked it. Everything about him was boyish. He was only nine years younger than she was, but he acted about fourteen, and looked somewhere in his mid-twenties, not thirty-nine. He seemed no older than Xavier to her, and made her feel maternal toward him. “Do you want to show the contract to your wife?” The studio was such a mess it was obvious he didn't live there, and there was no sign of the wife and three children that Xavier had mentioned. She imagined that they lived somewhere else, although his clothes seemed to be strewn everywhere, covered with paint. Obviously, his work clothes. She could only assume that there was a neater, cleaner place elsewhere where they all lived.

“She's in Vermont,” Liam said apologetically. “I'll send her a copy after I sign it. She's not going to believe this,” he said, glancing at Xavier, and then his mother.

As Liam poured them each a glass of wine, all three of them looked happy. Sasha only took a sip, and Liam downed half of his in a minute. He was flying. He had been a real find for her. More than ever, it made her wish that Xavier would come into the business with her. Like her, he had a great eye for talent. They had both inherited it from her father. But Xavier wanted to live in London and be an artist, not a dealer in New York or Paris. Maybe they would open a gallery in London one day. For the first time in years, she thought about expanding. But Xavier was still too young to take on that responsibility. Maybe one day. He had just turned twenty-five, although she had come into the business only a year later, at twenty-six, under the tutelage of her father. “Can I take you both out to dinner?” Liam asked them hopefully. “I want to celebrate.” He looked like he was about to explode with excitement, and he damn near did.

“I'd love to, but…,” Xavier said mischievously, and Sasha knew what that meant. God forbid dinner with an artist and his mother should interfere with his love life. He was definitely not ready for the business. At his age, she had been married, working at the Met, and had two children. Xavier was a long way from there.

Sasha hesitated for a moment. She had hoped to have dinner with Xavier that night, and didn't know he had other plans. But that was typical of her son. She turned to Liam. “Why don't I take you out to dinner, Liam. I'm your dealer now, you don't need to invite me. We can get to know each other,” she said kindly. He saw a warmth in her he hadn't seen at first. There was a quiet shyness and stability he liked. Everything about Sasha seemed reliable and solid, and he liked her. At first, he had been terrified of her. But beneath the cool, professional exterior, he sensed that she was warm. Her reputation daunted him, but her persona didn't.

She wondered if he owned a suit. Most of her young artists didn't. And Liam looked no different. In fact he looked a lot worse than some, although he was good looking. He was very handsome, a very striking-looking man.

“I'd love it. I can sign the contract over dinner,” he said with a grin that had dazzled many.

“You should read it first,” she scolded him. “You have to make sure you're comfortable with it. Don't just sign it without at least reading it, or even showing it to an attorney.”

“I would sell myself into slavery for you, or give you my left nut if you wanted it,” he said bluntly, as Sasha blinked. But she was used to that kind of statement from her artists.

“Actually, that won't be necessary,” Sasha said primly. “As I recall, testicles are not in our contract. You can keep them both. I'm sure your wife will be relieved.” He smiled at her and didn't answer. And as she looked at him, she was reminded of a beautiful young boy. He was lovely to look at, and despite the boyish appearance and mannerisms, he was an extremely talented man. “Where would you like to have dinner?” She had been thinking of Harry's Bar with Xavier, but her son was a different breed entirely, he had the right clothes to wear, and knew how to behave. She doubted that Liam had either manners or better clothes than the ones he had on. He was, after all, a starving artist, although if she had anything to do with it, he wouldn't be for long. She thought he was going to be a sensation in New York, and eventually in Paris. Liam was a real find, that rare commodity of someone with gigantic talent who actually produced great work.

“I'd like to get dressed up and take you out to thank you,” he said humbly, and it touched her heart.

“How dressed up?” She looked him over with a motherly air. He brought out the mother in her. Everything about him made one feel he was a boy and not a man. All she wanted suddenly was to protect and help him. She was excited about working with him, and launching him on a major career. He was a major discovery for her. It was an important moment not only for him, but for Sasha as well.

“I have a suit and two good shirts. One of them is clean. I think I used the other one to wax my car.” He looked at her sheepishly and she laughed. There was something impish and irresistible about him. He reminded her of Xavier when he was about fourteen, and struggling to become a man. Xavier had become one. Liam hadn't yet.

“Then let's go to Harry's Bar,” she said simply. She loved having dinner there. It was her favorite restaurant in London.

“Holy shit. I can't believe this is happening to me. Can you?” He turned to Xavier with a grin, who smiled happily at his friend. This had turned out even better than he'd hoped. He was thrilled for Liam, and grateful to his mother for giving him a chance.

“Yes, I can,” Xavier said simply.

“Man, I owe you big time.” And with that, Liam slapped him a high five. They looked like two boys in a clubhouse to Sasha, and she just hoped he behaved at Harry's Bar that night. You couldn't always tell with artists, which was why she rarely took them there. But she decided to take a chance on Liam. There was something innocent and enchanting about him, and if he got out of line, or loud and boisterous, she would tell him to behave. Her artists were like children to her, sometimes even the old ones. She felt like their surrogate mother, which was a lot of work, but it was part of what she loved about her job. The artists were her little chicks, and she the mother hen. And although she wasn't that much older than he, Liam looked like he needed a mother, like Peter Pan.

“Let's have dinner at eight. I'll have my driver pick you up at seven-thirty, and you can pick me up at the hotel. I'll be downstairs,” she said as she and Xavier left.

“Don't forget to bring the contract,” he reminded her as they started down the stairs.

It had been a productive afternoon for both of them, and Liam was excited about dinner. He wanted to talk to her about the show, and the amount of work she wanted. He was willing to work like a galley slave for the next year to produce the best work he'd ever done. He wasn't going to let her down. This was his big chance, and Liam knew it. He had worked all his life for this moment. And however badly he allowed himself to behave in his private life, or on his evenings out with Xavier, Liam had always been serious about his work. He had known from his childhood that he had been born to paint. It had set him apart and isolated him even as a child, and later as a teenager and young man. He had always known he was different, and didn't really mind. His mother had always encouraged him, and told him he had to follow his dreams. The rest of his family hadn't been nearly as enthused, and even his own father had treated him like a freak. It had created a chasm between them forever. It was as though only his mother was able to see his special genius. The others, his father, brothers, and even their friends, had just thought he was weird, and his early paintings meant nothing to them. His father called them junk, and his brothers referred to them as scribbles. They shut him out from everything they did, and in his isolation, he had sought solace in painting. Like all people who had suffered early on, Liam was much deeper than he looked. Sasha didn't know that yet, but she sensed it. All of the artists she knew had had some private grief or hell to live through. In the end, it made their lives more painful perhaps, but strengthened their work and commitment to art. Losing her own mother as a child gave her greater compassion for them, and made her more in tune with their sufferings. She understood, better even than she knew sometimes. It was as though there were an unspoken harmony between them.

“I thought you'd like his work,” Xavier said in the car, looking pleased. “He's got a lot of talent,” he said proudly of his friend.

“Yes, he does.” She felt totally confident, and thrilled that Xavier had found him. She was very proud of her son for his discerning eye.

“He's a nice guy, too,” Xavier reassured her. “He's kind and decent and honest. He loves his wife and kids. Even if he acts a little crazy sometimes, he's a good man. He's wild, but harmless.”

“It's too bad she's in Vermont. I would have liked to meet her. Who people are married to can tell you a lot about them,” Sasha said quietly, and for a moment Xavier didn't comment.

“She's terrific. They've been married forever. She's been in Vermont for a while.”

“What does that mean?” Sasha looked at her son with a question in her eyes. “Are they still married, or did she leave him?”

“I think the answer is yes to both. They're still married, and I think they're taking a break or something. He doesn't talk about it. She goes home to Vermont, to visit her parents, every summer. And this year she didn't come back in September. He said she wanted to stay there for a few months. She's been gone since July. He's a great guy, but I don't think he's easy to live with. She put him through school working as a maid in summer and winter resorts. She worked as a secretary here. She pretty much supports him and the kids, and she puts up with all his crazy artist bullshit. I don't think he'd ever divorce her, but I don't think it's been easy for her with all five of them to support. I hope she comes back. She's a good woman, and I know he loves her.”

“Maybe we can make a difference for him now,” Sasha said. It was an old familiar story. Most of her artists drove their spouses insane, and painted while others supported their talent. Theirs wasn't the first marriage that had been strained, or even sacrificed, for the sake of art. She'd heard it all before. “I could give him a small advance if it would make a difference. I'll see what he says at dinner. Maybe that would help him out with her.”

“It would probably mean a lot. The timing is pretty good for him. His oldest boy is going to college next year. He'll need the money.”

“Hopefully, we'll make him a lot of it. But it doesn't happen overnight.” Although they both knew that sometimes it did. After what Xavier had just told her, she hoped that it would happen that way for him. His family surely deserved it as much as he did. Particularly with a boy going to college. Liam didn't look old enough to have a child in his late teens. He seemed like a teenager himself.

Xavier hugged his mother then, and promised to have breakfast with her the next morning. They agreed to meet at ten, as she knew she'd have business calls to make in the morning. She was planning to leave for the airport at noon, and she wanted to spend her last few hours in London with him.

“Behave yourself tonight,” she said with a mock serious tone, issuing a motherly warning, and he laughed as he walked away. At least this time Liam wouldn't be with him, Sasha thought to herself. But now that she had met Liam, she was less worried about his influence on Xavier. And she suspected Xavier was right. Liam seemed juvenile, and immature perhaps, but harmless.

“See you in the morning!” Xavier waved, got into his car, and a moment later he drove away, pleased with himself. They had done good work that afternoon. Liam was off and running. His fledgling career had just taken a dramatic upward turn.

Chapter 5

Sasha's car and driver picked Liam up at precisely seven-thirty, and came to pick Sasha up at Claridge's at seven forty-five. As promised, she was waiting downstairs, and slipped into the car next to Liam when they arrived. He was wearing a decent-looking black suit, and a red shirt he had painted himself that had once been white. He had forgotten that was what he had done with his other good shirt, the one he had not used to wax his car. He painted it one night when he was drunk, and thought it was funny. Now, as he had discovered that night, it was the only shirt he had. He hoped Sasha liked it. She didn't, but didn't comment. He was an artist. So was her son, and if he had worn something like it to Harry's Bar, she would have killed him. But Liam was not her son.

Without appearing to, she glanced at his shoes, which were almost respectable, but not quite. They were serious, grown-up black shoes, meant to have laces, and for some obscure reason, he had thrown the laces out. He realized while he dressed that he had probably used them for something, maybe to wrap a package he had sent somewhere, but he could no longer remember what. He thought the shoes looked better without laces anyway, and he preferred them that way. He was clean shaven, freshly showered, smelled delicious, and had impeccably clean hair, tied with a plain black ribbon he had wound around the rubber band on his long blond ponytail. He looked handsome and immaculate, and except for the shirt and absence of laces in his shoes, he would have looked respectable, but he was an artist after all. Liam didn't follow the rules, and never had. He saw no reason to follow anyone else's rules but his own, which was partly why his wife had stayed in Vermont, and hadn't seen him since July. In spite of the painted red shirt and ponytail, there was something distinctly handsome and aristocratic about him. He was a beautiful man, and a man of contrasts. In another lifetime or profession, he could have been an actor or a model, a lawyer or a banker, but the shirt he had painted red said that he was not only an artist but a rebellious child. It said, “Look at me. I can do anything I want. And there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.”

“Do I look all right?” he asked Sasha nervously, and she nodded. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, and the shirt was, after all, a work of art. She didn't notice the lack of shoelaces until they were standing in Harry's Bar. And as he hopped onto a stool at the bar, she saw that he wasn't wearing socks either. The headwaiter knew her well, and without saying a word, he handed Liam a long black tie, which actually looked fine with his shirt, once he put it on. She helped him tie it, as she had for Xavier when he was a child. Liam said he hadn't worn a tie in years and had forgotten how to tie one. He looked completely unconcerned. The fact that everyone else in the room was exquisitely dressed, the men in beautifully tailored suits and shirts custom made in Paris, the women in cocktail dresses by important designers, didn't bother him at all. One thing Liam didn't lack was confidence, except where Sasha was concerned. He wanted to impress her, and was not at all sure how. She looked so capable and confident, so quietly poised as she chatted with him, that he suddenly felt like the innocent he was. She treated him like a child. She told him he looked fine when he asked, and she walked into the restaurant proudly beside him, and acted as though every man in the place should have looked like that. It made Liam almost giddy to walk beside her, and he felt like Picasso when he sat down.

He had already asked her about the contract twice in the car. To spare his nerves and her own, she handed it to him at the table. He signed it without looking at it, despite her warnings to do otherwise, and then he beamed at her. He was a Suvery artist now. It was all he had wanted and dreamed of for the past ten years of his life. It had finally happened, and he was going to savor every moment of it. He knew this was a night he would never forget, nor would Sasha. She suspected that one day they would laugh about this evening, when he had walked into Harry's Bar in a shirt he had painted himself. Despite his youth and zany looks, there was an aura of greatness about him.

After he drank a martini at the bar, she ordered champagne for them, and toasted him, and then he toasted her. She drank two glasses. Then, without batting an eye, Liam finished the rest. By then, he had told her that he was the black sheep of his family. His father was a banker and lived in San Francisco, his two brothers were a doctor and a lawyer, and they had both married debutantes. Liam said he had always been different right from the start. His brothers had tormented him by telling him he was adopted, which he wasn't. But right from the beginning, he'd been different. He hated all the things they loved, hated sports, didn't do well in school, while they were brilliant students. They were both captains of the varsity teams they played on, in football, basketball, and hockey. Instead, he had sat alone in his room, painting. And they teased him cruelly, by throwing away his paintings. Liam told Sasha that his father had let him know early on that he was a severe disappointment and an embarrassment to them. For a brief nightmarish year, to punish him for bad grades, he had been sent to military school. He had snuck into the cafeteria one night, and painted caricatures of all the teachers on the wall, some of them pornographic, which had been his clever plan to get expelled, which, he told Sasha with a broad grin, had been very effective. And once he got home, the torture at the hands of his family continued. Finally, not knowing what else to do with him, they ignored him completely. They acted as though he didn't exist, forgot to call him to dinner at night, and didn't bother to speak to him when he was in the same room with them. He became a nonperson in his own family, and eventually a total outcast. The worse they treated him, the worse he got, and the more he misbehaved. Since he didn't fit in, or comply with their rules and plans for him, they completely shut him out. More than once, he had heard his father say he had two sons, instead of three. Liam didn't conform to the way his family did things, so they shunned him. And eventually, he acted out his outcast role in school as well. He was called on to paint scenery for the drama club, or if they needed posters or signs. But the rest of the time, no one paid any attention to him, in school or at home. The other students referred to him as “the wacky artist,” which had been a deep insult at first, and then he decided that he liked it, and played it to the hilt. Sometimes, as a teenager, he wondered if he was insane.

“I figured out that if I let myself be just what they said I was, a wacky artist, I could do anything I wanted, so I did. I did whatever I felt like.” And eventually, since he never bothered to study, he got expelled from one school after another. He had dropped out of school finally in his senior year, and never bothered to graduate, until his wife forced him to get his diploma once they were married. But school had meant nothing to him. It was just a place where he was tortured for being different. According to Liam, no one except his mother had ever recognized or cared that he had talent. Art was not an acceptable occupation in his family. Only sports and academics mattered, and he didn't qualify in either, or even attempt to. Sasha wondered if he had had an undetected learning disability to be so resistant to school. Many of her artists did, and it had been a source of deep unhappiness for them, compensated for by their artistic talent. But she didn't know Liam well enough to ask him, so she didn't, and just listened to his story with compassion and interest.

He insisted that he had known he wanted to be an artist from the moment he came out of the womb. Once on Christmas morning, before everyone got up, he had painted a mural in their living room, and after that he painted the grand piano and the couch. The shirt was obviously just a more recent version of the same form of art. He had been seven on that fateful morning, and couldn't understand why no one liked or appreciated what he'd done. His father had spanked him, and in a somewhat disconnected but emotional recital, he explained that after that, his mother had gotten very sick. She died the following summer, and from then on, his life was a nightmare. His only protector, and the only person who loved and accepted him, had vanished. Some nights, they didn't even bother to feed him. It was as though he had died with her. And art became his only comfort, and outlet, his only remaining bond with her, since she loved all that he did. He told Sasha that for years and sometimes even now, he felt as though he was painting for his mother. There were tears in his eyes when he said it. Everyone else in his family acted as though he was crazy, and still did. He said he hadn't seen his father and brothers in years.

He had met his wife, Beth, during a ski trip to Vermont, after he left home at eighteen and was painting in New York. He had married her at nineteen, when he was painting and starving in Greenwich Village. She had worked like a dog, according to Liam, and supported him ever since, much to her family's chagrin. They were as conservative as his family and didn't like him either. They hated him for his lack of responsibility and inability to support their daughter. He and Beth had three children, two boys who were seventeen and eleven, and a little girl who was five. They were the light of his life, and so was Beth, until she went back to Vermont, to her family, the previous July.

“Do you think she'll come back?” Sasha asked with a look of concern. There was something so gentle and vulnerable about him that it made her want to put her arms around him and fix everything for him. But she knew from experience with other artists that the messes they created in their lives were often damn near impossible to fix. His relationship with his family sounded as though it was beyond salvation, and probably not even worth trying. But it tugged at her heart when she listened to him talk about the lonely childhood he'd had and then about his wife and kids. He seemed lost without them, and Sasha sensed much left unsaid. Liam looked at her honestly in answer to her question about Beth returning, hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head.

“Probably not.” He sounded convinced. He believed now that Beth was gone forever.

“Maybe when she knows things are looking up for you financially, that might make a difference.” For some reason she couldn't fathom, for Liam's sake, she wanted Beth to come back. Sasha wasn't as sure Liam did. He looked sad about their separation but seemed to accept it as inevitable. They had been married for twenty years, and it obviously hadn't been easy. Mostly for her. He looked like a man who had committed a crime, felt deep remorse, but knew he couldn't change it.

“That wasn't the problem. The finances, I mean.” He seemed to be clear about that, and Sasha couldn't help wondering what the problem had been. They were eating their pasta by then, with a very good French Bordeaux.

“What was?” Maybe the kids had put too much strain on them. Sasha wondered if it was that. Or simply the inevitable grind of time.

“I slept with her sister in June.” He looked sad and sounded hoarse as he said it, and in spite of her best efforts not to, Sasha looked shocked. If nothing else, it was incredibly stupid, to betray a woman who had held down countless jobs to support him and their three children for twenty years. And Xavier had said she was a nice woman. Maybe Liam wasn't such a nice guy. His confession was certainly an indication of that.

“Why did you do that?” she asked him as one would a child.

“We got incredibly drunk while Beth and the kids were away for the weekend. I told her when she got back. I figured Becky would. They're twins.”

“Identical?” Sasha found the story fascinating but pathetic, and she got sucked into the drama with him, as he told it. Just as she had with the stories about his parents and brothers. She wasn't even sure why yet, or if he deserved it, but she liked him. And wanted to help him. But she was horrified by his betrayal of his wife. To Sasha, it spoke of a lack of moral fiber that upset her a great deal. But there was also a childlike innocence about him that made one want to forgive him, no matter how serious the crime.

“They're not identical, but close enough. Becky has been after my ass for years. The next morning, I couldn't believe I did it, but I did.” He looked as though he were going to cry as he said it. And when he told Beth, he had.

“Are you an alcoholic?” Sasha asked him somewhat sternly. He was certainly doing a good job on the wine, but he didn't seem drunk to her.

“No. Just stupid. Beth and I have been fighting a lot for the last year. She wanted me to go out and get a job. She was sick of working and starving for art. And her parents kept telling her to leave me and come home. Her father is a carpenter, and her mother is a teacher. They think my art is shit. I was beginning to think so, too. Until today.” He smiled at Sasha gratefully. He was hard to resist. Even after hearing his confession of adultery, it was hard to be angry at him. He was right. It was just plain stupid. And in spite of it, there was something innocent and likable about him. She couldn't explain it rationally, she felt drawn to him as a person, and even as a man.

“What does Becky do?” she asked, sounding suspicious.

“She's a bartender in a ski resort. She makes a hell of a lot of money, and screws a hell of a lot of guys. She's always wanted me. And maybe I wanted her, too. I don't know. Twenty years is a long time with one woman. I was a virgin when I married Beth, and I never cheated on her till now.” But even he knew it was wrong. “There's no decent excuse,” he said to Sasha honestly. “It was a rotten thing to do.”

“Don't you think eventually she'll forgive you?” For his sake, Sasha was hoping she would. He was a decent, ingenuous guy, who had only made one mistake, although admittedly a big one, in twenty years. And supporting all five of them single-handedly couldn't have been fun for Beth.

“I don't think she'll ever forgive me. She's been jealous of Becky all her life. Becky always gets the guys. And Beth got me, three kids, and a lot of work. I've never made a decent living. Beth supported us all these years, and believed in me the whole time. Until I slept with Becky. I called her and the kids at Christmas, and she said she's filing for divorce. I can't blame her. She's had it with me. At least I'll be able to send her some money now. She deserves it after all these years.” He was a decent guy, just somewhat disconnected from reality, maybe even because he was artistic. She had heard much worse stories before his. But the way his marriage had ended saddened her for both of them. It was a terrible waste, and a shame. Everyone was paying the price for his mistake.

“How long has it been since you saw your kids?”

“Not since she left. I couldn't afford to fly back. And her parents would probably kill me. Her father is pretty pissed.”

“She told him what happened?”

“No. Becky did. She hates me too. She wanted me to leave Beth and marry her. She said she's always been in love with me. Some weird shit happens sometimes with twins. Or at least it did with them. Beth says that Becky has resented her all her life. She's a gorgeous woman, and no guy has ever wanted to marry her. She got pregnant at fifteen and her parents made her give the baby up for adoption. I think it screwed up her head. She tried to find him when he turned eighteen, about six years ago, and she found out he had died about two years before in a head-on collision. She's a mess. I think she blames herself. Maybe she hates Beth because she has three terrific kids. I don't know. It's pretty complicated stuff.”

“It sounds like it. Sounds like you walked into a minefield with her last June.”

“I know I did. Beth says Becky set me up. She's been waiting twenty years to do it. Three bottles of cheap white wine, and I blew twenty years of marriage with the most decent woman in the world.”

“Why don't you fly to Vermont and talk to her? I can give you an advance, Liam. I was going to anyway.” He looked like he needed it, even before she knew he hadn't seen his children in six months.

“It's too late,” Liam said simply. “She got back with her high school sweetheart. She says they're getting married as soon as our divorce comes through. His wife died last year and left him with four kids. He has some money, he runs a ski resort, and he's willing to support Beth and my kids. Sounds like a better deal to me than being married to a wacky artist. She seems to think so too.” He seemed unhappy, but was philosophical about it.

“Are you a wacky artist, Liam?” Sasha asked gently. In some ways, he seemed like it, in others he didn't. Most of all, he seemed immature, but kind. It was incredible to think that a man as good looking as he was had only slept with one woman in his life, other than a one-night stand with his wife's twin. There was a sordid side to it, but he seemed like a nice guy, and Xavier said he was. She trusted him. And all of Sasha's instincts told her Liam was a good person. Foolish and immature perhaps, but at the core, a good man.

“Sometimes I am a wacky artist,” he answered. “Sometimes I just want to be a kid. How much harm is there in that?”

“I guess that depends on who gets hurt. Beth did, in this case. And your kids. And it sounds like you did too. But Becky is hardly without blame here.”

“She doesn't give a damn about anyone but herself. She never did.”

“Apparently.” Sasha fell silent, thinking about it, and then realized Liam was watching her.

“What about you? Xavier thinks the sun rises and sets on you. He's crazy about you. That's rare for a kid his age to feel that way about his mother. And talking to you, I think he's right. He is lucky to have such a loving mother.” Liam had had one too, but lost her too soon.

“I'm crazy about him, too. He's a terrific kid. So is his sister. I'm a very lucky woman.” Sasha smiled at Liam.

“Maybe not so lucky. I know your husband died last year,” he said, sounding sympathetic.

“Yes, he did,” she said calmly, but her eyes filled with tears, which embarrassed her. Her sorrows were not Liam's problem, and she didn't want to burden him with them, or share her grief. “He died fifteen months ago. We were married for twenty-five years.” And he had been the only man in her life too. They had that in common, as well as losing their mothers when they were children, and all the inevitable emotional fallout of that which had impacted both of them severely.

“Being a widow must be hard for you,” he said, looking sympathetic, as they finished their pasta, and he gazed at her with gentle eyes.

“It is. It's better than it was in the beginning, but it's very hard some days.” He nodded, as though he understood. He had lost Beth through his own stupidity, and one fatal mistake. She had lost Arthur to fate. “But you go on. You have no other choice. My work helps.”

“You can't curl up with your paintings at night. Have you gone out with anyone?” It wasn't his business, but she decided to answer him anyway. She didn't want him to know how vulnerable and lonely she was. If she was going to represent him, she had to appear strong to him, or so she thought.

“No, I haven't. What about you?” She was curious about him. As he was about her. After all he'd told her about his family and marriage, there was a connection between them, beyond what she had expected, and almost surely beyond what she wanted. For the first time with one of her artists, she realized she was attracted to him, and there was absolutely no way she would allow herself to indulge it. They could open up to each other over dinner. They were two lonely people who had suffered major losses in their childhoods, and had lost their childhoods as a result, and had lost people they loved in their adult lives too, but she would never allow the bond between them to go further than that. She had no intention of acting on her attraction to him. She was far too self-disciplined and sensible for that. Nor would she allow him to indulge his feelings for her, if he had any, which seemed unlikely to her.

“I went out with a couple of people,” Liam admitted. “Xavier introduced me to them.” He smiled at his friend's mother, who was now his dealer. The connection between them seemed funny, even to him. “I just couldn't go there. They were just kids. And what was the point? I was still too upset over Beth. It was last summer, right after she left. I haven't been out with anyone since. I guess now that I know she's getting married, it's different. But I haven't seen anyone I want. Most of the women who are willing to hang out with artists are pretty wacky themselves.” He smiled as he said it, and looked suddenly more grown up. “What about you? What do you want?”

“Nothing. I don't want to be one of those pathetic women who are desperate to find a husband. And I think dating at my age is disgusting. It seems so humiliating and awful.”

“Not if you find the right guy,” he said gently, and she shook her head.

“I already did. He died. That's it for me.”

“That's so stupid,” he said, looking angry. “You're too young to give up like that. And too beautiful. How old are you?” He figured her for forty-five at most, because he knew Xavier's age. Maybe two years younger, if she had married at eighteen.

“I'm forty-eight. That's old enough to quit. I had twenty-five great years.”

“And you could live another fifty. Do you want to spend them alone?” He looked horrified by the idea. She didn't. She had accepted what she believed was her inevitable solitude long since.

“No. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. And I would have, if he'd lived. I don't have that choice now. And the other options don't appeal to me. I don't think they ever will. It seems more dignified to give that up than to run around looking for just anyone to fit the bill.”

“He must have been a great guy, if you loved him that much.” Liam was even more impressed after talking to her over dinner. She was an amazing woman, and he genuinely liked and respected her.

“He was wonderful,” she said sadly. “We were crazy about each other. It was just very, very bad luck that he died.”

“It sounds like it. But he died, Sasha. You didn't. If you had died, and he didn't, he probably would have found someone else too. We all need someone to love. Life's just too damn hard to be alone.” The last six months without Beth and the kids had been hell for him.

“I'm not so sure it's much easier if you wind up with the wrong person. Like Becky. I got it right the first time. I don't think I could ever be that lucky again. Why take the chance?” she said wistfully.

“Because you might get lucky again. You're a good person. You deserve it. It wouldn't be the same. It would be different. But different isn't always such a bad thing.”

“I can't imagine myself dating,” she said honestly, as the waitress set three small bowls of candy down in front of them, and a plate of cookies. “Just the little I've seen of it looks terrifying to me.”

“Yeah, it does to me too.” He laughed then, at the absurdity of their situation. “I do the same thing you do. I get lost in my work. I haven't stopped painting since she left.”

“It works for me.” Sasha smiled, and as long as there were talented artists like Liam, what she did would keep working. “It's hard now that the kids are gone. At least in Paris, I'm close to Xavier, and I go to New York a lot. But it gets to me at night,” she confessed, and he nodded.

“It gets to me then too. And I miss the kids like crazy. I figure they're better off without me right now, and they have Beth's future husband. She says he's a great guy, and a good father. Probably better than I am. They're a lot better off with Beth than with me. He's more respectable than I am, and more traditional. Beth says that's good for them. There's nothing wacky about him.” He sounded humble and defeated as he said it. He had lost not only his wife, but his kids.

“You're their father, Liam. You can't abandon them. You should go to see them soon.”

“Yeah,” he said vaguely, “I will.” But he didn't sound convinced, which disturbed her.

She had called the restaurant earlier and asked them not to present a bill. She didn't want to embarrass Liam. And after they ate the candy and had coffee, they walked outside and got back in her car. She told the driver to take her back to the hotel, and then drop Liam off at his place. But once they got back to the hotel, he told her he could take a cab from there. He asked her if she wanted to have a drink, and she really didn't. They had had enough champagne and wine. She rarely drank.

“I'll walk you to your room, and then I'll leave,” he said reassuringly. She had enjoyed his company all evening, and it was nice having someone take her home. She could feel the familiar loneliness creeping up on her, and he could feel it too. Nights were agony for lonely people, which they both were. And then she smiled as she looked down at his shoes as they walked up the stairs, and she noticed the absence of socks again. She couldn't resist teasing him about it, now that she knew him a little better. “I couldn't find any,” he said, looking unembarrassed. “Besides, I'm an artist. I don't have to wear socks.” He said it with a defiant look and she laughed.

“Who made that rule?” she asked him.

“I did,” he said proudly. “I'm a wacky artist. I can do anything I want.” When he said it, he looked about five years old, and she could see a lifetime of mischief in his eyes. He was severely allergic to all forms of authority and control, as he perceived it.

“No, you can't do whatever you want. We all have to follow rules.” She felt like a schoolteacher as she said it, and he laughed at her.

“Is there a rule about socks?”

“Absolutely.” As she said it, she was thinking about sending him a box of socks and shirts. He obviously needed them, and maybe shoelaces too. She wondered if he'd wear them. Probably not. He obviously loved being unconventional and making his own rules. And then she wondered if he didn't wear underwear either, and blushed at the thought.

“What were you thinking?” He had seen the look on her face.

“Nothing.” She looked embarrassed.

“Yes, you were. You were wondering if I wear underwear, weren't you?” He had guessed, and she blushed again.

“No, I wasn't.” She giggled as she lied.

“Yes, you were. Well, I do. Or at least I am. I managed to find those.”

“That's reassuring,” she said grandly, and he laughed at her again.

“Was that in the contract I signed? That I have to wear underwear and socks? Because if it is, then I'm going to tear it up. No one can tell me what to wear, or what to do.” It was classic teenage rebellion. Liam Allison had major control issues, or so it seemed. He had been swimming upstream all his life, fighting convention, and breaking rules.

“Actually, I think it is in the contract, now that you mention it.” She was teasing him right back, and enjoying it quite a lot. They had reached her door by then.

“No, it's not,” he said, looking stubborn and petulant. Like a naughty child.

“Yes, it is,” she said firmly. “It says that hereafter you have to wear underwear and socks at all times.”

“You can't make me!” he said loudly.

“Yes, I can,” she said, looking prim but firm, and then he grinned as he looked at her, and much to her surprise he bent down and kissed her and silenced her. She had the key in her hand, and dropped it and her handbag in her amazement at being kissed. After they did, she stood looking up at him. “Why did you do that, Liam?” she said softly, horrified by the fact that she had liked kissing him. A lot, in fact. Too much. Way, way too much. He picked up the key then, and gently pushed open the door to her room. He stood looking at her, and without saying a word, she walked into the room and he followed. Within seconds, two feet into the room, he was kissing her again, and pushed the door closed with his foot. She was overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations she felt.

She wanted to stop him. She meant to. She had every intention of stopping him, but she couldn't. The worst of it was that she didn't want to stop, and neither did he. He just went on kissing her until he picked her up in his arms, and put her gently on the bed. There was one light on in the room, and he reached over and turned it off. He said nothing to her. He kissed her and undressed her, and a moment later they were in bed together, naked, and making love, before she knew how it had happened. She wanted to stop him, but she couldn't. She didn't want to stop him. She wanted to do exactly what they were doing, and so did he. They were two starving people who had found each other and couldn't let go. The pull between them was too powerful to resist. And although very different in lifestyles and appearances, they both sensed that they were kindred spirits, and soul mates of some kind. They needed each other in their respective loneliness, and clung to each other until they lay exhausted and breathless in each other's arms. She lay looking at him in the darkness, stunned at what they'd done, and he smiled at her with the gentleness of a very loving man.

“I think I'm in love with you,” he said softly, and she felt tears sting her eyes as he said it. She thought she would never hear those words again, and now he was saying them to her, and she didn't even know him, nor he her. Yet in her heart, she sensed that she knew him. She could sense the loneliness of his childhood and his vulnerability as a man.

“That's impossible. You don't know me,” she said softly, as the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. They were tears for Arthur, and for Liam, and finally for herself.

“It is possible, and I do know you. And I want to know you better.” He had told her a lot about himself that night, and wanted to learn more about her.

“This is crazy, Liam.” She propped herself up on one elbow, and looked down at him, as he gently brushed the tears off her cheek in the moonlight. Everything he did seemed tender, loving, and kind.

“Maybe it is crazy,” he admitted. “But maybe it's what we both need. I know I do. And I think you do, too.”

“What, sex?” She sounded insulted. She wasn't going to be his one-night stand like Becky. Besides, this was ridiculous. She was his art dealer, not his girlfriend. They had been total strangers until today, and still were. What was happening to her? She felt totally adrift in an unfamiliar sea, swept toward him by a current that was much stronger than she was, and that she couldn't resist.

“This isn't about sex, Sasha. You know that, too. Or not just about sex. Although that was pretty good.” In fact, it had been terrific. Remarkably so, considering they were virtually strangers. It had been incredible for both of them.

“It can't be about love. We don't even know each other.”

“I hope we will,” he said gently. Above all he appeared to be a kind person, and an incredibly attractive man. Too much so for his own good, and hers. She was viscerally drawn to him, and realized now she had been from the moment they met. She had tried to ignore it, but couldn't.

“This is impossible,” she said again. “I'm your art dealer, and I'm nine years older than you are.”

“So what? Do you have rules about that, too?” He looked unimpressed by the difference in their age, which seemed unimportant to him.

“Yes, I do have rules about that. I don't sleep with my artists. I never have, and I don't intend to start now,” she said firmly, as though to remind herself.

“I think you just did. Besides, you were married then. The rules are different now.”

“So I'm going to start sleeping with my artists? I don't think so, Liam.” She was suddenly furious with herself, and before she could say more, he kissed her again, and ran his hands gently across her body. Every inch of her tingled when he touched her. She felt as though she was losing her mind over him. This time, she didn't even try to stop him. She wanted him even more than the first time, and afterward she lay in his arms and cried. This time they were tears of relief. He pulled her closer to him and put his arms around her and held her tight until she stopped. She felt as though a dam in her had broken, and she was flooded with emotions.

“I love you, Sasha. I don't even know you, but I love you. And I know I'm going to love you more in time. Just give me the chance.” He pleaded with her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone, even Beth.

“This can never happen again.” Her words were muffled in his chest, and he smiled.

“Next time I promise I'll wear socks,” he said, never loosening his grip on her.

“I mean it, Liam,” she said softly, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms.

“I know you do, Sasha…I know you do…I love you anyway.” And as he kissed her hair scattered across the pillow, he smiled, holding her, and fell asleep. It was the first good night either of them had had in months.

Chapter 6

Daylight streaming into Sasha's room at Claridge's awakened her and Liam at nine the next morning. He woke first, and lay holding her. And then, as though she sensed him watching her, she stirred. She could feel his arms around her, as he lay behind her, and for a minute, she didn't know who it was. And then she remembered. She closed her eyes and groaned.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said softly, and pulled her closer to him. She rolled over slowly and looked at him. They were nearly nose to nose, and he looked as beautiful to her in the morning as he had the night before. Her heart sank as their eyes met. She couldn't believe what she'd done. Just seeing him there, naked and handsome, with his long blond hair on his shoulders, his body warm next to hers, she knew she had lost her mind.

“This didn't happen,” she said firmly. But she couldn't bring herself to get up, or pull away from him. Everything about him made her want him even more.

“Yes, it did.” He laughed as he said it, looking enormously pleased with himself, and she thought she had never seen a man as beautiful as he was.

“We can't do this, Liam. It's impossible.” And it would never be any different. He would always be nine years younger than she was, which bothered her, no matter how little it bothered him, and he was an artist she represented. Even if she refused to represent him, he would still be too young, in her opinion. The age difference was more a matter of his state of mind and boyishness than the dates on their passports. And she couldn't refuse to represent him just because she'd been a fool. And an old fool at that. She felt like one now. She'd been starved for love, companionship, and affection, even sex. But that was no excuse for what she'd done. She was furious with herself, and even slightly with him. But not furious enough to get out of bed. Now, or the night before.

“It's not impossible, unless you want it to be. You said that last night, right before we made love the second time.”

“I was nuts. I plead temporary insanity,” she said, rolling over onto her back and looking up at the ceiling, to avoid looking at him. It felt so good to just lie there next to him, and feel like a woman again. But it was forbidden fruit she knew she couldn't allow herself to eat again. “Do you have any idea how crazy this is?” she asked, turning her face to look at him. His eyes were green and enormous, his face nearly perfect, but just imperfect enough to make him look like a man. He looked like an actor in a sexy movie. He needed a young starlet to costar in it with him, not a woman her age. She knew it, even if he didn't, or didn't want to. She knew it for both of them.

“It isn't crazy, Sasha. You're a woman, I'm a man. We like each other, we're both lonely. We have the same interests, we both live for art. What's so wrong with that?”

“Everything. I look, and feel, old enough to be your mother. You're a friend of my son's. I represent you. How's that for a start? And besides, you're still in love with your wife.” She hadn't doubted it for a minute the night before, as he told her the story of Beth and her evil twin.

“You do not look old enough to be my mother. You're a spectacular-looking woman, and you're only nine years older than I am. So fucking what? And I am not in love with my wife, anymore. Besides, she's no longer my wife. We're getting divorced. You and I are both free, unattached, lonely as hell, and over twenty-one. That sounds possible to me. What's your problem?” He looked mildly annoyed.

“I'm still in love with my husband,” she said sadly, but she didn't cry this time. Liam waited for a moment before he answered, and he touched her face gently with one finger when he did.

“Sasha, he's gone. You're alive, he's not.” She had proved that amply to both of them the night before.

“You have a right to be happy with someone. Me, or someone else. You can't hide yourself away anymore. It's not right.”

“Yes, I can.” She rolled over and turned her back to him, and still did not get out of bed. He couldn't see if she was crying, but he put his arms around her anyway, and pulled her close.

“Sasha, I know this sounds crazy. I hardly know you, but I think I love you. I feel like I've been waiting for you all my life.”

“That's insane,” she muttered, still turned away from him. But something of what he said rang true, even to her, although it made no sense. “We drank too much. It wasn't love, it was wine.” She tried to dismiss what had happened, but convinced neither him nor herself.

“Well, whatever it is, I want more of it. Why can't you just let this happen and see where it goes?” He was pleading with her.

“And then what?” She turned to face him again. She looked genuinely tortured by what they'd done. “Where could this possibly go? You need someone your own age. I'm older than you are, I'm your art dealer. I'm conservative, you're not. We'd be the laughingstock of Paris.” Particularly if he showed up at one of the functions she went to, with no socks and a painted shirt. She was a respectable person, with a serious life, and Liam wasn't. He was exactly what he said he was, a wacky artist, and he was Xavier's friend. Her kids would be totally upset if they knew, just as she was now.

“I don't want someone my age, Sasha. I want you.” And then he thought about it for a minute, and looked at her again. “Do I embarrass you?”

“You could,” she said honestly, “but I'm not going to give you the opportunity to do that. I'd look like a sex-starved old fool if I went out with you, Liam. This could never work.”

“Yes, it could. And you're half right at least. You are sex starved, but you're not a fool, young or old.”

“Yes, I am,” she said, looking miserable, and he kissed her then to silence her and cheer her up. She was beyond cheering, but not impervious to his touch, far from it. In spite of all her resolve and determination not to let this happen, or continue, she responded instantly to his touch. It was more powerful than she was. She had never experienced anything like it in her life, not even with Arthur, whom she genuinely had loved for more than half her life. But as Liam had pointed out, he was gone. And Liam wasn't. Within seconds, their bodies were entwined. And she moaned softly with pleasure as he began making love to her again.

It was quarter to ten on the bedside alarm clock when they finally lay breathless and sated in each other's arms.

“Oh my God,” she said when she saw the time. “Xavier will be here any minute. I'm having breakfast with him.” Liam laughed.

“Well, I'd better get my ass out of Dodge.” He unwound his long, lean limbs from hers, got up, and stood looking down at her. “I've never wanted any woman as much in my life. When can I come back?”

“Never,” she said sternly. “I'm leaving for the airport after breakfast. Liam, I mean it. This has to stop.” But the one she needed to tell was herself. She had never felt so confused and out of control in her life. She felt like she was on a roller-coaster ride to hell. She could imagine only the worst happening, and she couldn't let it. She had to get control of herself. “I won't let this happen again.”

“Then you are a fool,” he said sadly. “I don't believe you are. I'll call you tonight.”

“Liam, don't. I want to represent you. You're a fantastic artist, and you could have an important future. Let's just do that. Don't jeopardize it now.”

“Are you telling me you won't represent me if we're lovers? Because if you are, screw the gallery and the contract. You mean more to me than that.” They were powerful words, and he meant them.

“You're insane,” she said, sitting up in bed, staring at him.

“Possibly. My family thinks I am.” He was pulling on his pants and shirt as he said it. He didn't have time to shower. He knew he had to get out before Xavier arrived, or she'd never forgive him. “You decide, Sasha,” he said, looking down at her, as she stood next to the bed where they had made love three times. The three best times in her life. But she couldn't make this decision based on sex. She truly felt as though she had lost her mind. And she knew she had to find it again, and fast.

“Don't call me,” she said, trying to sound as though she meant it. She wanted to mean it, and knew she had to. Whatever this had been, it had to end, even before it began. “I'll get in touch with you about your work.”

“We can do both,” he said reasonably, and she shook her head, as he pulled her toward him for one last kiss. She was standing naked before him, shocked by how comfortable she was with him. After talking over dinner, and making love with him, she felt as though she had known him all her life. She was totally at ease with him.

“No, we can't do both,” she said, sounding desperate. “I won't be your dealer and your lover.” She also didn't want to be the older woman in his life. She'd never done that before and didn't want to start now.

He kissed her, and left without saying another word. She stood staring at the door for a long moment, fearing what could happen, and determined to put walls up between them. From that moment on, she told herself, she was his art dealer and nothing more. She rushed into the shower, and the phone was ringing when she got out. She was afraid it was Liam, but it was Xavier. He was just leaving his apartment, and said he would be there in five minutes.

“That's fine, darling,” she said calmly, as her hands shook. “I'm running a little late myself. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“Did you make all your calls?” Xavier sounded like he was in good spirits. He must have had fun the night before. She shuddered thinking of what he would think of his mother if he knew what she had done. She felt utterly debauched.

“What calls?” she asked, sounding distracted. “Oh…yes… those…of course…I'm just running a little late. See you in a few minutes.” She hung up and sat down on the bed, shaking. What she had done was insane. But the insanity was going to stop. She was a sensible person, and Liam was nothing more than a badly behaved overgrown boy, and had made a lifetime career of not growing up. She reminded herself, to frighten herself further, that he had committed adultery with his wife's twin. It was hardly a recommendation for his morality and good judgment. And no matter how beautiful he was, he acted like an irresponsible kid, and prided himself on it. So had she, she told herself. She had to be the grown-up here. Liam was incapable of it.

She threw what she had brought to London into a bag, dressed hastily, brushed her hair, and put on makeup. And fifteen minutes later, she was in the lobby when her son walked in, looking handsome and young. His stride and confidence and the way he dressed reminded her instantly of Liam. They were contemporaries in lifestyle, attitude, and behavior. Two wild young boys.

“You look happy,” Xavier said, looking pleased. “I never see you with your hair down. It looks nice, Mom.” She realized with horror that she had forgotten to put it up. She had been in such a rush, she hadn't even noticed it in the mirror. It was a clear sign, to her and to Xavier, that something was different. She had let her hair down in some very major ways, and it was time now to put it back up, and keep it that way.

“Oh, thank you. I was just in a rush.”

“You should wear it that way more often. How was dinner with Liam?”

“Fine…fun…no… actually, it wasn't… he's a bit ridiculous, isn't he? He showed up without socks or shoelaces, in a shirt he painted himself.” Maybe if she ridiculed him to Xavier, she would see how foolish it was herself. But she felt like a traitor as she said it.

“He's a nice guy. Hell, Mom, some of your other artists look a lot worse,” Xavier said with a shrug, as she reminded herself that she had never slept with any of them. But Liam was different. None of them had ever made her feel the way he did, just looking at him from across the room. She had felt the pull between them the moment they met, and had told herself she was imagining it. She had tried to deny it, but couldn't. As it turned out, it was a lot more than imagination. Worse yet, it felt real.

They had breakfast in the lobby. She drank tea, and stared at the scones on her plate. She couldn't eat them. She wasn't hungry. Xavier wolfed down his own—and hers. He was starving.

They talked about nothing in particular for an hour, and he waved as she left for the airport, while she wondered if he would see Liam that day, and what he might say. She would kill him if he intimated anything to her son. But she trusted him not to do that. He wasn't mean or spiteful, just irresponsible and young for his age. Very young. He seemed far more Xavier's age than hers or his own. She forced herself not to think about him on the way to the airport, and took some papers out of her briefcase.

She couldn't concentrate on a single word she read. She sat staring at his contract with his signature on it, hastily signed at Harry's Bar, and for a moment thought of tearing it up. But she couldn't do that to him. He had given her back both copies, and she reminded herself to send him his copy from Paris. He had left her with his cell phone number, but nothing in the world could have induced her to call him. She hadn't given him hers. Nor her home number. All he had was the gallery number in Paris, and she prayed he wouldn't call to talk to her. If he did, she would refer him to someone else. Anyone. Just not her. She didn't want to hear his voice again, at least not for a long time. His voice had a deep, sexy rumble with a gentleness that stirred her. She had noticed it right from the first. Now she loved his voice, and damn near everything else about him, except the way he behaved. The last thing she needed at her age was to be involved with a self-proclaimed wacky artist who acted like a juvenile delinquent. What she had said to him that morning was true. If she became openly involved with him romantically, she'd be the laughingstock of Paris, and even New York. She had a reputation to protect. Liam didn't. He cared about neither his own nor hers. He had nothing to lose by being involved with Sasha. She had everything to lose, even if only the respect of her children, colleagues, and friends. She was acutely aware of it, as she boarded the plane at Heathrow. It had been an outrageous incident, a one-time-only, totally insane out-of-body experience, and there was absolutely no way she would ever let it happen again. Ever. As the plane took off for Paris, she promised herself to get and stay sane.

It was four o'clock when she walked into her office in Paris. Despite the sun in London, it was raining in Paris when she arrived. She had trouble finding a cab at the airport, and she was soaked when she got to her office. It was sobering after the heady experience she'd had in London, and it had brought her to her senses.

“My God, you look awful,” Bernard, her gallery manager, said as he passed her in the hall. “Or very wet, in any case. You should go home and change before you get sick, Sasha.”

“I will in a minute. I have to make some calls. And by the way.” She smiled at Bernard, and he noticed that in spite of the wet hair and drenched clothes, she looked better than she had in months. For the first time in over a year, she looked relaxed and happy. Obviously, her visit with her son had gone well. “We have a new artist. A friend of Xavier's in London. He signed the contract, we have to send him his copy. A young American. His work is gorgeous.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing it.” She enjoyed the contemporary side more than he did. Like her father, Bernard was more traditional, but he had great respect for Sasha's eye for new work and emerging artists. She had an unfailing sense for what would sell.

“I told him we'd open with a show in New York.” He nodded, and they went to their respective offices. When she walked into hers, she was surprised. There was an enormous bouquet of red roses sitting on her desk, and she was relieved to see that her secretary hadn't opened the card. The very fact that they were red roses had looked personal to her, so she had left the envelope sealed, much to Sasha's relief, when she saw who they were from. She didn't want her office thinking she had a secret lover. She didn't. She had made a mistake, it had been corrected, and would stay that way.

The card said, “It's possible. I love you, Liam.” She tore it up in tiny pieces and threw them into the wastebasket, feeling embarrassed. The roses must have cost him a fortune, and she knew he couldn't afford them. She was touched, and tempted to call him, but she forced herself not to. She had made a vow of silence and she intended to keep it, no matter what it cost her.

Instead of calling him to thank him for the flowers, she wrote him a polite note that could have been written by his grandmother, or art dealer. There was nothing personal about it. She handed it to her secretary with his copy of the contract, and his phone number and address. She told her to open a file on Liam Allison, he was one of their new artists.

“The flowers are lovely,” Eugénie said to her. What Sasha had told her explained the flowers. They were sent by a new artist, a handsome gesture for a starving artist. Maybe this one wasn't starving. Roses in January were expensive. For a minute, Eugénie had wondered if Sasha had a boyfriend, but she didn't. Just a new emerging artist. But at least Sasha looked happier than she had in a long time. She had looked morbidly depressed ever since Arthur's death. And there seemed to be a new spring in her step now. She looked relaxed after her trip to London.

Sasha went back to her part of the house at six that night, relieved that Liam hadn't tried to call her. She made herself a cup of tea and some soup. She took a hot bath, and tried not to think of him, which was far from easy. The night before at the same time she had been having dinner with him at Harry's Bar. She fought even harder not to remember what had come later when they went back to the hotel.

She was startled out of her reverie when the phone rang at midnight. It was Tatianna. She had found a job that morning. She was going to be working in the art department of a fashion magazine, coordinating photographs, and doing whatever else they gave her to do. She was happy and excited, and then, after sharing her news, finally turned her attention to her mother.

“How was London?”

“It was fun.” She forced her mind away from Liam. “I saw Xavier, and lots of artists.”

“How was Xavier's friend?”

“What friend?” Sasha sounded panicked in answer to the question.

“I thought he wanted you to meet one of his friends, to see his work.”

“Oh, that friend,” Sasha said, sounding relieved. “He was fine. We signed him.”

“Wow, he must be good. Lucky break for him.”

“He's very good. We're going to give him a show in New York next year.” She forced herself to sound serious and professional as she said it.

“I'll bet that made him happy.” Artists begged her all the time to introduce them to her mother. It always annoyed her. She didn't want to be used as a conduit to Sasha. Xavier was much more relaxed about it. “When are you coming to New York?”

“Not for a few weeks. I have a lot of work to do here. You can always come over for a weekend, if you want to.” Sasha loved seeing her children, and spending time with them.

“I hate it when it rains there. I talked to a friend who got back today. She said the weather was disgusting.”

“It's not lovely,” Sasha admitted to her. “It was sunny in London.”

“It's supposed to snow here tomorrow. I think I might go skiing this weekend.”

“Be careful on the roads. When do you start the new job?” Sasha yawned, it was late for her, and only six o'clock at night in New York.

“Tomorrow.” Tatianna sounded ecstatic, and for a moment Sasha envied her. Her life was just beginning. Sasha felt as though hers was ending. All her best years were behind her. The children had grown up. Arthur was gone. She had nothing to look forward to, except work, and one day grandchildren, which didn't interest her particularly. She felt like a very old woman after she said good-bye to her daughter and lay on her bed. As she did, she couldn't help thinking about Liam. It had been nice of him to send her roses. And foolish. “It's possible,” he had said on the card she tore up. She knew it wasn't.

She slept fitfully that night, thinking of him, and was at her desk at nine the next morning. It was only eight o'clock in London. She wondered what Liam was doing, and if he would try to call her. It was Saturday, and she didn't need to be at work, but she had nothing else to do. She had turned down several invitations to dinner parties and luncheons for that weekend. The weather was terrible, and it was too depressing just sitting in her house. She'd rather be working. He called her at four o'clock that afternoon, and she didn't take it. She asked the young woman working in the gallery to tell him she was out, and to call Bernard on Monday. Bernard, very sensibly, did not work on weekends. He had a wife, three children, and a house in Normandy where he took them on the weekends. When Arthur had been alive, she hadn't worked on weekends either. Now it was all she had to fill her days and distract her. Ever since Arthur's death, the weekends were brutal.

They closed the gallery at six, and she went back to her house at seven. She had brought a stack of art magazines home with her, and turned on the lights. It was dinnertime, and she wasn't hungry. She reminded herself yet again, as she made a cup of tea, that there was no point thinking about Liam. It would get her nowhere, except miserable and crazy. The doorbell rang as she poured the tea. It rang endlessly, which told her that the guardian was out. She ran across the courtyard to the big bronze outer door, with no idea who it could be. No one ever rang their doorbell at night.

She looked through the peephole and could see no one there, and then hit the buzzer to open one side of the big bronze door. Maybe someone had left something outside. As she pulled the door open and looked around, she saw Liam standing in front of her, drenched, in the pouring rain. He was carrying a small bag, and wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He was wearing a pair of old cowboy boots, and his long blond hair was plastered to his head in the rain. She stood staring at him and said not a word as he looked down at her, and then she stepped aside so he could come into the courtyard at least, and stand sheltered from the rain.

“You told me not to call you from London,” he said, smiling at her. “So I didn't. I called you from Paris. I didn't call till I got here. I figured you'd be home by now.”

“What are you doing here, Liam?” She looked upset more than angry. And somewhere deep inside of her, she was frightened. With very little effort from either of them, this could get out of hand.

“I came to see you.” He looked more than ever like a giant child. “I haven't been able to think of anything but you since yesterday. So I figured I might as well come to see you. I missed you.” She had missed him, too, but he was a risk she just couldn't afford.

“The roses were beautiful,” she said politely.

“Were? Did you throw them away?” He looked instantly disappointed.

“Of course not. They're in my office.” They were still standing under the sheltered part of the courtyard. “I told my secretary they were from a new artist.”

“Why do you owe her an explanation? You're a free woman.”

“No one is free, Liam. Or at least I'm not. I have a business, children, employees, clients, responsibilities, obligations, a reputation. I can't go around acting like a love-starved schoolgirl.” She said it as much to herself as to him.

“Why not? It might do you good for a change to let your hair down.” It was the same thing her son had said, literally, when he saw her with her hair loose in London. But for some reason, Liam unhinged her. And that was not what she wanted. She wasn't going to throw her life away and make a fool of herself, falling for this crazy overgrown boy. “Can I take you to dinner somewhere?” As he asked her, she suddenly thought of her infuriating dinner with Gonzague de St. Mallory at Alain Ducasse the month before, when he had expected her to sleep with him to sell a painting. How insulting that had been. This wasn't. Foolish perhaps, but sincere, and not insulting. Gonzague was a lot less of a man, or even a gentleman, than this self-declared and proud-to-be-wacky artist.

“Why don't you come in, and I'll cook you something? The weather is too miserable to go out.” She led the way back to her house, the door was still standing open. “Where are you staying?” she asked nervously. If he had said with her, she wouldn't have let him in her front door.

“At an artists' hostel in the Marais, near the Place des Vosges. I stayed there last summer.” She nodded, and led the way into her living room. The house was eighteenth century, as was the furniture. The art was all contemporary and modern. It was an artful mixture that few could have accomplished. The end result was elegant, cheerful, and cozy. There was a huge fireplace in the room, which she had had rebuilt in white marble.