She moved aside and Bailey stepped into the studio, little more than a large box with windows and a vaulted ceiling, a half-dozen fans suspended from its rafters. The smell of the oil paint and turpentine stung her nose, though it wasn’t overpowering. Obviously Raine had taken care to install good ventilation.
Bailey moved her gaze over the space. Color and texture, light and dark, line and shape. Surrounding her, on every wall and easel, stacked in vertical racks were the most grotesque paintings she had ever seen.
“They’re awful, aren’t they?”
“No, of course not.” Bailey meant it. They were powerful. And powerfully disturbing. Dark, violent and raw.
“I’m not a favorite of interior designers.”
“Which pleases you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Raine answered anyway. “Art is supposed to arouse emotion. Stimulate thought. Not lull one into a well-coordinated stupor.”
“I get that.”
“Do you?”
“Despite what you might think of your brother’s choice, Raine, I’m neither stupid nor completely uncultured. And this may shock you, but there are even art museums in Nebraska.”
Raine laughed. “You do have fire. I’m not sure it’s enough for the long haul, but it’ll make for interesting viewing.”
“Such cynicism. Don’t you believe in love?”
“Careful, darling sister-in-law, you’ll make me puke.”
Bailey watched as she crossed to a workbench, removed her gloves and retrieved a corkscrew. “This is way too good of a wine for a Tuesday afternoon, but let’s live dangerously.”
She expertly extracted the cork, then poured some into two colorful plastic cups. “Mardi Gras cups,” she said as she handed her one. “They throw them from the floats. Cheers.”
Bailey studied the cartoon-like image on hers, of a bearded man wearing a crown of grapevines.
“Krewe of Bacchus,” Raine offered. “God of wine and revelry. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
Bailey took a sip, although the last thing she felt like drinking on a warm afternoon was red wine.
“Do you like it?” Raine asked.
“It’s delicious.”
“It should be. Street value is about two-fifty.”
Bailey almost choked. Raine laughed. “The perfect butter-me-up gift. I did say you’d chosen well.”
Bailey set down her cup and returned to her question from a moment ago. “You never answered, do you believe in love?”
“The romantic version? Death do us part and all that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Obviously.”
“How lucky you are to be such an innocent.” Raine crossed to the sink and donned another pair of gloves, these brand-new. The kind TV detectives wore.
“Which answers my question,” Bailey said.
“I’m afraid so.”
Bailey reached for her cup. “Why do you dislike me?”
“I don’t like having people forced down my throat. And that’s exactly what Logan is doing—again—and it pisses me off.”
Bailey tried another tack. “But you do want him to be happy?”
“Happiness is illusory.” Raine began to clean the paint off her brushes. “But, yes, more than anything. More than my own happiness.”
“Then help me. That’s all I want.”
“Be the adoring little wife and he will be.”
“Why are you so mean?”
She laughed but didn’t look up. “I think that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re wondering about all the things he won’t talk about? Why he won’t and how you can get him to let you in?”
How had Raine known? Was she that transparent, or Logan that predictable?
“Only partly,” she said. “I really would like us to be friends.”
Raine snorted at that and Bailey went on. “Tell me about your other brother.”
“Roane?”
Bailey worked to keep her excitement from showing. His name had been Roane. “Yes.”
“Why?” She stopped and looked at her. “What does it matter if you know about my poor dead twin? How will that make Logan happy?”
The two babies in the photograph at Henry’s. Twins. Raine and Roane.
“You said it yourself, I need to understand him. So I can help him.”
“Help him?” she repeated. “Change him, you mean.” She laughed. “Just let him be. Enjoy your good fortune while you can.”
She was so very brittle, Bailey thought. And angry. It glittered in her eyes and vibrated in her acid tone.
Bailey’s heart went out to her, for all the loss she had suffered. But it was her husband she meant to save. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
But Bailey had a good idea what it meant, and she wasn’t about to let it pass. “I love him,” she said again. “And I’m not going to stop loving him.”
“And to do that, you have to peel back the layers.” She finished with the brushes and laid them out on a rack. “Peek under the rock and see what’s lurking there?”
She had begun moving around the studio as she spoke, touching this and that. She stopped now and looked directly at Bailey. “You won’t like what you find.”
“You can’t scare me.”
“Oh, but I think I can.”
Raine took up her cup, sipping as she went from one painting in progress to the next. Pausing a moment to study, then flitting on to the next. Genuine nervous energy? Bailey wondered. Or artifice? Meant to prove how bizarre she was?
“You sound like someone else. ‘I love him,’” Raine mocked, refilling her cup. “‘I want him to be happy.’ We see how well that worked out.”
“True.”
“Of course True.” She stopped and looked at her again. “You even look like her. Not as pretty, but similar.”
“I’ve seen pictures of her.”
“Really?” She looked surprised. “Where?”
“Henry’s.”
She nodded, expression becoming faraway. “True was beautiful. And sweet.” Longing in her tone. An ache. “Like a butterfly. Too vulnerable for this shark tank.”
Raine laughed again, then shook her head. “She was ten years younger than Logan. You’re ten years younger, as well. Why do you think he keeps marrying younger women?”
Bailey tried not to get her back up, tried to hide how offended she was. Raine had gotten enough points this go-around. “It’s not that unusual,” Bailey said. “People do it all the time.”
“Men,” Raine said. “More than women. For obvious reasons.”
“Logan isn’t just any man.”
“No, he’s not. And he could have anyone.” She stopped again. Pinned her with that somehow feral gaze. “Why you?”