Jed Brodie. I’ve come to pick up my brother’s paintings. I understand you have some of them,” he said.
“I do. I just got off the phone with your mother, as a matter of fact. We’re working on the scheduling of a retrospective for his work next month. What do you mean you’ve come to pick up the paintings? I’ll be framing them here. Is that a problem?”
“I need to get the paintings appraised for tax purposes. And if they’re worth anything, decide if I want to sell them now or later.” He glanced at his watch impatiently.
“Sell them?” Laura felt like a parrot. But she didn’t understand. Was he expecting some kind of windfall from Jordan’s body of work? “Your mother said she didn’t want the paintings sold. She wants to show them to the community as a memorial to Jordan.” The problem was Maria wanted to show them all. Laura was hard-pressed to pick a dozen or so to fit in the alcove where the display would be.
She glanced at the alcove. Jordan had pushed her for an exhibit in her gallery from the day he met her. Fully convinced he would set the art world on fire, he’d been relentless in pushing to have a one-man show. She’d been equally reluctant. She didn’t like mixing business and personal. Plus, sad to say, Jordan’s work wasn’t the high caliber she was used to showing. Maybe if he’d worked harder at it. Forever too late now.
“My mother has little say in the matter. I need to find out what they are worth and then dispose of them—either sell, give away or toss in the trash, whatever’s appropriate.”
“These are your brother’s paintings. You can’t throw them away.” Laura was horrified at the thought. She knew the paintings would never be classified as great works, but wasn’t there any family loyalty and ties? The two men were twins, for heaven’s sake. Weren’t twins supposed to be close?
He looked down his nose at her obviously not wishing to belabor the subject. “Actually I can do whatever I want with them.”
“But I’ve already scheduled the showing. Announcements have been made in all the local papers. The brochures are at the printer’s just waiting the final details. Framing has started. You can’t halt everything at this point.” Did he have any idea of how much work she’d already done?
“Then perhaps you and I need to discuss the matter before things proceed any further. I’m only here for a few days. I need to get everything lined up and taken care of before I leave,” he said impatiently.
“Your brother died three months ago and you’re just showing up now?” No one had said a word about Jordan’s brother at the funeral. She thought it odd, but her own grief and guilt kept her from questioning anything too closely.
Why had he arrived today? And what business was it of his what happened to Jordan’s paintings? Maria was definite with her plans. She wanted her son to have his day in the sun, even if posthumously.
He glanced at Heather, then back at Laura. “Is there someplace we can discuss this in private?”
Laura hesitated. She felt like she was in a time warp, talking to Jordan, only not. Staring at Jordan and seeing someone different. Feeling mingled emotions, longing for what was long gone; confusion as she noted the differences between the men. A little animosity flared at his attitude and his threats to her carefully planned show. An acute awareness of the man’s masculinity surprised her.
He was obviously Jordan’s identical twin, but neither Jordan nor his parents had ever mentioned that fact to her. All Jordan had ever said was his younger brother rarely came home. How much younger could a twin be?
“Are you the black sheep of the family?” she blurted out. Maria and Jefferson Brodie had talked a little about this son. Once Maria had said he’d gone off to do his own thing and turned his back on his family. He wasn’t interested in painting or sculpturing. And from what Laura knew of the family, they had no interest in anything that did not center around painting or sculpturing.
“If you call getting a good education and then supporting myself by working, then yeah, I guess you could say that,” he replied.
It was in direct contrast to Jordan. He’d dropped out of college to paint. The call of his muse, he’d often said. And paint he did, when the mood struck. The rest of the time, he spent on other pursuits. But none that entailed a nine-to-five job. He was usually seeking inspiration by lying on the beach, sailing or clubbing.
Their mother, Maria Brodie, was a famous oil painter. Her works brought tens of thousands of dollars with each sale. Jefferson Brodie was the father of the Brodie men, an extraordinary sculptor whose marble and granite creations she’d love to represent, but who had an exclusive deal with a Manhattan agency.
Maria did condescend to sell some of her paintings through her gallery, not as many as Laura might wish for, but probably more than she should expect given how limited her clientele was.
From the first moment Laura met Jordan, she’d known Maria expected her son to follow in her footsteps. Yet, not for her precious son the struggles of a starving artist. She supplied the cottage he lived in and support while he painted. Even the flashy car that he’d wrapped around a very unforgiving tree had come from his mother.
Jordan had painted, partied and left a collection of work some of which Laura was going to show in memory of a man who died too young.
Now this man, Jordan’s own brother, threatened those plans. She needed to talk to him and he was right, darn him, the showroom wasn’t the place.
“Come with me. Heather, handle anything that comes up, will you?” Laura headed for the workshop in the back of the gallery, where Jordan’s paintings awaited framing. The ware-houselike space was lined with shelves holding different paintings or sculptures. Some were awaiting display. Others had been bought and would be shipped to their new owners in the next day or two.
Frames leaned against one wall, an assortment of sizes and styles used to enhance any work she displayed to make it more appealing to the buyer. Some frames were for sale, others were merely for display use while a painting was on exhibit. Large worktables were as cluttered with paraphernalia as her office. Yet she knew where everything was. The layout suited her perfectly.
Laura held open the door while Jed Brodie stepped inside and looked around. She followed and closed the door to the gallery, leaning against it. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Certainly not the image of Jordan looking at her with impatience. Jordan would have tried to sweet-talk her into whatever scheme he had come up with. Kisses would go a long way to have her fall in with his plans. For a moment, she missed the love they’d shared—that she’d thought they’d shared.
This man looked coldly around the space and didn’t say a word. She would not take offense, though she could feel herself bristle a little in defense of her workshop. But there would be no cajoling, no teasing, no kisses. He looked hard as iron.
Jed turned and faced her. “I understand you were Jordan’s fiancée,” he said, glancing at her from head to toe.
She felt like a display piece. One he would not wish to purchase.
She nodded watching him warily. For a moment she felt a pang that she had not even known his name. How awful to have a family who disregarded a son so completely. If his assessment was to be believed, he didn’t fit the role of black sheep. He looked dynamic and successful. She had a good eye for fine things and the suit and shoes he wore were fine indeed. His hair was cut shorter than Jordan’s and his eyes were clear and sharp.
She
