her as well as she remembered him. But she knew how misplaced that paranoia was when he spoke again. “Oh, sorry, Joe. I didn’t see you were talking to a beautiful woman.” He never looked away from Alegra when he went on, this time talking to her. “Ma’am, I’m Boyd Posey, assistant editor at the Beacon.”
“I’m Alegra Reynolds.”
His mouth formed a silent O. She had seen the reaction many times before. Recognition—but not because he recognized her as Al Peterson, but rather, he knew her as the woman whose “empire was built on lace and underwiring,” as a gentleman with the same expression had once told her. “Alegra Reynolds of Alegra’s Closet fame? Well, isn’t that something,” he drawled with a slightly lascivious glint in his pale eyes. “My wife’s got your catalogs.” He laughed. “Not that she can wear the stuff, but she can dream.”
Joe cut in. “What was it you needed, Boyd?”
Boyd let his gaze linger on Alegra for a long moment before he turned back to Joe. “You didn’t say if you’re coming back.”
“I don’t know. I’ll check in later.”
Boyd met Alegra’s eyes again. “Do you model your clothes?”
She didn’t remember liking or disliking Boyd in the past. He’d been a drinking buddy of her father’s and he hardly even noticed her. But now she was edging toward not liking him. Forcing a “business as usual” expression that she had mastered over the years, she shook her head. “I just design and sell my stock.”
“Too bad,” Boyd murmured, then went back inside.
She felt Joe by her side, and heard him say on a sigh, “Should I apologize for Boyd?”
“Don’t bother. It goes with the territory,” she said, looking down the street to the building she knew housed the gallery. “Everyone has a reaction to what I do, and sometimes it’s less than complimentary.”
“Believe it or not, Boyd was complimenting you.”
“Whatever,” she said as she turned back to him.
He smiled at that. “A good use of that word for a change.”
That was when he touched her arm. “Come on. Angelo is waiting to dazzle you with his inventory of brilliant art.”
She wanted Joe to go with her, but that didn’t mean she wanted contact with him. She moved away from his touch as she took off toward the gallery. He fell into step beside her.
The bottom level of the gallery was framed by brick and the upper level by silvered wood siding. The roof showed spots of green moss, and it was pitched high in the middle over the entry.
The building had been a feed store when she’d lived here, with rough wooden floors and huge beams overhead that had held winches to lift hay bales in and out of the lofts. The place looked very much as it had back then, except there were deep windows now where the loading doors had once been, and a new entrance had been fashioned between them with carved double doors. Joe took a step ahead of her, grasped the heavy-hasp latch and pushed the door back for her.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I can promise you that Angelo won’t give you any grief over your choice of careers.”
She stepped inside. Glancing around, she saw that all remnants of the feed store were gone, except for what was retained for decorative impact. The subtle scent of woodsy incense hung in the air. The space still soared through both stories, but now it was a grand area to display paintings and sculpture. The floors were highly polished hardwood, and stairs, fashioned of wood and iron, swept up in the middle to a second display space upstairs. Soft harp music drifted around them, and the peace in the place was palpable.
A disembodied voice with a very British clip to it cut through that softness, coming from somewhere near the rear of the building. “Greetings! Please, help yourself to tea or coffee from the table by the windows, and I’ll be right there.”
“Angelo? It’s me, Joe,” Joe called.
“I’m talking to London. Give me a minute.”
“You got it.” Joe motioned to an oval table that held tea things, along with some shortbread cookies. “Like anything?” he asked.
“Oh, no, thanks,” she said, and looked at the nearest grouping of paintings.
“Then why don’t we just browse until Angelo’s free. Anything in particular that might strike your fancy?”
She couldn’t explain to him what she was looking for, because she didn’t know until she saw it. “I’ll just look around,” she said.
“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind, and you can tell me about the art you already have.”
What would she tell him? I collect roads that go nowhere? She didn’t think so, but she spoke softly, “Okay,” and went into a large alcove formed by three floating walls butted up against each other in the shape of a U. When she saw an elegantly simple gold plaque on a slim stand by the three prints, she stopped and stared at it.
Works by Sean Payne—Local Artist.
Her past hit her with such force the room started to swim. She took a deep breath, and the room settled, but the pain in her middle didn’t ease. Sean, skinny and mean and taunting her. She had to struggle not to rush out of the gallery.
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