Chapter One
"You look fine," Elizabeth said, impatiently tugging his hand from his collar. "And very handsome. So stop fidgeting."
"Only if very handsome includes a blue skin tone," he muttered as his fingers returned to pull at his black tie. "This thing is choking the life outta me."
"It's never choked you before," Elizabeth mused. She cut him a look. "Nervous?"
"Of course not," he scoffed, dropping his hand as added proof. "It's just art."
Elizabeth smiled at his denial. "It's Nathan Clay's art," she pointed out. "And the first time you're meeting him in his world and not your own."
The him was Neal Caffrey, aka Nathan Clay, his long time best friend and one time CI. His world these days, split between two continents, was the Nathan Clay Gallery.
The Paris Gallery had been open just over three years and was thriving; the New York branch they were now entering had just passed its year mark. Located off the Henry Hudson Parkway on the north end of Riverside Park, it was a small but tasteful gallery known for showcasing works from a mix of known and unknown artists. According to its owner, and El, it had been a well-received addition to the New York Art scene. Elizabeth had been there before, albeit as the owner of Burke's Premier Events, but this was her first visit as a guest. It was his first visit, period.
He was here as Peter Burke, appreciator of fine art, and not Peter Burke, Federal Agent. In perfect Elizabeth fashion, his wife had cut through to the heart of the matter.
He let out a sigh. "Maybe just a little."
She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure he's nervous too. Probably even more so than you."
Peter didn't doubt that at all. Neal, or rather Nathan, usually shied away from the gallery's public receptions and exhibit openings, leaving his manager to handle them. The only reason he was attending this one was that he was the featured artist; the reception was to launch a public exhibition of his work. Over the past several weeks, Peter had sensed Neal's growing unease as this day approached. Neal no longer brought it up, but El always made a point to express her excitement at the upcoming event. Neal would acknowledge her encouragement gratefully but then move the conversation to some related but innocuous topic about art or the art world in general. It was done with such skill and ease of manner that most people wouldn't realize they'd been handled, had been maneuvered away from a subject Neal didn't want to discuss.
But neither he nor Elizabeth was most people. They knew this man, no matter what he chose to call himself, and recognized defensive stratagems when they saw them. They were aware that sharing his art was, in fact, sharing a part of himself and it wasn't an easy thing for him to do. They had witnessed his marked discomfort when he'd given them an exquisite painting of Little Neal and Satchmo for their anniversary. It had been heart-wrenching to see his uncertainty as they'd opened the gift, almost as if he was half expecting censure. It had been a painful reminder of how deeply they'd hurt him over the years and that wariness remained despite the progress they'd made in rebuilding their relationship. After gifting them with that small piece of his soul, Neal had missed dinner for two weeks. He'd cited work-related issues, but Peter knew it was simply avoidance.
But at least he hadn't jetted off to Paris.
When he'd regrouped enough to visit again, his eyes had quickly found the painting in its place of honor on the mantle, but he made no mention of it, nor did they. The evening had then followed its usual course. While Elizabeth put the final finishes on dinner, their guest engaged in small talk with Peter and spent time with his namesake. Peter watched the two of them, dark heads down, working to construct something with Little Neal's new obsession; the Magnetic Building Blocks his Uncle Nay had given him on his previous visit.
A visit in which, according to his son, Satchmo had been at some point painted green.
Dinner went well, with both the food and conversation pleasant and easily digested. They caught up on mutual friends and discussed their jobs in the usual, superficial way, followed by the usual El/Nathan discussion of the local art scene. During this portion of the conversation, Neal mentioned he was considering a launch of his own work. It was said casually, but both he and Elizabeth sensed a change in his tone, and when he raised his eyes from his dessert, Peter again saw faint uncertainty in his eyes.
Elizabeth's response was one of immediate approval. "It's about time!" she said, her excitement clear. "I've been hoping you would make that move. And I'm not the only one," she assured him. "Your sales to some of the more exclusive collectors have made quite a stir; everyone wants the opportunity to view a Nathan Clay."
A tinge of color graced the artist's face. "I don't know about everyone," he said, "but enough have expressed interest to make me at least consider it."
"What's to consider?" Peter asked, taking up a bite of pie. "You're an artist, you own a gallery, seems like a no brainer to me." His words brought a sharp look from El and a frown from Neal. "What?" he asked, fork laden with pie still poised for delivery. The no brainer comment might have sounded harsh, but he'd meant to be encouraging.
"Well, for one thing, it just seems..." there was a pause, "a bit self-serving."
"But it's not," Elizabeth insisted. "The Nathan Clay Gallery promotes new artists all the time; it's what makes it special."
"I know," he agreed. "Elodie said the same thing last year when she tried to talk me into a Paris launch, but it just didn't... feel right."
As a gallery owner, he might be worried about the appearance of self-promotion, but Peter knew it was more than that.
"What else?" he asked. Neal's eyes came up to meet his, and again, he saw the hint of uncertainty. "You said that was one thing."
Neal's eyes flitted to Elizabeth's and then back to his again. "I'm not sure I'm ready to put myself out there like that."
And just like that, held by an unwavering, blue-eyed gaze, Peter found himself amid what he'd come to call a Nathan Clay Moment. A moment of such complete, unabashed honesty that it left him at a loss as of how to respond. But not this time.
He returned the steady gaze with one of his own. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, and he saw Neal's eyes widen just a tiny bit, and, for a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the sound of a fork clanging against a plate as Little Neal continued to attack his pie with a vengeance. Peter found it nice to be on the other side of a stunned silence for a change.
Neal was the first to recover and did so with a shaky laugh. "Who are you, and what have you done with Peter Burke?"
They continued with their pie, and though they didn't directly address Neal's personal concern about showing his work, Elizabeth guided the discussion to some of the lesser-known artists the gallery had promoted in the past. She asked Neal how he had addressed their doubts and then suggested he apply those words to himself. The conversation then moved to what stylistic or topical theme he might use to unify his work if he chose to proceed with a showing. Peter chimed in where he could, but the concepts discussed were not in his wheelhouse, so he, for the most part, occupied Little Neal and let the artsy duo discuss art. As the evening progressed, Peter could sense a change in Neal; he seemed unusually relaxed, almost as if a weight had been lifted from him. And that was when he realized this was the most Neal had spoken about his life since his return to the city.
That had been four months ago. They'd spoken of the opening during subsequent visits, but as Neal became more consumed with his work, he'd spoken of it less and less. With the deadline approaching, Neal had cried off dinner for the last few weeks but, in the interim, had squeezed in one lunch with Peter. At the lunch the previous week, Peter had sensed a tension in his friend, and though he hadn't mentioned it to El, he was sure Neal had lost a few pounds.
But despite it all, the day had finally arrived. Peter surrendered his keys to the valet outside and, with his breathtakingly beautiful wife on his arm, stepped through the doorway into the world of Nathan Clay. He glanced expectantly around, looking for the artist himself, as Elizabeth presented the greeter with their invitation.
"Welcome to the Nathan Clay Gallery, Mr. and Mrs. Burke," she said warmly. "Please," she continued, "have a glass of wine, champagne or sparkling water, some refreshments, and enjoy the viewing."
They proceeded into the gallery, and after moving a few yards from the entrance, Peter stopped to take in what Neal had spent the last year of his life building.
Though the space wasn't huge, it was well-designed and proportioned. He vaguely remembered discussions between Neal and El about space usage and flow management. It wasn't something he'd understood or cared to understand, but he suspected he was seeing what it being done well looked like. Groups of elegantly dressed patrons gathered in front of variously sized paintings occupying the umber-colored walls. Some mingled in the center of the room, while others hovered around tables laden with hors d'oeuvre and accented with elegant yet simple centerpieces. Something light and classical played behind the hum of conversation, and sharply dressed servers circulated with trays of drinks.
Elizabeth was at ease in such settings, but he wasn't; he pushed down the urge to pull at his tie and reminded himself why he was here; to see Neal's-Nathan's-work and be a friend. To show support and appreciation for what Neal had accomplished. He hadn't always done that, but it was something he was striving to correct.
The exhibit title was Fresh Perspectives: Voir avec des yeux nouveau. Elizabeth had translated the tagline for him: Seeing with new eyes. According to the sheet that had accompanied the invitation, the collection was comprised of a dozen new works featuring some of the well-known, as well as some of the lesser-known, scenes across New York City. The paintings had all been done since Neal returned to New York as Nathan Clay and Peter found the exhibit title and tagline fitting.
He was curious to see it even if he felt out of place. He looked around the room, taking in the world of Nathan Clay, a reclusive artist and astute businessman. There was only one thing wrong; Nathan Clay was nowhere to be seen.