Michael Cross stood on the sidelines of the art gallery, observing the intricate dance of Rio’s high society. His one-man show had attracted an international crowd of residents and visitors who dressed to impress and spoke to be heard. He closed his eyes and let the cacophony of language wash over him.
“Hoping it will all just go away?” a woman asked.
Michael opened his eyes to a flock of multicolored macaws flying across a bright cerulean silk caftan. He followed their flight up to Jackson’s pudgy, carefully made-up face and stepped back to take in the full effect. A less confident woman would have looked ludicrous. His agent looked resplendent.
“Making a statement?” he asked.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Cross, loosen up.” She swayed her hips to the bossa nova performed by a trio of musicians and their lusty songstress. The movement sent her macaws fluttering on the blue background. “Would it have killed you to wear something more festive?”
Michael looked down at his own white T-shirt and tan suit and shrugged. “I didn’t want to compete with my art.”
Jackson laughed and patted his cheek. “Honey, nothing could compete with those paintings, not even you. You’re a goddamn artistic genius.”
She grabbed an appetizer from a passing waiter and popped it into Michael’s mouth. “Have a shrimp ball.” She turned him towards the crowded gallery. “It’s time to work.”
He coughed as he swallowed. “Where are you going?”
“To mingle, darling. One of us has to.” She gave him a wink and headed boldly across the room to do battle.
Thank God someone was up to the task. Five years in the public’s eye had done nothing to enamor Michael to it, which was why he stood on the sidelines of his own show, trying not to be noticed. Fat chance of that. At six-foot-one with sun-streaked blond hair and blue eyes, Michael stood out in this mostly Brazilian crowd like a lighthouse beacon.
Jackson White powered her way into every situation with unabashed command. Even back in Los Angeles, where women were measured, consciously or not, by beach-girl movie-star beauty, Jackson’s audacious and ferocious determination dominated the scene. Which was exactly what made her LA’s premier fine arts agent. And why Michael praised the day she had discovered him painting a mural on Yoshimura-san’s corner market wall.
Although supported by a sizable trust fund, Michael had taken the grocery clerk job after he had burned every one of his charcoal sketches mere days before what would have been his gallery debut. Lost and devastated, he had found solace in menial labor and Yoshimura-san’s quiet presence. He had learned a great deal from the octogenarian about dignity and humility and had thought himself at peace in his colorless world, until the day Yoshimura-san had asked him to paint the exterior wall.
Michael cringed as he remembered the storeroom filled with cans of mix-matched paint. If Yoshimura-san had known about Michael’s mother-induced guilt and spirit-inflicted fear concerning such un-Godly color, he never would have made the request.
Michael scanned the vibrant abstract paintings displayed on the Ipanema gallery’s white walls. Who would have thought all this could come from him?
A pair of blue-haired Brits glanced his way then giggled to each other.
He should have followed Jackson’s advice and brought Panchali on this trip. His loft-mate could have provided the illusion of mingling, but she also would have added complications. Michael liked to keep his relationships simple and compartmentalized. He had the guys on the basketball court, his agent in the field, the women he dated, friends at social gatherings, and a psychic loft-mate he struggled to keep out of his head. He didn’t want to blur the lines.
The Brits glanced again, this time catching his eye and waving their fingers. The ladies had an air of history about them, a story to be shared. Michael loved stories, providing they weren’t about him.
He wiggled his fingers in return and gave them his best charming-young-man smile. If there was work to be done, he would do it on his own terms, which meant having a conversation about something more meaningful than the musings of an artist. He swallowed the last of the shrimp ball and went to greet his guests.
It took finesse and clever redirection, but Michael managed to keep the British dames talking about themselves. He did the same with the Brazilian restaurateur and his wife, the mayor of Rio de Janeiro and his entourage, and the Argentinean diplomat who had just purchased a thirty-thousand-dollar painting.
Now, he was done.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Michael said. “I need to check in with the gallery owner.”
The diplomat nodded. “Of course, Mr. Cross. I have taken up too much of your time. Good luck with the rest of your show. I’m sure your paintings will find many appreciative buyers here in Rio.”
“Thanks. And I hope you enjoy Euphoria.”
Michael had almost reached the balcony and fresh air when the gallery owner, Sebastião Nunes, caught his arm. “Senhor Cross. You must meet Uxía Moreno, one of Rio’s prominent art collectors.”
Michael forced a smile. He was one prying-question away from bolting, but he also had a career to protect. Instead of running away, he allowed Sebastião to lead him into yet another conversation.
“How marvelous to meet you,” Uxía said, grasped his hands, and buried them between her inflated breasts. She licked her collagen-filled lips and winked at Sebastião, as if to warn him of her impending brilliance. “I must know what lurks behind these glorious paintings of yours? Tormento, não?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Torment. Agony.” She gestured to an abstract with a swirling red vortex. “Do you suffer? Or are you searching for truth?”
Michael stared at her wrinkle-free face, stretched beyond any possibility of expression. What could a woman like her possibly know about the truth?
“I’m sorry but…” He searched for a worthy excuse and came up empty. “I have to go.”
His agent was going to kill him when she heard about this, and Jackson would definitely hear about it, but if he had stayed a moment longer he would have blurted something irretrievable.
Sebastião’s voice carried across the room as Michael made his escape. “You know how artists are, Uxía darling. Eccentrics, all of them.”
Michael knew he should go back and apologize, but he couldn’t make himself do it. His need for air outweighed any sale he might lose.
He glanced behind him to make sure no one was following and bumped into someone. He didn’t know who, but since any interaction was bound to lead to another soul-testing conversation, he didn’t look. He just rolled off the person’s back and continued on his way to the balcony. Or he would have, if not for the wall of fire.