A Thousand Words
Chapter 8
Gallery Opening

Saturday night snuck up on me. I had started back to work on Friday and, after two grueling days in the ER, I was exhausted. Why did I ever think I could "ease back" into working in the ER? And why, oh why, did I ever agree to start back to work on the weekend? Weekends always are the busiest days–auto accidents, fights, drive-bys, you name it. Everything's always worse on the weekends.

I hurried home after my shift ended to clean up and change clothes so I could meet Erik at the gallery. I wanted to look nice for him, so I pulled out a little bright blue dress from my closet that I had only worn once before. It was clingy, with a low neckline, a high flared hemline, and fitted long sleeves. I slipped it over my head and examined myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. Blue always did look good on me. The dress needed high heels, but I hated wearing them. Besides, it had been snowing again and the streets were wet and slushy. I chose a pair of mid-heel pumps instead.

Once outside, it took quite a long time for me to flag down a cab. Why do they all go into hiding when the weather gets bad?

On the way downtown to the gallery, my thoughts turned to Erik. I was a little nervous about seeing him outside his studio and about meeting his friends, but I was downright giddy at the prospect of being with him again. I hadn't seen him for three days.

I knew I was late; we had agreed to meet at 7 p.m. and it was nearing 7:30 when I finally stepped inside the gallery. It was huge, consisting of several interconnected rooms, but because it was crammed with so many people the air was stifling, especially compared with the crisp, cold winter air outside. I took off my coat and handed it over to the coat-check girl while I scanned the room for Erik, taking a glass of champagne from one of the roving waiters.

Then I saw him.

And my heart skipped a beat.

He was impeccably dressed, in a black suit that looked like it had been tailor-made for him and a charcoal grey sweater underneath. His hair was combed straight back from his face and fell right to the edge of his turtleneck collar. He stood with the right side of his face turned away from me so that I couldn't see his mask. The sight of him quite literally took my breath away. The only word I could think of to describe him was dazzling.

He stood along the back wall of the main room talking with a group of several people, most of them women, looking very much at ease. I must admit that the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head at the sight of him with those women–until he looked up and his eyes caught mine. A long, slow smile spread across his face. He quickly excused himself from the group and made his way to me.

"You look beautiful!" he said as he approached. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to make it." He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss.

"So do you," I replied, indicating his suit. He brushed off my compliment with a short wave of his hand.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," I said. "I couldn't find a cab."

"Don't worry about it," he replied with a genuine smile. "I'm just glad that you're here now. Come, I want you to meet some people." With that, he took my hand and led me through the crowd.

He approached a very tall, very thin dark-haired woman dressed from head to toe in black. She was facing away from us. "Cynthia! Hello!" he said to her.

The woman turned around, and they clasped hands and exchanged air kisses.

"I'd like you to meet my friend Christine. This is Cynthia de Lyonne, she owns the gallery."

Cynthia's pale, angular features made her very striking, and that, combined with her severe haircut, blood-red lipstick and somber clothes, could have led one to mistake her for a sculpture in her own gallery. The warm smile she gave to Erik, however, quickly dissipated when her gaze fell to me.

"Hello, good to meet you," I said, holding out my hand.

Cynthia eyed me up and down. Without smiling she took my hand and shook it limply. "Likewise," she said in a clipped, nasal British accent, although the expression on her face belied the sentiment. She immediately turned her attention back to Erik, taking hold of his arm and turning away from me. "Erik darling, I didn't know you'd be bringing a date tonight," she said to him.

This woman was starting to get on my nerves, especially the way she so blatantly tried to steer Erik away from me. She was a friend of his, though, and could possibly help his career, so I held my temper in check and tried to join in the conversation.

I said the first thing that popped into my head. "This is quite an impressive collection," I offered, hoping I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. To be honest, I had no idea if it was impressive or not.

She turned back to me. "Thank you." Her response was so cold I felt goosebumps.

I really, really wanted to haul off and punch her lights out. But, being a lady, I summoned up all my self-restraint and merely smiled at her. Through gritted teeth.

"Well, if you'll excuse us," Erik said, "we should mingle a bit." He took my hand and led me away. I could still feel Cynthia glaring at me as we left. Bitch.

In the main room of the gallery, the paintings were all by the same artist. They were abstract, and to my untrained eye they just looked like random streaks and splatters of paint. The predominant color was red–violent streaks of red that resembled huge, gaping wounds.

I felt a tightening in my chest; I imagined that the walls were beginning to close in on me. It became harder and harder for me to breathe in this room, and I wasn't sure if it was from the crush of people or from the vibe I got from the art hanging on the walls. My grip on Erik's hand must have tightened because he leaned over and asked, "What's the matter?"

I couldn't say anything, but I led him into the next room where the artwork was calmer and the colors cooler. I took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, but those paintings–all that red–I just couldn't look at them any longer."

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then the "ah-ha" of recognition crept in. He realized that it hit too close to home–or rather, to work.

"Oh. I didn't realize," he said. "Do you want to leave?"

"No, I only just got here. Let's look around some more."

So we wandered through the many rooms, examining the artwork, sipping champagne, mingling. Erik introduced me to several friends and fellow artists. The men were all friendly enough, but the women reacted to my presence in pretty much the same way Cynthia had: as if I was Patient Zero and I carried the Bubonic Plague.

When we reached a relatively quiet corner, I asked him, "Is there something wrong with how I look?"

"Pardon?"

"I've been getting the 'evil eye' all evening. First from that Cynthia woman and then from practically every other woman we've talked to. I just wondered if it was the dress."

He gave me an appraising look. A very long appraising look.

"No, you look fine. Sensational, in fact. I think they're just surprised to see me with someone. I usually come to these things alone. When I come at all, that is."

"Oh," I said, not sure whether or not I believed him. Why would a man like Erik, a handsome, intelligent, incredibly sexy man, go to social functions alone? Even before I arrived, he was engaged in conversation with a group of people, most of whom were women, and it seemed to me that those women were very attentive toward him.

I decided to let the matter drop and turned my attention to the painting hanging in front of us. It was an abstract. I couldn't for the life of me understand why the artist had titled it "Smile," because I could see no faces. I frowned.

Erik watched me study the painting. "This really isn't your cup of tea, is it?"

"Well... not really," I admitted. "I prefer more classical types of art. Give me a Monet or a Renoir any day."

He pursed his lips and nodded.

"But that's not to say I don't like this, it's just... different."

He leaned in very close to me and whispered in my ear, "I've missed you."

I felt his hot breath on my skin, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I looked up at him and said, "So have I."

His hand snaked around to the small of my back. I shivered at his touch.

"Come on, let's get out of here." He ushered me towards the front door.

"Your place or mine?" I asked with a grin.

"The studio's closer..."

"Okay, let's go."

We were nearly at the entrance when I heard someone call out, "Chrissy!" I stopped and turned around to see Randy coming toward us.

"Chris, I've been so worried about you! Why haven't you returned my calls?"

Talk about uncomfortable situations! I couldn't admit to him that I'd completely forgotten about all his telephone messages from the past week. I had had my mind on... other things. And now I was stunned to see him here, in an art gallery, of all places. Being an all-business type, he always claimed "artsy" people were such phonies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Randy, I've been really busy. I didn't tell you that I went back to work this week, did I?"

"No. No, you didn't."

He glanced at Erik. I finally remembered my manners and made the introductions. "Randy, this is Erik. Erik, this is Randy, a good friend of mine." They nodded at each other. "Um, we were just on our way out. I'll call you later?"

"Okay." Randy eyed Erik once more before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. "Bye."

"Goodbye. I'll talk to you." I hugged him goodbye, then I took Erik's hand and led him to the coatcheck desk.

Erik's studio was indeed closer; it was within walking distance. We didn't waste time trying to find a cab and started out on foot, trying our best to avoid the deeper slush puddles on the sidewalk. We were forced to stop at a crosswalk as several cars made their way through the intersection, and Erik pulled me close to him and kissed me right there on the streetcorner as we waited for the light to turn. Neither of us could wait to get back to his place.

We finally arrived at his building and were making a beeline upstairs when we encountered a couple on their way out for the evening. The man was tall, with dark hair and a mustache, and the woman was a very petite blonde.

"Erik! Where have you been hiding? I haven't seen you for days!"

"Hi, Nathan. Suzette."

"Hello, Erik," the woman said as she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she held her hand out to me. "Hi. I'm Suzette. This is Nathan."

"Hi. Nice to meet you," I said, shaking her hand, then Nathan's as he offered it as well.

"Oh, sorry, this is Christine," Erik said.

"Well, we're just going over to that new Italian place on Fifth, would you two like to join us?" Nathan asked.

"Thanks, but we just ate," Erik replied, lying through his teeth. I squeezed his hand, silently telling him I wanted to go upstairs.

"Your loss," Nathan said as he shrugged. "See ya later!" He and Suzette started down the stairs. "Nice to meet you!" he called back to me.

"Same here," I said.

As we climbed the steps to the fourth floor, I asked Erik, "Wasn't that Suzette Simmons, the Broadway star?"

"Yes. He... she... well, it's a very long story," he said, obviously not wanting to tell it right then. "Come on."

I couldn't wait for him to open the door. I unbuttoned his overcoat and had it half off by the time he managed to unlock the door and get it open. Once inside, he backed me up against the wall and started smothering me with kisses. He slid his hands under my coat and around my waist, pulling me closer to him. As I struggled to get my coat off, I inadvertently hit the light switch with my arm.

As light filled the room, I noticed something very wrong.

The easel was empty.

My painting was gone.

"Wait..." I said, trying to focus his attention away from me for a moment. "The painting. Where is it?"

"Oh, I finished it," he said offhandedly. "It's gone." He went back to assaulting my neck with kisses.

"Gone?" I could hardly believe it. "Gone where?"

"Just gone." He attacked my neck again.

I pushed him away from me.

"But I didn't even get to see it." I was crestfallen. "You promised I'd be able to see it when you were finished."

My head was reeling. That painting of me, nude, was hanging in some stranger's house? Maybe even in their bedroom? I never considered that, where it would wind up. I just assumed Erik would keep it, or I would buy it from him, but he had sold it to a complete stranger?

How could he do that?

I stalked away from him to the other side of the room. "I can't believe you did that!"

He followed me. "Why? It was my painting. I did what I thought was best."

"Selling it to a stranger? That's what's best?" I was furious.

"I didn't sell it."

"Oh. You gave it away. That makes it better." I turned away from him. I couldn't look at him, not after he betrayed me in such a horrible way.

"Christine. Chris-tine, look at me." I didn't move, so he turned me around to face him. "I didn't know you'd react this way. I'm sorry."

"I didn't even get to see it," I pouted.

He looked at me, searching my face, for a long moment.

"Would you like to?"

"What?"

"If you really want to see it, I can take you there..."

"You know where it is?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Come with me." He re-buttoned his coat and helped me back into mine.

Back out on the street, Erik hailed a cab. We both crawled into the back seat, and he leaned forward to give the driver our destination. I couldn't hear the address, but as Erik settled in beside me the taxi headed uptown.

I was filled with such a mixture of excitement and dread that I could hardly sit still...