Free Death of an Artist by Kate Wilhelm Page A

you. At least we can talk about it.”
    She perched on the edge of a chair across the coffee table from him. “So talk.”
    â€œI’ll have our attorney draw up a contract, a real business contract, between you and me, that will give you an ironclad guarantee that I’ll never sell or offer your art for sale without your express approval.”
    â€œWhat’s the point? You went behind my back, and now you come up with a billionaire dickhead of a patron, acting like I’m a starving medieval peasant grateful for crumbs off his table.”
    â€œI’m a businessman. If I break a contract, you sue and I go to jail, or lose my socks, lose everything I own. And I’m totally ruined. No sale I made would be legitimate, you could reclaim anything I sold. But that’s not going to happen. Never.” He looked down at his hands and said in a low voice, “I’ve lost your trust and I want to get it back. If a contract will reassure you, that’s how we should do it. As soon as possible, we should do it.”
    â€œWhat if I want out of it?”
    â€œIt’s standard to have a clause that says plainly that if you decide to terminate the contract, you can do it. I guarantee that such a clause will be there. But I hope that neither one of us will ever even think of it again.”
    Stef jerked up to her feet. “I want a drink.”
    He continued to sit and watch her at the counter with her back to him. A few more weeks, he thought at that garish, skinny back. He could endure anything for a few weeks. But, God, he added to himself, he wanted a woman he could take into a fine restaurant or club, one who looked as good as he did, someone like Jasmine. She knew how to dress, what clothes to wear and how to wear them, how to walk and sit. She had been his perfect accessory, one that he dared not show off where anyone he knew might see them. Angrily he pushed aside the thought of Jasmine. Other Jasmines were out there, just waiting until he was free.
    He stood and went to the counter, where he put his arm around Stef’s shoulders. She did not push him away.
    *   *   *
    W HEN V AN ENTERED Marnie’s house she paused in the living room long enough to say, “Gale-force winds, storming up and down stairs. I’m going to bed. I think he wants to sell Feathers and Ferns . Good night, Marnie.”
    It was the painting Stef had hung at the shop that week, and Marnie knew beyond doubt that Stef would not sell it.

 
    6
    NO VACANCY SIGNS began appearing on the coast during the middle of the weeks, apartments that had been dark most of the winter began showing lights in windows, empty driveways were being used. The summer people were arriving.
    Marnie and Molly Barnett had agreed to let Molly’s two teenaged nieces work in the shop all summer, giving Marnie time to spend with Van and Josh. The girls were eager for the jobs since they were saving for college, and Marnie had little desire to be closeted most of the day when she knew how little she would be seeing of Van during the coming year.
    Barney Stokely brought Marnie a large piece of halibut one day and would take nothing in return. He had bought the fishing business after Ed’s sudden death from pneumonia, and she had permitted him to retain the name, Markov’s Fisheries, which had built up a good clientele over a seventy-year history and had an excellent reputation. Barney frequently showed up with a such a gift.
    It was too much not to freeze most of it, Marnie knew, and the texture changed with freezing. She wanted to serve at least some of it while it was still freshly caught, in its prime. Van was back in Portland, and for the past several days Stef had been in Portland also. Marnie cut off a big piece of fish and took it to Harriet McAdams for her and Dave, then, after cutting off two steaks and freezing the rest with a sigh of regret, she called Tony and invited him to dinner.
    When he