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  He didn’t answer, but she could hear hiccuping gasps on the other end of the line.

  “Hey, Tristan, don’t worry about it. Truly. I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position. Please let Alexus know that I called. If you would tell her I’m sorry I was abrupt last night and to call me back when she gets a—”

  “It’s not that—” He started sobbing big-time now. “I’d put you through if I could—I wish that was a possibility—but she’s . . . she’s dead—”

  “Wha . . . ?” Zelia felt as if she had been slammed into a brick wall. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

  “She’s dead,” he choked out. “She was found here last night, sprawled on the sofa. Needle in her arm. Overdose. Heroin.” Tristan’s words tumbled out like water through a breached dam. “It was awful. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a dead person before, but oh my God. The image is imprinted in my brain—the police were here. I didn’t know what to do. Still don’t. Am I supposed to come to work tomorrow?”

  Zelia knew all about grief. She let him talk, made comforting noises, while her mind spun in overdrive, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard as waves of shock, loss, and guilt crashed through her. Also present, in the whirlpool of emotions, was a faint niggling feeling, but she couldn’t quite identify or grasp on to it. Like the wispy tail end of a dream, it hovered just beyond her ken.

  Seven

  ZELIA DISCREETLY MASSAGED the back of her neck, trying to dispel the tension that seemed to have lodged there. She rolled her head from the right to the left.

  Still tense.

  She sighed. Snuck a quick glance at her watch. Twenty-two minutes to go. Then she would go home, get in her baggy pajamas, and indulge in a generous pour of Syrah, along with a wedge of chocolate cheesecake left over from her birthday. Thirty-four years old. How the hell had that happened? No children. No husband. Not even a possible candidate on the horizon. This was certainly not how she’d envisioned her life turning out.

  Alexus had longed for children as well. Was always on the prowl for Mr. Right, via dating apps, through friends, family, her synagogue. She was vigorous about her search.

  A new wave of grief swept through Zelia. It was hard to get her mind around the fact that Alexus was gone. Had their last interaction been the thing that had pushed Alexus over the edge? She certainly hadn’t seemed herself last night. I should have picked up the phone after receiving her text. Sorted things out. Now calling her was no longer an option. Zelia shut her eyes and exhaled. I miss her already. I miss listening to her spout her no-nonsense sermons about life. Alexus was always lecturing Zelia about something. That she was a soft touch with the artists, that she was forgetting how to have fun, that she was wasting precious years away grieving Ned.

  She was right, I guess, but I wasn’t ready to date. Figured when I was, the right guy would magically appear. Zelia sighed, peeling off another red dot and placing it on the artwork label next to the painting Ripe Peaches to show that it had sold. She gave herself a mental shake. Enough with this melancholy. Count your blessings. Lord knows you have multitudes.

  Zelia turned and scanned the room. The Three Artists February’s Folly was going well. The gallery was swamped with people, many of them buying. The majority of Michael’s paintings had been snatched up within the first half hour, which wasn’t unexpected. His paintings always flew out the door. Only three remained: a charcoal sketch of a nude, a watercolor, and a lovely twelve-by-nine-inch painting of a stormy ocean just after dusk. It was a departure from his usual style, but still, she was surprised it hadn’t been purchased, as Below the Surface was one of her favorites. She was secretly hoping it wouldn’t sell. Then she could justify splurging on it for herself.

  Nils had sold four folk art paintings, and there were yellow stickers on two others. Yellow stickers Zelia was hoping she would be able to switch out for red before the night drew to a close. Her next-door neighbor, Lori, was considering Red Barn for over her fireplace. It would look good there.

  Two of Otto’s were spoken for, but then Otto—a lesser-known artist—had insisted on nosebleed prices, so it was a happy surprise any of his paintings had sold at all. Although, the buyer of the most expensive one, Sandstone Dreams, had a similar nose and jawline to Otto, not to mention the same disappearing hairline and last name.

  Yes. The show is going well. You need to shake this disquieting feeling, this oppressive sadness.

  A hand alighted on her forearm, causing a jolt of panicked fight-or-flight to surge through her. What the hell is wrong with me? Ever since Alexus died she’d been having these little panic attacks.

  “Sorry,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve got a buyer on line two, a Mr. Guillory.”

  “Guillory . . . Guillory . . .” She combed the recesses of her mind for a second but couldn’t place a face with the name. “What painting is he interested in?”

  “Below the Surface.”

  “Figures,” Zelia said as she made her way toward the office.

  “Are you okay?” She could hear the concern in Mary’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Zelia?”

  “It’s just—” She shook her head. “I had one of those ‘aha’ moments. Not in a good way. I’m fat and I’m old—”

  “That’s the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard. You are a gorgeous woman—”

  “Mary. I’m fat—”

  “You’re zaftig.”

  “Zaftig. Full-figured. Call it what you like. I’ve packed on an average of five pounds a year ever since Ned died. According to the charts, I sailed past the normal threshold and landed firmly into the overweight category sixteen pounds ago. I am not exactly a man magnet.”

  “You are a beautiful, curvaceous woman, and if some stupid man can’t see past a few extra pounds—”

  Zelia snorted derisively as they stepped into the office. “A few?”

  “Then he doesn’t deserve you,” Mary said defiantly, talking over Zelia, her eyes blazing.

  “Anyway,” Zelia said, suddenly feeling subdued. “I was doing the math, and in eleven months and eighteen days my ovaries will have reached the past-due date, and every subsequent year that passes, my chances of conceiving and having a healthy baby diminish.” She laughed sadly. “I always figured by this age I would have a couple of rosy-cheeked children tugging at my skirts.” She turned toward the phone on the desk so she wouldn’t have to see the answering sorrow in her friend’s eyes. “You’d better go out and watch the floor,” she said before Mary could wrap her in a hug. She didn’t want the melancholy to overwhelm her. Needed to keep it together until she got home.

  Once Mary exited the office and closed the door behind her, Zelia picked up the phone receiver and pressed the flashing red hold button. “Zelia Thompson, how can I help?”

  Mr. Guillory was fine enough, but she found herself wanting to get off the phone. Maybe I need to take a break. Get my mojo back. I’m burnt out. She forced herself to be present, answered a few questions, keeping her voice pleasant and breezy. His voice seemed familiar. Perhaps he had purchased from her before, or she had met him at some art fair or another. She managed to bluff her way through the conversation. The gentleman made the purchase via a corporate numbered bank account. Didn’t need her to ship as he was planning on visiting the island in a few weeks and would pick it up in person.

  Well, that was easy enough, Zelia thought as she hung up the phone. She was sorely tempted to stay, hide from the crush of people. Enjoy the peaceful solitude of the back office. Just for a few minutes.

  She didn’t.

  The artists were counting on her.

  She stood. Smoothed her hands down the silk fabric of her dark cerulean dress, then squared her shoulders and returned to the fray.

  She was instantly aware of an atmospheric shift in the gallery, as if an earthquake
was coming and she alone could sense it. She scanned the crowded room, trying to find the cause, and then her gaze screeched to a stop.

  A tall, dark-haired stranger was standing in the doorway. He didn’t have the air of someone contemplating an art purchase. He seemed bemused, as if he’d stepped inside to get out of the driving rain and was surprised to find the space occupied.

  He had a commanding presence. Zelia was astonished the other occupants in the gallery hadn’t rotated to face him as well. It seemed as if his smoldering gaze was locked on her, as if he had been waiting for her, knew her already. It was a ridiculous, fanciful thought, which she immediately discarded. Even from across the crowded room she could see the piercing intelligence that sparked from his eyes.

  He smiled, sending lazy heat coursing through her. His hand pushed the dark, windswept hair back from his face. He was wearing a gray T-shirt under a beat-up black leather jacket, boots, and faded jeans that clung in all the right places. The man was built just like she liked them. With a hard body that was long and lean.

  “Who the hell is that?” she heard Mary murmur from behind her. Of course, Zelia thought. That’s who he was looking at. You were just blocking his eye line. Even though Mary tried to camouflage it, she was a looker, tall and slender with flawless skin. There was something about her friend that radiated old money and class.

  “Looks as if we’re about to find out,” Zelia replied, watching him make his way across the room, the other occupants instinctively moving out of his path like the parting of the Red Sea.

  “Zelia.” She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Zelia.” A little louder, breaking the hypnotic draw of the stranger’s presence. She turned reluctantly. Otto was looking at her, excited anxiety spewing out of his pores along with the scent of the garlic cleanse that he was three days into.

  “Yes, Otto?” she said, taking a casual half step backward in an attempt to create a little distance from the pungent vapors emanating from his body.

  It didn’t help. He just scuffled closer.

  “That woman over there—” Otto gestured to Beth Parsons, who was standing in front of his Sandstone Nights painting and gazing at it as if somewhere hidden in the painting she would find the meaning of life. “She’s interested in purchasing my painting.”

  Zelia felt the stranger arrive beside her. She didn’t have to look. Could feel his force field tingling along her skin, tickling the tiny hairs along her arms. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll be over in a minute—”

  “No. Please, Zelia,” Otto entreated, tugging her arm. A sheen of sweat had taken up residence on his forehead and around his nose, the perspiration intensifying and expanding the reach of his potent eau de garlic. “What if she changes her mind?”

  “I’d be happy—” Mary started to step forward, but she froze midstep. Her eyebrows shot skyward, her nose crinkling. She blinked.

  Zelia bit down on her lip to keep the laughter from bursting forth. Clearly this was Mary’s first time in close proximity to Otto tonight.

  Mary straightened her spine and cleared her throat. “To assist—”

  She sounded a little nasally. Must be breathing through her mouth. Now that is a true friend, offering to walk away from a mouthwatering stranger to deal with the very pungent Otto.

  “No, no, no. Too important,” Otto said, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Zelia’s gotta come. Make sure this sale closes. I really, really need this—” His voice was rising.

  “Okay, no worries,” Zelia said soothingly, suppressing an internal sigh. “I’m happy to talk with her. That’s what I’m here for.” And she was. No point sticking around, mooning. Watching from the sidelines as sparks flew between the mysterious stranger and her dear friend and colleague. “If you’ll excuse us.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder, then discreetly sucked in a deep breath of untainted air and allowed Otto to lead her away.

  It took much longer than anticipated to nail down the sale for Otto. Not because the woman was unwilling, but because Otto’s fan wanted to discuss every brushstroke with “the artiste.” Otto was more than happy to indulge her. He launched into a verbose dissertation; unfortunately, his death grip on Zelia’s arm refused to loosen—not until Zelia insisted she needed use of both hands in order to take possession of the woman’s check and to write down delivery instructions and a receipt.

  When the three of them emerged from the office, the art show had concluded. The place was quiet, the gallery cleared of people. A few die-hard partiers were still chatting in the parking lot, doing their final hugs and good-byes.

  Otto started to veer toward the makeshift bar. “Would you like a final drink to toast—”

  “Oh, Otto. So sorry,” Zelia said. She hastily took a large diagonal step, effectively cutting him off at the pass. “But we’re closed. The two of you will have to take your party elsewhere.”

  Otto glanced at his watch, then looked at the flushed Beth. “Would you be interested in some Cajun-style chicken wings and a beer at Toby’s? We’d have to hustle to get our order in before the kitchen closes, but it’s doable.”

  “Otto,” she cooed. “But what about the cleanse you’re partaking in?”

  He wiggled his bushy gray eyebrows at her. “I’m dropping it, effective immediately. I find I am feeling rather carnivorous.”

  “Oh, Otto.” Beth slapped him playfully on the arm. “You’re so naughty.”

  “You up for it?” Otto smirked.

  “If you are,” Beth purred, her gaze dropping to the crotch of Otto’s sagging faded black jeans. “I’m feeling rather ravenous myself . . .”

  “Wonderful. Have fun you two,” Zelia said as she ushered a triumphant Otto and his giggling middle-aged fan through the front door, then locked it firmly behind them.

  “We had a good night,” Mary commented. “I got Sasha Tancred to commit to Nils’s Languid before she left.” She swept the napkins and scattered toothpicks off a cocktail table and into the wastebasket in her hand, then moved to the next one.

  “Thanks, Mary. I’d planned on locking that sale down, but . . .” She shrugged. No need for words. They both knew that she had taken one for the team. Zelia got the black bus box from under the backroom kitchen sink and started gathering the wineglasses.

  “It would be so much easier if you’d use disposable wineglasses.”

  “I know,” Zelia said, smothering a yawn. “But every time I start to reach for them in the supermarket, I think about the fish and plant life in the ocean that is being suffocated by all the minuscule plastic particles . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it,” Mary said, laughing. “You’re such a good person—”

  “No. Seriously. I’m not. If I were truly a good person, I wouldn’t have begrudged Otto the time it took to close the deal. It’s my job, for crying out loud. And I definitely wouldn’t have negative thoughts, like, ‘What the hell were you thinking, Otto, going on a raw garlic diet cleanse right before your major show?’ And ‘No, I really don’t want to hear the minutiae about the antiviral, antibacterial, anti-parasitic properties that will reduce toxins and parasites from your large intestine. And I have NO desire to hear about the importance of cleaning the’—and I quote—‘hardened older feces from the colon’! Good Lord.”

  “Ew . . . ew . . . ew . . .” Mary was clearly grossed out, batting her hands in front of herself as if trying to dispel the imagery, but she was laughing, too.

  Zelia shook her head with a what-are-you-gonna-do-with-these-crazy-artists shrug. “Luckily, his fan was a huge fan of garlic colon cleanses as well.”

  “No!” For some reason this made Mary laugh even harder.

  “I kid you not. Perhaps she found the stench surrounding him to be an aphrodisiac. Oh, I’m a terrible person. He’s one of my artists. I shouldn’t be laughing about him behind his back. There is no hope for me.”

  “Me either. Guess
we’re both going to keep Beelzebub company come Judgment Day,” Mary said, still laughing, wiping moisture from her eyes. “Because I was super happy you didn’t take me up on my generous offer. Speaking of Beelzebub, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome wasn’t just glorious eye candy. The man’s got a brain and a wicked sense of humor.”

  “That’s great, Mary,” Zelia said. She was happy for her. Truly. It was just—

  “Unfortunately, he wasn’t interested in me . . .”

  “Of course he was—”

  “Nope. No tingles. Had the feeling he was waiting for you to reemerge from the office.”

  Zelia stamped down hard on the flicker of happiness that comment inspired. “Must be a wannabe artist.”

  “Wrong again. He’s an author. Writes crime fiction. Gabe Conaghan.”

  Zelia shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Never heard of him.” Of course, she wasn’t a reader of crime fiction. She preferred women’s literary fiction, with a healthy dollop of romance novels thrown in for pure reading pleasure. An author. Figures. With his looks, all he’d have to do is show up at a reading and the women would be snatching his books off the shelves like warm, buttery hotcakes.

  * * *

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT—February’s Folly concluded, the garbage bagged and tossed in the dumpster behind the mews—Zelia was home and grateful to be submerged in a hot lavender and Epsom salt bath. She was on her second glass of Syrah when she figured out what had been niggling at her. Like an invisible splinter under her skin, the hot water and wine loosened it. Allowed a fuzzy, almost-forgotten memory to push its way to the surface.

  A conversation she and Alexus had at Frieze four or five years ago. They were walking back to the hotel, arm in arm, tipsy from too many strawberry margaritas. Both of them wore sundresses, enjoying the warm and sultry Miami night air, barefoot, heels in their hands, sweaty from dancing at the after-party. Zelia had still been in the “healthy” weight range then. Curvier than when Ned had died, but guys seemed to appreciate the extra pounds and she’d been fending off horndog offers all night. However, Zelia had just wanted to dance, to blow off steam. Had no interest in hooking up, even less in pursuing a relationship. It had felt too soon for that.