Chapter Two

"Where is he?" he said, scanning the crowd again. Neal had taken pains to lessen his exposure by paring down the guest list but there were still a lot of people milling about, champagne flutes and wine glasses in tow. There had been a time or two since Neal had returned as Nathan Clay he'd overlooked him; he'd been looking for Neal-dark suit, thin tie, a fedora-and had completely missed the casual, slightly mussed style of Nathan Clay.

"I don't know," Elizabeth replied, her eyes also searching the room. "Maybe he wants to make an entrance by being fashionable late." That seemed doubtful; Peter was sure Neal wasn't keen on making an appearance at all. But it was required. After all, it was his viewing. "Oh," Elizabeth suddenly brightened. "Look!"

Thinking she'd spotted Neal, Peter followed her gaze. It was a by-invitation-only event and attendees had been carefully selected. Of all those invited, only three guests knew Nathan Clay had once been Neal Caffrey; him, Elizabeth, and June Ellington.

It was the third member of their exclusive group, glittering in all her finery, that was now making her way towards them.

"Isn't this fabulous!" she gushed, grabbing Elizabeth's hand in her excitement. "I'm so proud of him!" She leaned in, lowering her voice. "He's been so preoccupied lately," she confided. "I could tell this was weighing heavily on him. I half expected there to be some emergency in Paris, if you know what I mean."

"I was worried too," Elizabeth admitted. "He's so talented but is so...timid about showing his work."

Though timid was not a descriptor he'd use for either Neal or Nathan, in this specific context the word fit. Neal had always been talented; Peter had seen the copies of Monet, Matisse, and Degas he'd done over the years. But he was no longer mimicking others' work, echoing other people's vision. He was creating his own. And showing his work to anyone was hard for him to do. When he'd dropped in unannounced on Neal, especially in the early days of their arrangement, Neal's works in progress had always been covered. Of course, having good reason to be suspicious he'd often demanded to see them. It was always awkward. Neal would jerk the cloth off, his face flushed, and Peter would respond with a gruff. Good.

Good that Neal was toeing the line and not forging of some Old Master in his spare time. Not good in that the painting was impressive. Which it unfailingly had been. Peter had thought anger had reddened Neal's face but now he knew better. Forcing him to show his work had made him feel vulnerable and exposed; that was what had colored his cheeks.

That was just one of many things Peter wished he'd handled differently. Back then he'd thought Neal was too cocky, too sure of himself. He'd been determined to teach him a lesson, to bring him down a peg or two. But the truth was Neal hadn't been near as confident as he'd seemed. He'd been looking for a place to belong. He'd needed reassurance. Encouragement. Appreciation. Things Peter hadn't given him. Then.

But this was now. Neal wasn't the only one who reevaluated and made changes. He'd made some of his own.

"Where is he?" June echoed his question as she scanned the room. "Have you talked to him yet?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "We just got here ourselves." She too sought out the guest of honor. "I didn't see him but he might have stepped into his office or something."

"Maybe he's going over what he's going to say," June suggested. "I think he's supposed to speak in a little while."

"In about twenty, twenty-five minutes I think," Elizabeth said. "You can feel the excitement in here, can't you?"

June nodded. "It being such an exclusive viewing is going to cause a buying frenzy; I'll be surprised if a piece remains available after tonight."

"Maybe we can buy one?" Elizabeth ventured, sending him a look.

"We already own a Nathan Clay original," Peter reminded her.

"I know, Peter," she gave his arm a playful nudge, "but we didn't buy it."

He gave a small wave of his hand, indicating their surroundings. "Probably because we couldn't afford to."

"These early pieces will only grow in value," June pointed out helpfully. Helpful for Elizabeth, at least. "Think of it as an investment."

"Exactly," Elizabeth agreed. "Just think, when he becomes famous, we will be some of the few who can say they knew him when."

Peter's lips quirked in amusement. "When what? When he was someone else?"

"No," Elizabeth retorted, "when he was just starting out as an artist. Anyway," she added. "what he calls himself isn't important. We know who he is."

"Well, until he gets here," June said, plucking a glass from a passing tray. "Let's take a look at what he's done."

Peter followed the ladies as they joined a group studying a painting of a pond in Central Park. During Spring, judging by the flowering trees in the scene. He glanced up at the line of text covering the top of the wall:

"The real voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new lands but seeing with fresh eyes." Marcel Proust.

New York wasn't a new land but Neal was seeing it through fresh eyes, free eyes, and that perspective was what these paintings were supposed to reflex.

"I can't wait to meet the artist," said one of the ladies to their right. "The passion permeates from his work. Imagine what he's like in person."

Peter stifled a huff. The lady seemed more interested in perusing the artist than his work.

"I hear he's gorgeous," her companion's voice dropped an octave. "and single." Peter glanced over at the ladies. Neither were in the blush of youth. One, a turban-wearing lady of at least sixty, looked around the gallery. "I wonder where he is?"

Peter shook his head. Some things never changed. He again let his eyes sweep the room, taking in those gathered in front of Neal's paintings. El was right, there did seem to be an air of excitement in the room. He liked art as much as the next person but he hardly considered himself a connoisseur. The only thing that truly interested him about this art was the man who'd created it. Who it seemed still hadn't appeared.

"Oh, Peter." The catch in Elizabeth's voice brought his eyes to hers in an instant.

"El?" Her face was pale, her eyes fixed on the painting. "What?" he asked, following her gaze. "What's wrong?"

"Not wrong, look. There on the bottom right. The little boy..." again there was a hitch in her voice.

Peter stepped up beside her and looked closer at the painting. There was a boy wearing a red coat on the edge of the lake. No, not a coat, a painter's frock; there was an easel in front of him. Suddenly he understood. This wasn't just any boy painting the lake. It was their boy.

Neal had added his namesake to his painting. "It's Neal." He felt a lump rise in his throat. "Our Neal."

Elizabeth nodded beside him. "He's wearing the smock Neal gave him when he came to the house to babysit."

"And that's probably the easel he gave him for his birthday last year," Peter remarked, still stunned. "I can't believe he'd put little Neal in one of his paintings. I mean these," he clarified with a wave of his hand. "Here."

The painting he'd done of Neal and Satchmo had been extremely thoughtful and both he and Elizabeth treasured it. But putting the boy in this painting, a part of a collection meant to introduce Nathan Clay into the art world, was something else. Neal's art expressed his heart and soul-that was why displaying it was so terrifying for him-and this piece included his namesake. Why hadn't Neal told them he planned to include their son?

"Seeing with fresh eyes," Peter repeated softly. "Not just the world, but life."

Elizabeth squeezed his arm. "Yes." She glanced at the next painting some yards away. It looked like a park scene and had its own flock of admirers. "I wonder..."

"What?" Peter asked when she fell silent.

"We've been trying to get Neal to let us into his life," she offered. "I wonder if that is what this is, in a way. Letting us into his life."

"Little Neal, anyway," Peter agreed, eyes back to the painting of the lake. Of all of them, Neal was most relaxed with his namesake. Of course, with the toddler, he was and always had been Uncle Nay.

What had he said in the hospital? It was scary not knowing who he was supposed to be. With little Neal, he always knew the answer.

June spoke up then; Peter had nearly forgotten she stood there. "This is just the one," she ventured, a hint of anticipation in her voice. "Let's take a look at the others."

Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically at his side. "Just a quick walk-through to see who else we might spot. We can look in more detail later."

He understood what the ladies were thinking; perhaps little Neal wasn't the only person he'd chosen to paint into his new life.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Apparently, the perspective in the title meant more than what he'd initially thought. He'd thought it was the artist's point of view but Elizabeth explained this exhibit's theme was also about linear perspective. There were three types- one-point, two-point, and three-point- which refer to the number of vanishing points used to create the perspective illusion. Neal had created four pieces from each. In order to cover more territory, June has moved across the gallery leaving he and Elizabeth to continue down this row. This section, he learned, contained the one-point pieces.

The next painting along the wall depicted the mall on Central Park. Dozen's of people strolled along the wide path beneath the trees but neither he nor Elizabeth had been able to find a familiar figure. The next was a row of brownstones, the stoops and sidewalks under a blanket of snow, but there were no people visible. Peter was beginning to think Little Neal was the only familiar person Nathan Clay had featured in his paintings when they reached the final piece of the set.

This one was of Bryant Park and he immediately recognized one of the chess players gathered beneath the trees. Only the back of the man was visible, but the short, bald man hunched over the table studying the board could only be one person.

"Mozzie."

"Good Evening, everyone!" A voice rang out, drawing all eyes from the art and to a woman standing in the center of the gallery.

"That's Danielle McBride," Elizabeth whispered. "She's the Gallery manager."

She wasn't quite as breathtaking as the Paris Gallery manager but she was still beautiful. And Elizabeth liked her, which wasn't the case with Elodie. He guessed it was time for Neal, or rather Nathan, to do his thing but he wasn't with Ms. McBride. Peter glanced, not seeing him anywhere.

"I am so pleased you have all come tonight to view this very special collection of our very own Nathan Clay. As you can see," she continued. "Mr. Clay is an extraordinary artist; he lives and breathes his work." She continued on about perspective, its emotional and artistic importance, while Peter waited and watched for Neal's arrival. Ms. McBride launched into a few phrases of french which Peter recognized at least in part. "I do apologize," she was saying, "but an emergency is preventing Mr. Clay from joining us this evening," Peter's muscles tightened and a mummer of disappointment ran through the room, "but I can answer any questions you may have," she assured them. "I have worked closely with Mr. Clay and am familiar with his process." Hoping she'd placated the crowd, she moved on. "Any offers can be left with Miss Akers," she nodded at a lady standing near the refreshments. "Mr. Clay sends his deepest apologies and hopes you will enjoy the viewing."

"What do you think happened?" Elizabeth asked. "And why didn't he call us?"

"I don't know," Peter answered, suddenly uneasy. He pulled out his phone and dialed Neal but it immediately went to voice mail. "Maybe June was right; maybe he's run off to Paris." He said it but he didn't believe it. Miss McBride was covering but Peter could tell she was anxious and uptight. Neal wouldn't have left her in such a spot on purpose. It must have been something unforeseen that had detained him. Perhaps it was something simple, like a fender bender or a flat tire. Of course, Nathan Clay would just flag down a cab and be on his way. Recluse or not, he would not miss his own viewing.

Unless he was hurt. A wave of fear swept over him but he reminded himself Neal had called the gallery manager. It couldn't be anything life-threatening.

June materialized beside them. "I was already worried about him and now he'd a no show? What could have happened?" She asked. "Do you think he was in an accident or something?"

"I don't know, June," Peter said again. "Ms McBride is making her rounds. When she gets to us, I'll see what else she knows." He pushed away the old, familiar feeling of unease. "I'm sure it's something simple."