Free The Color of Light by Helen Maryles Shankman Page A

ordering paintings to go over their sofas, he lost his house in Amagansett, his assistants, his gallery, his girlfriend. Even the art magazines were slamming him. People said he tried to kill himself. She kissed his boo-boos, got him into rehab, took care of business, got him back on his feet. He called her his angel.”
    They watched her glide around, removing glasses, furtively wiping wet rings from his furniture and retrieving cigarette butts from Chinese porcelain. “And now?”
    “I hear he’s screwed his way through the Soho AA meeting and now he’s working his way through the West Village.”
    “Good God. After all that.”
    Levon nodded. “After all that.”
    “How do you know this?”
    Levon sighed. “Ten years sober, baby. But I still go to meetings once a week.” He was silent for a while. “Lucian Swain,” he mused. “That was me. When I was using, I nailed anything with two legs. My wife threw me out, my kids hated me, I lost my job at the advertising agency. When I got sober, things changed. I realized I didn’t want to design ads for cars anymore, I wanted to go back to being an artist. So I got a job teaching at the Art Students League. I married Hallie a year later. I’ve never slipped, not once. I don’t mean with drugs. There was a joint at a Muddy Waters concert in ‘84, and the occasional glass of wine. Gives me something to talk about in meetings. But Hallie…she saw me at my worst and she loved me anyway. There’s never been another woman. But…that’s me.” He lightened his tone. “How about you? The papers are always putting you together with Anastasia deCroix.”
    The expression on his face was partly a grimace, partly a smile. “Let’s just say we’ve been many different things to one another over time.”
    There was a flash of scarlet as he raised his arm to smooth his hair, a nervous gesture. “Hey,” Levon said. “Is that jacket lined in
red?
Let me see.”
    Rafe complied. Levon rolled the scarlet silk between his fingers. “Now, that is a fine suit. Where did you get it? No, don’t tell me. Look who I’m asking. Savile Row.”
    He gave him a self-effacing smile. “Barney’s, actually.”
    “I’m a sweater guy, myself, but if I was looking to buy a suit, it would be this one. Anyway, about half an hour ago, Inga asked me to fight my way through the crowd and bring her back a white wine.” He turned to go.
    “The girl,” said Rafe.
    “Tessa.” Levon corrected him.
    “There’s a drawing on her wall.” He spoke very deliberately, as if it hurt him to get the words out. “A woman holding a child. Clothing from the thirties or forties. A suitcase. Do you know what it might be about?”
    Levon studied Rafe’s expression, shook his head no. Thought for a moment, shrugged his shoulders up and down. “I can look into her file. Maybe her essay will give us some insight.” He plucked a potato pancake topped with crème fraîche and salmon roe from a silver tray carried by apetite waitress in black and white with shapely calves who was also one of the school’s regular models. “Hi, Sivan. These any good?”
    She tilted her hand back and forth.
Comme ci, comme ça.
    “Don’t worry about April Huffman. I’m sure it will work out just fine. And I’ll look into that thing for you. I’m going to find a seat. It was nice talking with you.” And he looked him squarely in the eye, grinned. “Really.”
    He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on what Levon had just told him, not now. Heading for the bar, he reached behind it for the ‘87 Rothschild Bordeaux he had secreted earlier.
    “Is anybody drinking the wine?” he said dryly to the lovely Graciela.
    She laughed her merry laugh. “Allow me. I actually used to work as a bartender.” He handed her the bottle, and with one fluid move she deftly pulled the cork and poured it into his glass.
    He downed it all at once. It coursed through him, giving him fleeting warmth and taking the edge off of his emotions.