During college she had gone through the motions because it had seemed to be expected of her, but aside from a couple of rare crushes in high school she had never cared much about any guy. She hadn’t felt even a frisson of lasciviousness since . . . well, since that morning, come to think of it. She was more than a little surprised at herself, letting the Diet Coke commercial get to her like that. This late-blooming lust took her aback. She had thought herself safe from the insane hormonal urges that wrecked the creative careers of so many women, or at least diluted them.
“You’ll knock ’em dead in that outfit,” the vendor said, winking at her again.
Funny, she hadn’t thought the simple skirt and sweater that fetching. It had to be the color, she thought. New Yorkers always wore black; sometimes she thought no one in the city owned a single bright-colored garment. She must look like a cardinal among crows, decked out in her scarlet sweater. And combing her hair had been a definite plus. Hell, she was even wearing earrings.
She retrieved the portfolio from between her legs and continued down the sidewalk, hot dog in hand. The gallery was four more blocks, plenty of time to finish the dog and wipe the mustard from her mouth. Greeting the McMillans with goo smeared on her face wouldn’t leave a good impression.
It had been nice of Candra to set up the meeting. Other gallery owners probably wouldn’t have overly concerned themselves with her. The big bucks were in primitive and modern art, not in the traditional style she preferred, but Candra was always looking out for Sweeney’s interests, guiding business her way. She did that for all the artists whose work she displayed, from the lowest seller to the highest, with a natural warmth that attracted customers, probably making the gallery a ton of money every year. Not that Candra had to worry about money; Richard’s wealth made the gallery’s profit, or lack of one, unimportant.
At the thought of Richard Worth, his face sprang to her mind, accompanied by the usual uneasiness. She would have liked to paint him, but couldn’t see herself asking. His face was all hard angles and sharp eyes. She would never portray him in one of the double-breasted, three-thousand-dollar Italian silk suits he liked, though; she would put that face on the docks, or behind the wheel of a big truck. Richard Worth looked like a sweaty T-shirt kinda guy, not a Wall Street wizard.
He and Candra seemed like such opposites. Candra was lovely, aristocratic, with her sleek dark hair and chocolate eyes, but it was a bland sort of loveliness, the type possessed by thousands of women: attractive, but not remarkable. Her true charm lay in her friendly personality, which, like the vendor’s sweetness, came from what lay behind the face. Richard’s nature seemed molded in his bones, his tough, angled face a testament to the man. As a couple they seemed mismatched, though their marriage had lasted ten years. The times Sweeney had seen them together, she had gotten the impression that though they were standing side by side, it was merely by chance. Richard seemed too cold, too much a workaholic, to appeal to a woman of Candra’s warmth, but who knew what went on between a couple in their private moments? Maybe he sometimes actually relaxed.
As Sweeney approached a corner, the traffic signal changed and the Walk sign lit. She had become accustomed to the convenience of never having to linger on any corners waiting for the signals to change. A few drivers seemed bewildered by the brevity of the green light, but that wasn’t her problem. She almost smirked at them as she crossed the street. She hated wasting time, and standing around on a street corner sure qualified as wasted time. She begrudged every moment away from her painting, so much so that even eating almost qualified as wasted time.
Not sleeping, though. She loved to sleep. One of her favorite things was to work late into the night, until she was exhausted, then to fall into bed, feeling that delicious heaviness as she lost consciousness, like falling into a hole. The only thing that made it better was if it was raining, too. The pleasure of going to sleep while listening to the rain was almost sensual.
These days, sleeping was an adventure, because with sleep came dreams. She had always dreamed in color, but now her dreams were almost painfully vivid, in lush, brilliant Technicolor. She was fascinated by the hues of her dreams, so intense and vibrant. When she woke she tried to reproduce those colors, only to find they didn’t fit her work and she could never get them quite right anyway. They were wrong for the delicacy of her technique, for the precise brushwork that was her trademark. She loved the colors, though, and was disappointed on those mornings when her memory failed to dredge up any dreams at all.
She finished the hot dog, tossed the paper in the trash can, and ran a finger around her mouth to remove any leftover mustard. She didn’t much like hot dogs, so she had to smother the taste with a lot of mustard. She supposed she could eat something she did like, but, well, the vendor was always there and she enjoyed his face, and she didn’t have to go out of her way, so getting a hot dog saved time. Not only that, now she wouldn’t have to waste time eating once she got home.
People marched along the sidewalks, not talking—unless it was on their cell phones—and seldom making eye contact. Sweeney openly studied their faces, knowing they weren’t likely to look at her and thus catch her looking at them. She ignored the occasional face that was too transparent. It was easy; being New Yorkers, even the ghosts tended to avoid eye contact.
The huge variety of faces in the city was a constant source of wonder and inspiration to her. Paris . . . well, Paris was okay, but even its name made her uncomfortable. She had seen too many pretentious artists, like her mother, make a big deal about painting in Paris, and Sweeney just didn’t fit in with the art crowd there. Not that she fit in with the art crowd here, either, she reflected, but somehow in New York, she had more room, more a sense of being unseen. Candra’s idea to relocate to the city had been brilliant. Though Sweeney could foresee a day when she would leave, for now she loved it.