She'd come through the French doors, silently skirted the pool, and stood before them; in her drained look there was something very touching but uncomfortably intimate, an exposure like the sudden scrubbing off of makeup, like a privileged glimpse of a sleeping face on a pillow. Her gray eyes were weary, the slight smile she managed held no joy but only a tired tenderness. The widow had decided against wearing black, and her sea-green linen suit was slightly wilted. Only her hair remained perfect. Short, thick, raven, it framed her face and tucked under her jawline the way an acorn top hugs the smooth curve of the acorn. She put one hand on Ray Yates's shoulder, the other on Bob Natchez's.
"Gents," she said, "I have to go lie down. You'll help yourselves to whatever you want?"
It was an innocent offer but perhaps an injudicious one from a woman newly alone. Nina managed something like a smile, then turned, and had any of the men been watching the others' eyes instead of her retreating form, he might perhaps have noticed a glimmer of something beyond mere disinterested concern for the widow of their fallen friend.
3
'That isn't how it's done," Claire Steiger said.
"How many paintings do we still have?" pressed her husband.
"We?" She spit out the word as if it were a rotten piece of fruit and went back to her magazine. The northbound plane was somewhere off Cape Hatteras, and in the first-class cabin coffee was being offered with petit fours, little pink squares whose icing stuck to the ribbed paper of their nests.
"Look, there's a psychological moment to these things," said Kip Cunningham. "How long does a dead artist stay fashionable? A few months maybe? While he's still news, while he's still being talked about at dinner parties. After that he's just one more dead painter. Last year's tragedy. Who cares?"
Exasperated, Claire Steiger grabbed a petit four and ate half of it before she realized what she was doing. More annoyed than before, she put the other half back into its paper cup and squashed it past all temptation. Raspberry jam oozed out on her thumb. "Kip," she said, "now you're explaining to me the mental quirks of art buyers?"
"I'm only saying—"
"You're only saying things you would have heard a hundred times if you listened when I talked."
'This again, Claire?"
"Yeah, Kip, this again. Because now you can't afford to ignore me. Now you can't act like your business is the be-all end-all, and mine's a little hobby, good for some social cachet, nice for getting us invited . . ."
The husband rolled his head against the back of the leather seat and entertained the unholy wish that the wings would fall off the airplane, that the naked fuselage, aerodynamic as a cucumber, would plummet into the sea, settling everything with a gruesome splash no one would hear. At that moment, no price seemed too high to pay to get another human being to shut up, and without actually deciding to, Kip played a card he'd been saving for some time, one of the few cards he had left.
"Claire, we're going to lose the Sagaponack house. Are you aware of that?"
There are two best ways to hurt someone. One is through what is most feared, the other through what is most loved. Claire Steiger's mouth stayed open but sound stopped coming out. Something had slammed shut at the back of her throat, and her eyes had started instantly to burn. She loved that house, took delight from every colorless weather-beaten board of it. It was half a block from the beach, always swollen and ripe with moisture and salt. The first porch step gave a welcoming squeak when she arrived on summer Fridays. The shutters were the most wonderful shade of grayed-out blue, and the wet light that filtered through the bedroom curtains reminded her of the radiance that came through angels' wings in seventeenth-century murals.
"There's a huge payment due the first of July," Kip went on. "The house is collateral against it." His tone had become weirdly threatening, as if he had willed himself back to the good old days when he was the one foreclosing and not the one foreclosed. "We've gotta turn some cash, Claire. A lot of cash."
She turned away and looked out the window. It was an unrewarding view: flat tops of featureless clouds gapping here and there to reveal a blank gray ocean. "Kip," she said, "you don't understand. I've spent a lot of years building a clientele, making a reputation for doing business a certain way. A dignified, discreet way, Kip. I don't do fire sales. I don't cash in on drowned artists. I don't slap paintings on the walls with price tags dangling from them. The Ars Longa Gallery has a certain image—"
"Fuck the image," said Kip Cunningham without parting his small and perfect teeth. "We're broke."