The Wish (22 page)

Their earlier conversation about books came to mind when Paul asked, “What genre?”

Alex should have known. The man probably once held the title of official high school geek. A sexy geek, but a geek nonetheless. That whole “President of the Chess Club” thing lurked in Alex’s own past, however, so he wasn’t in a position to point fingers. He’d still bet scholarly Paul beat him in the geek department. “Don’t tell me you took Music Appreciation.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Paul replied with a grin.

Surprised? No. Impressed? Yes.
“What do you play?

“Violin.” Paul’s eyes lit with passion as they always did when discussing a topic of personal interest. “I started playing when I was nine, right after my father died.” His sudden frown and averted eyes gave warning enough of his revisiting a painful memory.

Before Alex could offer words of comfort, the vehicle pulled to a stop in an older, trendy section of town. Alex stepped from the car and reached back to help Paul, only to find the driver already there. He nearly growled at the proprietary hand Isaac placed on Paul’s back, quickly schooling his frown into a more neutral expression—they were in public, after all. If nothing else, his pretentious grandparents had taught him how to keep up appearances.

He stood on the sidewalk waiting patiently for Paul, and together they passed under the twinkling lights and greenery-shrouded arbor leading into the stucco building housing the gallery.

Curious eyes observed their entrance, and they were immediately approached by a waiter who smiled and held out a tray filled with glasses of champagne, his wink and flirtatious grin offering Alex more than a beverage. A few weeks ago, the offer would have been gladly accepted. Now, Alex had no such inclinations. A quick glance to his right showed Paul was oblivious to the exchange, busy speaking with an elderly matron, and for some unfathomable reason, Alex felt relieved.

He soon found himself caught up in the colorful displays carefully arranged around the studio. He hadn’t been honest with Paul about his appreciation for the arts but didn’t want to flaunt his wealth by disclosing the priceless classical pieces housed in Boston or the recently acquired collection of Kandinsky woodcuts for his condo. Composers weren’t the only things he admired hailing from Russia.

Alex hadn’t known what to expect when asked to attend the opening, having never before heard of Edmond Strickland. Perusing a diverse collection of oils, watercolors, and sculptures, he respected the quality of the works on display and seriously considered adding a painting or two to his growing collection. One piece in particular caught his eye, and he wandered over for closer inspection: a beach at sunset, a storm gathering on the horizon. The somber grays, blues, and blacks of the oil-painted canvas created a striking contrast to the more vivid pinks and purples, and a single ray of golden sunlight penetrated a dark cloud, like hope shining through bleak circumstance.

Mesmerized, he imagined the roar of crashing waves battering the shoreline. In his mind’s eye, brilliant flashes of lightning descended from a particularly sinister cloud, illuminating the tableau in whites, purples, and blues. A droning roll of thunder wouldn’t have been out of place. The mastery enthralled him.

When his active imagination again conjured lightning from the violently roiling heavens, for one brief moment Alex spotted a solitary figure walking along the water’s edge—a man with flame-red hair. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he looked again, but saw only an extraordinary rendering of a stormy shoreline, nothing more.

“Yes, that’s one of my favorites too,” an intrusive voice said from his left. “I’m drawn to the whole somber ambiance.”

Whole somber ambiance? What an overinflated prick!
Alex glanced over his shoulder to find a rather smallish man with dark-blond hair, artfully arranged to stand at attention, each dagger-like spike tipped in navy blue. Unlike most of the well-attired guests, this man was dressed simply, in dark gray slacks and a lightweight sweater that blended well with the colors of the painting. The newcomer sipped champagne while studying the canvas, head cocked attentively to the side.

Agitation at being interrupted subsiding for the sake of good manners, Alex inquired with feigned interest, “What draws you to it?”

“Well,” the stranger answered with a hesitant smile, “this piece brings back a special memory for me. I’ve always loved the beach, and one day a sick friend wanted to go, even though the forecast called for bad weather. So we—some other friends and I—bundled him up and drove down the coast, arriving about the same time the storm did. We found a little café and watched it roll in while we enjoyed coffee and bagels.” He added wistfully, “That was the last outing I enjoyed with my friend.” After a moment he recovered from his obviously unpleasant thoughts enough to ask, “What do you see?”

With nothing to be gained by answering truthfully, Alex gave an answer most of his acquaintances might expect—one involving monetary gain. “I see the product of an artist passionate about his work and a painting that’ll make an excellent investment, particularly if the artist’s passion continues with future paintings.”

The do-it-yourself art critic frowned, clearly disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

“Too bad?” Alex asked, surprised at the genuine sadness in the man’s voice.

“This piece is meant to be far more than paint, canvas, and a chance for financial gain.”

Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupted their awkward conversation. “Oh, there you are.” Both men turned to face the new arrival. “I was wondering where you were.” Paul hurried over and kissed a stylishly stubbly cheek. “How are you, Eddie? It’s been a while.”

The man now revealed to be the reason for the gala smiled and said nothing, nodding his head toward the painting instead. Paul faced the wall and gasped. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “You captured the storm perfectly!”

With a smug grin, the artist responded, “I was inspired.”

Tired of being ignored, Alex loudly cleared his throat.

Paul’s eyes widened and he quickly stammered, “I… I’m sorry, Alex, forgive my manners. I’d like you to meet Edmond Strickland. Eddie, this is Alfred’s nephew, Alexander Martin.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Edmond said, offering his hand and nothing more, eyes returning to Paul even while he addressed Alex. “Your uncle is a wonderful man, and a very dear friend.”

“It’s nice meeting you, as well,” Alex lied, fighting a snarl. It seemed Isaac wasn’t the only competition he’d have to face tonight. He pasted on a fake smile and attempted cordiality while scheming ways get Paul to leave earlier than planned—say, in five minutes or less. “Uncle Alfred sends his apologies and speaks highly of your work.” He reminded himself that, regardless of a negative first impression, Edmond was his uncle’s friend. That alone earned the man some measure of respect.

With a flash of blindingly white teeth, Edmond replied, “While I regret Alfred couldn’t attend, I’m certainly glad Paul’s here.” To Alex’s dismay, Paul blushed at the thinly veiled flattery.

Family friend or not, Alex took an immediate dislike to Edmond’s easy familiarity and obvious flirting with the man who’d arrived with him. It might not have been an actual date, but Edmond didn’t know that, and the blatant breach of etiquette grated on Alex’s nerves. Ignoring the artist, he directed his attention to his nondate. “I’m amazed by this painting,” he said, seeing a chance to win approval since Paul obviously liked the haunting landscape too.

“It’s beautiful,” Paul agreed, eyes on the canvas and, thankfully, not on Edmond. “And has special meaning to the family.” He peered up from under long dark lashes, brown eyes glowing with excitement. “Is this the one you’d like to get Uncle Alfred?” Turning to Edmond, he asked, “It’s still available, isn’t it?”

“Now, would I offer it to another without allowing you and dearest Alfred first dibs? But don’t make a decision yet—I have another I’d like to show you.”

The artist sauntered away, casting a coy glance over his shoulder to ensure Paul followed. Was it Alex’s imagination, or was the man deliberately being provocative, and not to him, which he expected, but to Paul? Also, what did “special meaning to the family” entail?

Noticing he’d been deserted, Alex followed the two men. Paul stood stock-still, staring in rapture at another seascape—an almost perfect replica of the painting of Douglas, Jacob, and Byron that had recently hung in Alfred’s office. The lighting, beach, and surroundings resembled the original, as did the bathing suits. The only differences were the children themselves. Instead of the Sinclair boys, the youngsters in the painting were unmistakably himself and Paul, or rather, how they’d looked at approximately ten and five years old, respectively.

The likeness of Paul held the bucket and shovel, much as his uncle Byron had in the original, while a young version of Alex admired the bright blue sails of a toy boat, an occupation previously held by Douglas. The smaller child, Jacob, who’d been building a sand castle in the background, was noticeably missing. A red “Sold” sticker dangled from the gilt frame.

“Edmond! Why?” Paul asked, his eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Before Alex could act, Edmond stepped in and wrapped his arms around Paul, clearly horrified at his reaction. “I cannot apologize enough. I had no idea the painting would affect you so,” he murmured. “I suppose I should have warned you or arranged a private viewing.” If his words hadn’t rung true, Alex would have waded in and taught him a thing or two about causing pain to an unofficial Anderson, breeding and good manners be damned.

“Your uncle commissioned it months ago,” Edmond explained. “Apparently he forgot to mention it.”

Paul nestled into the hug, obviously comfortable with the close physical contact, causing a familiar stirring in Alex. Once again, his former rival inspired his jealousy, only this time Alex wasn’t jealous
of
Paul, but
because
of
Paul, nearly overcome with the urge to grab something heavy and bash the artist with it—repeatedly.

“Hey, handsome,” he heard purred into his ear. Alex glanced to the right and came face to face with an attractive, decidedly drunken female. She staggered awkwardly on her stiletto heels and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself, giggling annoyingly. She epitomized what he called “Hollywood gorgeous”: beautiful via money and cosmetic surgery, with lips too full and eyebrows fixed in permanent surprise from excessive facelifts. He’d also be willing to bet the breasts she’d been given by genetics weren’t nearly as large and perky as the ones currently spilling over the plunging neckline of her dress.

“Excuse me, I’m with someone,” he growled, peering over her shoulder to discover he’d lied. Paul and the hedgehog, as Alex privately dubbed Edmond, were nowhere to be seen.

It took some time to convince her he wasn’t interested, and he wondered, given her pouting reaction, if she’d ever been turned down before. Probably not, judging from her ample charms, but those didn’t last forever, and someone younger and prettier always waited in the wings to take their place in the spotlight.

Arguing with the tipsy, surgically enhanced female, it occurred to him how much alike they were. Only his looks were natural and he was blessed with charm, unlike this silly creature. The results were the same, though. They could snare whoever they wanted and had never crossed paths with anyone worth keeping, apparently, if they were both still alone in their thirties. Well, that was about to change for him, if he had anything to do with it.

He finally escaped when the inebriated woman found another prospect, one more eager to chat her up. Attempting nonchalance he didn’t truly feel, Alex hunted for Paul, unwilling to allow Edmond any more time with him than absolutely necessary.

Alex’s first search of the gallery ended empty-handed. On his second round, he found Edmond merrily chatting with a group of tuxedo-clad gentlemen and leaning into the embrace of an older Hispanic man. Alex felt a little better seeing him occupied with another, but his anxiety peaked about the noticeably absent Paul.

From behind a partially opened door came a familiar voice, though he’d never heard the dejected tone before. “I’m sorry, Jordan, I need to be getting back.”

Jordan? The guy who’d betrayed Paul?

Easing the door open, Alex stared into what appeared to be a store room, judging from pedestals, racks, and packing crates haphazardly strewn about the cramped space. In a far corner, Paul stood with his back toward the door, body rigid and hands on his hips. About to intervene, Alex froze when another man stepped into view.

“Oh, babe, please stay,” a masculine and surprisingly smooth voice pleaded. “I’ve missed you so badly.”

The stranger turning entreating eyes on Paul was drop-dead gorgeous, with wheat-blond curls and dark, wide-set brown eyes. Dressed to perfection in an expensive tuxedo, he made an impressive sight. However, he couldn’t hold a candle to Paul, in Alex’s opinion.

“Don’t call me that,” Paul hissed from between clenched teeth, body trembling with barely controlled emotion. Alex hoped for righteous indignation.

“I made a mistake,” the faithless man whined, and Alex couldn’t agree more. “Please, Paul. Please give me another chance.”

The room grew quiet, and Alex waited for the words that would make one of Paul’s prospective suitors happy and leave the other disappointed. Tears dampening his cheeks, Paul turned and confronted his former lover, hands balled tightly into fists at his sides. “I told you before: I don’t believe in reruns. No matter how many times you watch the show, the characters never change, and neither does the ending.”

“Oh, I
have
changed, really, and if you give me a chance….” The handsome snake in the grass stepped forward, arms spread wide. Alex tensed, ready for battle. He retreated into the shadows when Paul sidestepped the embrace.

“No, Jordan. I’m sorry, I can’t do this again.” Paul lifted his pointed chin defiantly. “I notice you’ve waited until now to talk to me. My uncle’s been dying for months. Did I even once receive a phone call asking about his health? No, you only tracked me down tonight because you think he left me money.”