Two

When Markel leaves, I flop down on the couch and stare at the pipes and vents chasing each other across the ceiling, trying to process the strangest studio visit ever. Markel G. My own show. The sweet possibility of reclaiming all that’s been lost, everything I’ve ever wanted. But a forger? A pretender? The absolute last thing I want to be.

You’re damn good at this.

I climb out of the couch, walk over to the front windows, and stare down on Harrison Avenue. I look over the chain-linked parking lot to the elevated highway in the distance, then to my window paintings lined up along the walls.

You have a unique talent. You always did.

Damn him. Damn him and his compliments and his offers and his strings.

I grab my backpack and head to Jake’s, the bar where everyone knows my name. Unfortunately, not only does everyone know my name, they also know about Markel’s visit.

There’s illegal and there’s illegal.

When I reach the bar, I square my shoulders and push open the door. Jake’s is clearly and proudly old neighborhood, nothing like the ritzy places drifting south from Back Bay. Here, there are no blue martinis, and the tables are scarred from years of use, not purposely distressed to look chic. There’s no valet because the clientele walk from their tiny apartments or studios. A neon BUDWEISER sign hangs in the narrow window to scare the hip away.

Most of my buds are already here; it’s six, after all, the drinking hour. To be followed by the eating hour—hot dogs, burgers, and BLTs comprise the menu—followed by another drinking hour. Or hours. Right arms shoot straight into the air as each person catches sight of me. Our gang sign.

Mike points to the open bar stool next to him. “Here” is all he says as he turns back to his conversation with Small. Small’s name is Small because she’s very small, maybe five feet, and that’s generous. She says she named herself Small to confront the issue head-on and because her real name is so ethnic it labeled her. Mike’s only half a foot taller than she is, but far too unsure of himself—not to mention he’s a man—for that kind of piercing self-deprecation.

I slip onto the stool. Maureen, owner and bartender, opens a bottle of Sam Adams and puts it down in front of me. She knows I don’t want a glass.

Rik, buff, handsome, and with kangaroo eyelashes every woman I know covets, leans from behind to give me a kiss. “Do tell,” he demands. Rik’s the one graduate-school friend who stuck by me after the “Cullion Affair” slithered its way into the MFA Museum School as well as the art scenes in Boston and New York. I love him for it.

I return the kiss. “And hello to you, too.”

“I want to hear every last delicious detail.” Rik always wants to hear every last delicious detail.

“Well, he seemed to like some of my stuff, especially the paintings where I applied . . .” I lower my voice in imitation of Markel’s tenor, “ ‘. . . classical realism to contemporary subject matter.’ He said he’d give me a call, but I’m thinking he was blowing me off.”

“Did the great man tell you why he suddenly decided to grace you with his oh-so-fabulous presence?”

“Just what he said before. That he wanted to see what I was up to.”

“Nothing about Sir Isaac Cullion?” When I don’t answer, Rik adds, “Not even one teeny-tiny single solitary word?”

I’ve known Rik long enough to know that if I don’t give him something, he won’t let go until he’s got the truth. I heave a dramatic sigh. “He did tell me he sold Isaac’s Orange Nude. That it made him think of me.”

Small turns toward us, and Mike puts a hand on my shoulder. Maureen leans her elbows on the bar. Danielle and Alice, who are on the other side of Rik, stop talking. Everyone looks at me expectantly. There are few secrets among us, especially not career ones—and these are probably the only people who actually believe Isaac lied.

“Didn’t go well?” Mike asks. We sometimes call Mike “the church lady” in joking salute to his keen sense of right and wrong. He’d be horrified at Markel’s offer. And even more horrified that I didn’t refuse outright.

“I’m guessing not, although I wasn’t expecting much.” A lie everyone recognizes. They’ve all said roughly the same thing after a career disappointment. It’s how we survive.

“A shot of tequila for my friend here,” Mike says to Maureen. Aside from Rik, who isn’t really an artist anymore, Mike’s the only one of us who can afford actual drinks. He’s a lawyer by day, painter by night.

I knock back the shot as soon as it’s in front of me. The warmth spreads down my throat and into my empty stomach. A dangerous thing if Maureen decides to comp me a second shot, which, under the circumstances, she probably will.

“Any idea how much Markel got for it?” Small asks.

I know she’s talking about Orange Nude. “I told him not to tell me.”

“More to the point: Does anyone know if Cullion actually painted it?” Danielle’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

There’s dead silence in the bar; I stare into my empty shot glass. Although she doesn’t mean to, and would never purposely hurt anyone, Danielle often steps over the line she doesn’t see. It’s like her tact sensor is missing.

“Claire knows,” Rik jumps in. “She was there. And she wasn’t wearing any clothes.”

I throw him a grateful glance and hold up my hands. “Present and nude as charged. I can attest to its authenticity.”

“Never should’ve given it back to the old fraud,” Rik says to me. “You didn’t even—” He stops, frowns, and we all follow his gaze. “Well, well, well,” he says sourly, “if it isn’t the fabulous Crystal Mack, our own local artist at work. Slumming it tonight?”

“Oh, darlin’,” Crystal says as she slides onto the stool next to Rik. “Don’t be silly.” She kisses him on both cheeks. “Talking about the Orange Nude sale?” She looks at me and winks. “I heard mid–six figures.” She’s overdressed, as usual. Something clingy and expensive in that trendy green that makes me look seasick. Unfortunately, it looks just fine on her. Blondes can wear any color they want.

“Probably out of testimony to the beauty of the model.” Rik throws his arm around my shoulders. “Rather than the skill of the artist.”

“That,” Crystal smiles at me sweetly, “or the power of scandal.” Crystal, too, often steps over the line—but her eyes are wide open.

Maureen puts a second shot in front of me.

We turn away from Crystal and break into smaller conversations. Crystal orders a double scotch straight up and begins an animated discussion with Maureen, pretending that the bartender isn’t the only one willing to talk to her. Not that Crystal cares. Her purpose in coming here is to make herself feel better by making us feel worse. It works every time. The good news is that no one will ask any more questions about Markel with her around. The last thing anyone wants to do is give Crystal more ammunition.

By nine, Rik and I are the only ones left standing. Everyone else has gone home, and although we know we should, too, we linger at the far end of the bar. The two tequila shots have worked their magic on me: I’m all loose and stretchy, comfortably buzzed.

“I’ve still got options,” I say.

Even though we haven’t mentioned Markel in over an hour, Rik knows exactly what I’m talking about. “You’ve got lots of options, Claire Bear. Lots more than you even know.”

“Markel told me that just because I’d been blackballed, that didn’t mean I couldn’t paint.”

Rik’s eyes widen. “Oh, honey, he actually said that to you? What an asshole.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, then how the hell did he mean it?”

“I think it was a compliment.”

“Some compliment,” Rik mutters.

“So,” I say, “I made it to the final round of the ArtWorld Trans contest. And I haven’t been rejected from the Cambridgeport Show yet.”

“What’s the Trans thing?” Rik isn’t a studio artist anymore, so he isn’t up on the latest contests and juried shows. He landed a job in the curatorial department at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum right out of graduate school—which was an amazing coup—and has happily worked his way up to assistant curator in four years. He claims he doesn’t miss the “drudgery, backstabbing, and poverty of being an artiste.” Sometimes I believe him, sometimes I don’t.

“The submission’s got to reflect whatever you think Trans means,” I explain. “Transpire, transplant, transcendent, transfusion, transmutation, transgendered.”

“Sweet,” Rik says, and I can tell he’s running through the paintings stacked in his closet to see if any would work. He blinks his eyes to stop the parade. “What’d you submit?”

I shrug as if I don’t really care. “A few from my window series. Transparent, transition, transpose, translucent. I figured if every painting had a bunch of Trans, it might give me an edge.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I heard next year it’s going to be Counter, so I thought I’d submit some of my repros as counterfeit.”

“Funny,” Rik says, in a way that clearly indicates he doesn’t think so. “So how’s that going anyway?”

“Markel liked them.”

Rik homes right in. “What interest could Aiden Markel possibly have in repros?”

“I don’t know, Rik. I can’t read the man’s mind. They were there, I guess.”

Rik holds his hands up. “Sor-ry. Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

“No, no,” I say. “It’s me who’s sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Rik grins. “We all know you can’t handle your liquor.”

He insists on walking me home. It’s only a few blocks out of his way, so I acquiesce. Men got to do what they got to do. Even though I’m no fool about living in the city. I know the rules. Walk in the middle of the street or at least at the far edge of the sidewalk, be aware and tuned into surroundings, no white ear buds (steal my iPod), no texting (I’m distracted), no playing with apps (steal my iPhone). But above all, never, never, never look like you’re lost.

We step out of Jake’s into the thick summer air and head down the sidewalk, past the back alley of ChiRom, the Asian-Dominican fusion restaurant that’s presently all the rage. A couple of men in grungy clothes are sitting, actually listing, against the Dumpster, passing a bottle of whiskey, and laughing uproariously. A well-dressed couple approaches us, glances into the alley, and crosses the street.

“Do you think Markel’s visit could’ve had something to do with Isaac?” Rik asks.

“Isaac’s dead.” I’m surprised by the sharpness of my tone.

Rik stops and turns to me. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“Why does everyone think it has to be about Isaac?” I snap. “Is it beyond belief that he might just be interested in my work?”