He glanced at her. "You want to be a T. J. Winslow?"
She shook her head, not feeling even a flicker of envy. "No, but I'm not going to pretend I don't want my gallery to succeed. I do, but on its own terms. I can't do this." She took in the ultrasophisti-cated gallery with a wave of the hand. "I can only do what I do."
A current of excitement ran through her at the thought of the canvases in Sarah Linwood's studio. Others would experience the same thrill that she did, the same mix of awe and nostalgia and pain and hope. Sarah Linwood was that mesmerizing an artist.
Half convinced Garvin would guess what she was thinking, Annie focused on her plush surroundings even as she remained very aware of the hard-to-figure man at her side. Despite the scores of people to meet, the paintings that drew her attention, she kept catching herself staring at him, noticing his straight back, the breadth of his shoulders, the quick smiles that never quite reached his eyes. Definitely a hard man to figure. And an impossible one to ignore.
The occasional raised eyebrow told her who knew about the weekend auction and who didn't. No one said what a heartless thing she'd been to buy the painting of Haley Linwood right out from under her widowed husband. Everyone—eyebrow raisers or not—managed to convey a certain curiosity about her and why she was there with Garvin MacCrae. His behavior toward her must only have fueled more questions. He would touch her elbow, her shoulder, whisper names to her. As wary as she tried to remain, Annie found herself relaxing in his company, wanting to trust him, and, even more dangerous, wanting him to trust her.
When he was waylaid by two men and whisked into a conversation that clearly didn't concern her, she seized the moment and snaked through the elegantly dressed crowd to the gallery where Sauveur's work was actually on display. His huge canvases of the stark, familiar North Atlantic coast immediately assaulted her senses, playing on her memories. If Sarah Linwood's work was focused on the essence, the soul, of what she painted—people, objects, landscapes—Sauveur's landscapes were focused on the rawness and possibility of North America, even at the turn of the millennium. His subject was the continent's easternmost fringe of rock, sea, and sky.
After a while—she couldn't say how long—Annie became aware of Garvin's presence beside her.
"This landscape reminds me of Thomas Cole's The Oxbow," she said without looking at him. "It's called Grand Manan. Grand Manan's a Canadian island in the Bay of Fundy."
"You've been there?"
"Yes." She gestured at the cliffs depicted in the painting. "I've stood right on that ledge, watching the tide crash in. The Bay of Fundy has the most extreme tides in the world. They're incredible to watch. Grand Manan's further down east than where I used to live."
Garvin, she noticed, was studying her, not the painting. "You miss Maine," he said.
"Yep. I don't deny it. But I figure I need to miss it."
"Why?"
He seemed interested, but it wasn't a subject she wanted to delve into right now. "So I know I can live without it, I guess. That my life isn't a place." But the thought of her old job, her old life, only made her feel more isolated. Not out of place, she thought. Just alone. She directed her attention back to the landscape. "There's a tension between the real and the ideal in Sauveur's work. It's almost palpable, isn't it?"
Out of the corner of her eye she caught Garvin's wry smile. "I was just thinking the painting's too big, it won't fit over a sofa."
She laughed but eyed him sardonically. "Now, why do I have the feeling you're being disingenuous? I think you've heard of the Hudson River School and maybe even Thomas Cole. I don't pretend to be an art historian myself, but"—she caught herself and smiled—"but don't get me started."
Something crept into his eyes; she couldn't define it but knew only that it made her throat catch. "Another time, perhaps. Look, there's someone I need to see." He touched her shoulder, leaning in toward her, his mouth so close to hers she could feel his breath. "Excuse me for two minutes, okay?"
"Sure. Take your time. I'm sure I can amuse myself."