Free Becoming His Muse, Part Three by KC Martin Page B

this must be Ava.” He turns to me and somehow manages to show a few more perfect teeth when he smiles my way.
    “Logan tells me you’re a painter.”
    “More like a student of painting.”
    “She’s an artist who happens to still be trapped in college,” corrects Logan.
    An elegant woman peels herself away from the social cluster and stands beside Lowell.
    “Who pray tell is still in college?”
    Lowell says, “This is my wife, Lisle. It’s her friend Hannah Doyle who owns the gallery. We thought you’d enjoy meeting the featured artist, Surika Lyn. She’s around here somewhere.”
    I’m having trouble keeping up with all the new names coming at me but I nod as if I’m following everything.
    Lisle shakes my hand. She has a firm grip. She looks me up and down. “You’re studying where Logan is teaching? Has he gotten himself into trouble yet? He has a bad habit of it. Runs from one pot of trouble into another.” She gives him rueful glance.
    “No need to exaggerate, Lisle.” Logan slides a possessive arm around my waist.
    “And when’s the last time you saw—”
    Lowell interrupts. “—Hannah’s waving to you, Honey. I think she needs you.”
    “Nice to meet you, Ava,” she says before excusing herself.
    I’m introduced to a couple of Lowell’s agency associates and friends who are art buyers. I can’t keep track of anyone, but they seem friendly enough. They all seem to know who Logan is and say they’re waiting with anticipation for his next book.
    “I think you’ll be happily surprised,” says Lowell. “I’ve only read the first few pages— I only got it yesterday— but it’s promising so far.”
    Logan tries to hide his smile. The people listening to Logan nod and say a word or two amongst themselves. Lowell’s a good agent. He’s already creating buzz.
    I excuse myself from the conversation, telling Logan I’m going to look at the paintings. I’ve only seen glimpses through the tightly packed groups of patrons and I want to really look at each canvas. I start at one edge of the gallery and move down the wall, painting by painting. I’m impressed with the color choices. While I’m not as familiar with abstract styles, I respond immediately and positively to the tones and textures. Halfway through the exhibit, I reach a corner of the room. Standing there, in a dress of yellow silk, is an Asian woman of indeterminate age and depth of beauty. She has just stepped away from a conversation group and turned her back to them to stare at a painting, or perhaps the wall corner, as I don’t see her eyes focused on a particular canvas. I’m about to pass her when she turns to me and says,
    “So what do you think?”
    Her dark eyes are penetrating and her berry-colored lips look like they are about to curve into a smile.
    “I’m trying not to,” I say.
    I’ve been immersed in the subtleties of color and texture, light and shadow. The experience has dropped me into a light artistic trance, the kind that allows my own painting process to flow or new ideas to form. It also pushes the details of reality— like the fact that I’m in a crowded gallery— to the background, so that my response does not quite fit the situation. It does, however, elicit a smile from the woman.
    “The only honest answer I’ve heard all night. I’m Sukira Lyn.” She holds out her small hand.
    “Oh, the artist.” I say.
    Then, feeling a little embarrassed, I try to explain what I meant, and what I’d just been experiencing. We chat at length about the painting process and she tells me about how she works and what she strives for. What she has to say is even more inspiring than her work, and she invites me to her studio in Hell’s Kitchen next time I’m in New York. I’m thoroughly thrilled.
    At one point, as we talk, I glance toward the front window of the gallery and see Logan smoking on the other side of the glass. Several people are out there doing the same thing. I see him talking to a tall