the question Quentin had asked. “I’m fine—-I’ ve been exceptionally busy at work. What do you think of the show?”
“There are four silk screen prints on the other wall that I lust after. And I think the acrylics are brilliant—such a departure.” Lucy put her head to one side. “This one, for instance—it’s a jewel.”
In exquisite detail Quentin had painted three little girls running through a meadow full of wildflowers; it was a tribute to his talent that the work was entirely without sentimentality. “They look like us,” Marcia blurted.
“Oh...I hadn’t thought of that. You and I and Cat, you mean. You’re right—two brunettes and a redhead!” Lucy laughed. “Maybe he saw the photo I have of the three of us on the piano.”
“Would you like to have it?” Troy asked, his slate-gray eyes resting affectionately on his wife.
“I would,” Marcia heard herself say.
Lucy was gazing at her speculatively and Troy’s eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Aghast, Marcia sputtered, “I didn’t really mean that—I don’t want it, of course I don’t. You get it, Lucy.”
“Have you met Quentin?” Lucy asked.
“Yes. Very briefly. Please, Lucy, forget I ever said I wanted it. Buy her the painting, Troy.”
“I’ll get it for you, sis,” Troy said. “I didn’t give you anything for your last birthday.”
“But we never give each other expensive presents!”
“This will be the exception that proves the rule... I’ll be right back.”
And Marcia, for the third time that evening, found her eyes brimming with tears. Lucy drew her further into the corner, shielding her from the other guests. “You’re not yourself—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”
“Have lunch with me tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go into work.”
“Darn your work, Marcie!”
Lucy only used Marcia’s childhood name when she was upset. Marcia said, “I’m going to phone Mother in the morning—could you and Troy come for dinner on Sunday? Catherine’s free.”
“Love to,” Lucy said promptly.
“Come around six, then... I do wish Troy wasn’t buying me that painting.”
“Too bad we can’t take it home right away. It’d look perfect in your bedroom.”
A painting of Quentin Ramsey’s in her bedroom? No way, thought Marcia, and from the corner of her eye saw Emily Harrington-Smythe parting the crowd with Troy in her wake. “An excellent choice,” Emily said, sticking a little red circle beside the painting. “Congratulations, Dr. Donovan.”
“Happy birthday, Marcia,” Troy said, with a lazy grin at his sister-in-law.
The painting was hers. Whether she wanted it or not. Standing on tiptoes, Marcia kissed Troy on the chin and said limpidly, “Thank you, Troy, that was sweet of you.”
“Let’s go and find Quentin and tell him what we’ve done,” he rejoined.
In sheer panic Marcia said, “I’ve really got to go—I was in the lab at six this morning. But I’ll see you both on Sunday.” Giving them a quick smile, she almost ran from the room.
Quentin was standing in the far corner of the gallery with three very attractive women—two of them blondes, the other a voluptuous creature with glorious black curls. He was laughing at something one of them had said. Marcia pulled on her coat, picked up her umbrella and scurried out into the rain.
Marcia’s mother, Dr. Evelyn Barnes, was a forensic pathologist, a poised and gracious hostess and a demon golfer. But when Marcia phoned her from work the next morning, Evelyn sounded unusually flustered.
“Dinner? On Sunday? With the family? Let me get my book... I—Marcia, could I bring someone with me? A friend?”
“Of course. Is Lillian in town?”
Lillian was her mother’s best friend, who had moved to Toronto only a month ago. “No—no, it’s not Lillian. It’s a man.”
Evelyn always had an escort to the concerts and dinner parties she frequented, but never allowed these undoubtedly very fine men to mingled with her family. “You’re being a dark horse, Mother. What’s his name?”
“Henry Woods. He’s a broker. I—I’d like you to meet him.”
Trying very hard to hit a balance between unmannerly curiosity and diplomatic uninterest, Marcia said soothingly, “That’s just fine. Six o’clock?”
“Lovely. We’ll see you then.” Evelyn, who usually liked to catch up on all the family news, smartly cut the connection.
More slowly, Marcia put the receiver down. If she didn’t know better, she’d say her mother was in love. Her cool, unemotional mother in love?
It didn’t look as though her dinner party would be dull.
At five to six on Sunday Marcia was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The same perverse instinct that had caused her to claim the painting of the three little girls had induced her to ignore the elegant but rather dull outfits that made up the bulk of her wardrobe, as well as her horn-rimmed glasses. She was wearing black stirrup pants with a long black sweater emblazoned with the golden face of a lion; her pumps were black with gold buckles. Despite the addition of the mysterious Mr. Woods, this was only a family dinner, she thought defiantly, adding scarlet lipstick and big gold earrings that dangled against her neck. Besides, it had rained all weekend.
The security buzzer sounded and Lucy’s voice came over the intercom. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. Before Marcia could say anything, Lucy handed her sister the baby so she could take off her coat and said ingenuously, “We brought Quentin along. I hope you don’t mind? The cocktail party he was supposed to go to was canceled because the hostess had the flu.”
Christopher Stephen Donovan grabbed at Marcia’s earrings and drooled down the shoulder of her sweater. Quentin’s eyes were even bluer than she remembered them. Marcia backed up so that they could come in and mumbled untruthfully, “No, that’s fine. No problem at all.”
Lucy handed Troy her coat and swiped at Lucy’s shoulder with a tissue. “He’s teething again—I keep telling Troy someone should invent a better method for the acquiring of teeth. Here, I’ll take him now.”
But Christopher had locked his arms around Marcia’s neck and burrowed his face into her shoulder. He smelled sweetly of baby powder and warm skin, his weight solid against her body. Her arms tightened around him as she rested her cheek on his wispy hair. Oh God, she thought helplessly, here I go again. I want to weep my eyes out. I’m cracking up. I’ve never wanted children. Not once in my thirty-three years.
