Caroline Burnes - Familiar Obsession

Alone.

As she had been for the past five years.

“Liza, darling, the show is superb.”

She turned to speak to Anita Blevins, the art critic for the local newspaper, The Times Picayune. “Thanks, Anita. I’m in shock.”

“You’re on your way to the top,” Anita predicted. “I’ve decided to use a photo of this opening on the section front. I know this isn’t a good time for in-depth questions, so let’s have lunch tomorrow for an interview.”

“Sure.” Liza felt as if her fairy godmother had waved a magic wand. She was thirty-five and had been painting for twenty years. No one had ever predicted success for her—except Duke.

Even the thought of him was painful. She tried to control the frown, but it was too late. She’d been caught in a moment of pain—and her manager was bearing down on her.

“Liza dear, wipe that sour expression off your face and mingle.” Pascal Krantz’s face was a mask of pleasure, but his voice was iron. “I’ve busted my chops to get your show this much coverage. Your pleasant lifestyle is due to the fact that your work is now selling for big bucks. Look, the television cameras are on us. Smile!”

Liza obediently smiled up at her manager. “Thanks, Pascal. I do appreciate it. It’s way beyond all expectations. Look at the people. How did you get Delta Burke and Gerald McRaney to come?”

“They live right around the corner. Everyone likes to support a talented artist, Liza. I just had to make sure they realized how talented you are.” His hand squeezed her arm. “And you are talented. The problem is that you don’t believe it.”

Liza nodded. She hated to talk about herself. “Thank you for arranging this. And the way the pictures are displayed is beautiful.”

“You have your friend Eleanor Curry to thank for that. She recommended the artistic director for the show. And here the Currys are.” He stepped back as Eleanor and Peter walked up.

“At last,” Eleanor said, giving Liza a hug. “The paintings are incredible, Liza. Simply beautiful. I knew from the first time I saw your drawings in college that you were destined for great things. And now I can tell everyone you were my college roommate.”

“It’s a dream come true,” Liza said. She was staring at her longtime friend but shifted her focus to Eleanor’s handsome husband, Peter Curry. “I understand the black cat came with you.” She pointed to Familiar, who was on a chair perusing the buffet table.

“He heard there was good food,” Peter said. “We tried to leave him behind, but—”

“The television cameras love him!” Pascal said. “I couldn’t have thought of a better ruse myself. Let him be. He’s welcome to all the food he can eat. And the way he wanders around viewing the paintings. It’s almost as if he were capable of judging art.”

“I wouldn’t want to try to stop him from eating,” Eleanor said with a laugh.

“He’s the cat who was responsible for bringing you and Peter together, isn’t he?” Liza asked. Her old roommate had been far luckier in love than she had. Eleanor and Peter’s marriage had resulted in a beautiful daughter, Jordan, and a strong family unit. And Liza hadn’t been told, but it seemed to her that Eleanor had a very telling glow. They’d have plenty to talk about when the gallery opening was over and they could have some privacy.

“Yes, Familiar was the instigator of our relationship,” Eleanor said dryly. “He’s, shall we say, unusual.”

“Bring him with you Friday. We’re scheduled for lunch, aren’t—” Liza’s gaze was drawn by sudden movement outside the gallery windows. LaTique was located on St. Ann Street in the French Quarter, not exactly the most lively part of town. Though the raucous Bourbon and Royal streets were only a few blocks away, St. Ann was basically residential. The building she occupied was three stories, a narrow structure with her gallery on the first floor, her studio on the second, and her apartment on the third.

“Yes, Friday at Napoleon’s,” Eleanor confirmed. “I want to hear all about your career, the future, the museums and galleries where your paintings are now hanging. You’ve come into the homestretch of success, Liza, and it’s about time.”

“Yes.” She heard her friend’s kind words and immediately sought a change of subject. Her success was phenomenal—and troubling. Instead of the total satisfaction she once expected upon achieving success, she’d found emptiness.

At one time, she’d been driven to paint the street scenes of New Orleans that had recently made her the darling of art patrons. Now, though, the watercolors were less important. Her artistic passions were something else, something darker. Something that she had to keep a secret even from her oldest friend, Eleanor Curry, who’d come all the way from Washington, D.C., for her opening.

A dark flicker of a moving shadow outside the front window of the gallery caught her attention once again. Her heart rate tripled, and she felt the flush of blood to her skin.

“Liza darling, your friend was saying that she wanted to purchase the painting of the young girl in the rain puddle.”

Liza felt Pascal’s strong fingers pressing into the muscles of her arm. She knew she was drifting away, fading from reality and entering her own private hell, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The flicker of movement came at the edge of the window again. Her attention sharpened even as she tried to combat it with rational thought. It was only her imagination. This gallery opening, this event, was something she’d planned long ago. Five years ago. With Duke Masonne. But how the plan had changed. Now she was alone, and though the success was all hers, it was a lonely price to pay.

“Liza, are you okay?” Eleanor’s brown eyes were narrowed with concern.

“Yes, of course.” Liza tried to focus on the party. But again someone standing out in the shadows moved. The glint of a white face flashed in the light spilling from the big gallery windows facing the street.

Liza’s heartbeat grew painful. It was insane. Duke had been gone five years, but there was something about the shadowy face that reminded her of him—made her hope it might be.

She felt her palms begin to tingle and the unpleasant sensation of perspiration on her brow.

“Liza?” Eleanor’s voice came from a long way away.

“I—” What could she say? Don’t pay any attention to me. I saw my ex-lover who disappeared five years ago. I’ve been seeing him around town lately, standing in dark alleys, outside Grizaldi’s when I go for groceries. I’m beginning to catch glimpses of him through the hanging bundles of elephant garlic and peppers at the French Market.

“Get a chair.”

She heard Pascal’s order and felt her body being pushed into a chair. But her attention remained on the window. The lighting outside was poor. It could have been a figment of her imagination. Or her mind slipping toward madness. At that thought, her heart rate increased even more. She felt the room spinning.

“Ice. Bring some ice and a cloth,” she heard Eleanor say.

But she couldn’t answer her, couldn’t reassure her that she was okay, just a little woozy and terrified.

“Don’t do this now,” Pascal whispered in her ear. “We can’t allow this show to fall into a dramatic tragedy. Your work will be overshadowed by the drama of your behavior, Liza. Pull yourself together and stop whatever this is.”

Pascal’s words almost penetrated. She could feel her heart slowing, feel her lungs expanding as she was finally able to draw in a deep breath.

And then she looked out the window.

The light from the gallery spilled clearly across the features of Duke Masonne’s face. The hair was longer, the face leaner, more lined. But it was Duke.