“Can I leave?” the girl asked. “This is so boring.”
“Your legacy is boring?” the man said, his voice rising. The trio marched out of the alcove, saw me and stopped dead.
I recognized them. Conrad and Sylvia Winslow and their lovely daughter, Meredith, San Francisco’s answer to Paris Hilton. They were the present owners of the Winslow collection and wealthy beyond belief, but unlike Abraham’s friends, Doris and Teddy Bondurant, the Winslows liked to flaunt their money, creating daily fodder for the local paparazzi.
I prayed I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights as I smiled, said a gracious “Good evening” and kept walking. When in doubt, act as if you own the damn place.
As they strutted off, I wondered who might be the “son of a bitch” Mr. Winslow had been referring to. And what was his wife talking about when she said there were “problems with the book”? If there were any problems with any books, Abraham would know. I quickly headed for the West Gallery.
I realized I’d lost track of both Robin and the frowning man. It was just as well, since the last thing I wanted to see was the two of them flirting with each other. And how silly did that make me sound? I’d never even met the man.
Temporary insanity. Too many long hours spent in the company of moldy old books. Whatever. I took another gulp of wine as I popped through the West Gallery door and headed for the basement stairs to find Abraham.
The stairwell lighting was low and the stairs were narrow and steep. My high heels didn’t help matters, so I took each step slowly, clutching the rail with one hand and my wineglass with the other as I descended.
Below me, I could hear staccato footsteps ascending quickly toward me. As I rounded the landing, a woman jerked to a stop to avoid barging into me.
I gasped in shock. She looked at me.
And screamed.
Chapter 3
“Mother?”
“Whoa!” My mom laughed nervously and the sound echoed in the stairwell. “Brooklyn! Whew, I’m glad it’s you and not your father.”
Not the greeting I’d expected. But nothing was meeting my expectations this evening.
She clung to the stair rail, catching her breath. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a high-society art opening in her pink and white jogging outfit and gym shoes. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her skin glistened with moisture as though she’d been working out for the last hour.
“Mother, what’re you doing here?”
She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. I did, too, suddenly paranoid. Assured we were alone, she whispered, “I needed to see Abraham privately.”
“Tonight?” I frowned. “It’s kind of the opposite of private around here, Mom. What’s going on?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing.”
I almost laughed. “Nothing?”
“That’s right, nothing.” She fisted her hand on her hip, annoyed. “He stood me up.”
“What? Who stood you up? Abraham?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“But Mom, you-”
She held up her hand to shut me up, then closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders and put her palms together, yoga-style. I recognized the move. She was finding her center, calming herself, aligning her chakras, balancing her core. She was one with the universe. Good grief.
“Earth to Mom.”
She slowly opened her eyes and bowed her head. “All is well.”
“No, Mom, all is weird. What’re you-”
“Om shanti shanti shanti,” she chanted, as she reached out and touched the center of my forehead, my third eye, the seat of higher consciousness where inner peace reigned.
“Mother.” There was a warning note to my voice.
“Brooklyn, breathe. You worry too much.” She rubbed her fingers lightly across the frown lines of my forehead, then smiled sweetly. “Peace, baby girl.”
I almost groaned. She’d passed through to another place and now wore what my siblings and I liked to call her Sunny Bunny face. When she clicked on that eerie, happy mask, all battles were over.
I shook my head in defeat. Nothing penetrated the Sunny Bunny face.
“We’re not finished here, mom,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“Perhaps, in time.” She glanced around again. “Do me a favor, sweetie.”
“Okay.” I said it hesitantly.
She patted my cheek. “Don’t tell your father you saw me here.”
“What?”
“Namasté, honey. Gotta go.”
Before I could stop her, she zigzagged around me and raced away, up the stairs. My yoga mom was speedy when she wanted to be.
I stared at the empty stairway for a few seconds. So, it was official: My mother had gone insane. The upside was, back at the commune, nobody would notice.
But seriously, what the heck was that all about?