and Peter’s marriage had resulted in a beautiful daughter, Jordan, and a strong family unit. And Liza hadn’t been told, but it seemed to her that Eleanor had a very telling glow. They’d have plenty to talk about when the gallery opening was over and they could have some privacy.
“Yes, Familiar was the instigator of our relationship,” Eleanor said dryly. “He’s, shall we say, unusual.”
“Bring him with you Friday. We’re scheduled for lunch, aren’t—” Liza’s gaze was drawn by sudden movement outside the gallery windows. LaTique was located on St. Ann Street in the French Quarter, not exactly the most lively part of town. Though the raucous Bourbon and Royal streets were only a few blocks away, St. Ann was basically residential. The building she occupied was three stories, a narrow structure with her gallery on the first floor, her studio on the second, and her apartment on the third.
“Yes, Friday at Napoleon’s,” Eleanor confirmed. “I want to hear all about your career, the future, the museums and galleries where your paintings are now hanging. You’ve come into the homestretch of success, Liza, and it’s about time.”
“Yes.” She heard her friend’s kind words and immediately sought a change of subject. Her success was phenomenal—and troubling. Instead of the total satisfaction she once expected upon achieving success, she’d found emptiness.
At one time, she’d been driven to paint the street scenes of New Orleans that had recently made her the darling of art patrons. Now, though, the watercolors were less important. Her artistic passions were something else, something darker. Something that she had to keep a secret even from her oldest friend, Eleanor Curry, who’d come all the way from Washington, D.C., for her opening.
A dark flicker of a moving shadow outside the front window of the gallery caught her attention once again. Her heart rate tripled, and she felt the flush of blood to her skin.
“Liza darling, your friend was saying that she wanted to purchase the painting of the young girl in the rain puddle.”
Liza felt Pascal’s strong fingers pressing into the muscles of her arm. She knew she was drifting away, fading from reality and entering her own private hell, but she couldn’t stop herself.
The flicker of movement came at the edge of the window again. Her attention sharpened even as she tried to combat it with rational thought. It was only her imagination. This gallery opening, this event, was something she’d planned long ago. Five years ago. With Duke Masonne. But how the plan had changed. Now she was alone, and though the success was all hers, it was a lonely price to pay.
“Liza, are you okay?” Eleanor’s brown eyes were narrowed with concern.
“Yes, of course.” Liza tried to focus on the party. But again someone standing out in the shadows moved. The glint of a white face flashed in the light spilling from the big gallery windows facing the street.
Liza’s heartbeat grew painful. It was insane. Duke had been gone five years, but there was something about the shadowy face that reminded her of him—made her hope it might be.
She felt her palms begin to tingle and the unpleasant sensation of perspiration on her brow.
“Liza?” Eleanor’s voice came from a long way away.
“I—” What could she say? Don’t pay any attention to me. I saw my ex-lover who disappeared five years ago. I’ve been seeing him around town lately, standing in dark alleys, outside Grizaldi’s when I go for groceries. I’m beginning to catch glimpses of him through the hanging bundles of elephant garlic and peppers at the French Market.
“Get a chair.”
She heard Pascal’s order and felt her body being pushed into a chair. But her attention remained on the window. The lighting outside was poor. It could have been a figment of her imagination. Or her mind slipping toward madness. At that thought, her heart rate increased even more. She felt the room spinning.
“Ice. Bring some ice and a cloth,” she heard Eleanor say.
But she couldn’t answer her, couldn’t reassure her that she was okay, just a little woozy and terrified.
“Don’t do this now,” Pascal whispered in her ear. “We can’t allow this show to fall into a dramatic tragedy. Your work will be overshadowed by the drama of your behavior, Liza. Pull yourself together and stop whatever this is.”
Pascal’s words almost penetrated. She could feel her heart slowing, feel her lungs expanding as she was finally able to draw in a deep breath.
And then she looked out the window.
The light from the gallery spilled clearly across the features of Duke Masonne’s face. The hair was longer, the face leaner, more lined. But it was Duke.
She pushed Pascal back with a movement so abrupt she almost made him fall. In an instant, she was on her feet, the elegant black heels she’d purchased just for this event clacking on the Italian-tile floor. In five long strides, she was pulling open the door, the bell jangling madly as she dashed out into the street.
“Duke!” she called out. “Duke!”
Far at the end of the block, a young couple turned and stared at her. Other than that, the street was empty.
She felt a presence at her feet and looked down to find the cat standing beside her. “He was here,” she said aloud. “I don’t care what they say, I saw him. I’m not losing my mind. I’m not.”
A spring breeze teased the skirt of her black dress, and Liza found that she simply couldn’t return to the party. She stood on the street, the empty street, and forced her lungs to draw air in and out. She’d made a fool of herself. This was the one night when her behavior was critical, and she’d run out of her own gallery, her own party, as if she were a madwoman. The terrifying thing was that she was beginning to believe she might be completely insane. Her manager hadn’t said as much, but Pascal had been worried enough about her lately to begin recommending a visit to a psychiatrist.
“Liza?”
Eleanor’s soft voice and her gentle hand drew Liza back from her dark thoughts.
“Come back inside with me,” Eleanor prompted.
“I can’t,” Lisa whispered. “I’m such a fool.”
Eleanor gave her hand a comforting pat. “A fool is a long way from what you are. Now come inside. Everyone’s worried about you. The best thing is to walk back in, give a smile, and then I’ll say you have a migraine. I’ll see that you can escape upstairs.”
Liza’s relief was so deep and quick that even she had to laugh weakly at her pathetic response. “Promise? I just can’t stay there any longer.”
“Migraine is the perfect excuse.” Eleanor hesitated. “Just as long as you and I both agree that we have to get to the bottom of the real problem here. We can lie and say you have a headache, but we have to fix whatever is really wrong.”
Liza started to reply, but her voice broke. She finally turned and looked into her friend’s troubled brown eyes. “God, Eleanor, I don’t know if I can fix it. What if I’m going insane?”
“I doubt that,” Eleanor said stoutly. “I’ve known you for a
