A New Eden Page 4

  Paige was entranced. She needed and wanted what the woman had, wanted to lose herself that way. She wasn’t sure if she ever could or ever would, but she wanted what she saw, wanted the sculpture itself, wanted to possess the essence of what it captured and embodied. She looked for a tag or a nameplate but could find neither.

  The employee in the gift shop next door was turning off the shop’s lights. Paige could see no one in the art gallery, but the lights inside were still on. The hours posted showed a closing time of nine. By her watch, the time was eight fifty-five. Finding the door unlocked, she entered, to the quiet tinkling of a bell.

  When she found herself back at the door again, it was closed, with a set of keys in the lock. She checked her watch. It was ten till ten: she had passed nearly an hour alone in the gallery. Startled, she looked around to find herself still alone, except for a young man in cowboy boots and jeans sitting on the front edge of the reception desk, as comfortably as he might on the top rail of a corral fence. He nodded a greeting –

  “Ma’am.”

  She was quite sure that if he had been wearing a cowboy hat he would have tipped it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I completely lost track of the time.”

  “That’s not unusual here, ma’am. It’s quite all right.” His speech was measured and even, his words considered before spoken. He might have been a year or two younger than she or a year older. His hair was a dusty, golden brown, his eyes blue-gray, his skin tanned and cured by the elements. His boots were clean but well used – the toes had kicked rocks, the heels had dug into dirt, the sides and edges had worked against stirrups and nettles.

  “Is there anything in particular that caught your eye this evening, ma’am?”

  “Please, I’m Paige,” she said.

  “Paige it is.” He dismounted the desk and came towards her. “I’m Ian – Ian Argent.”

  She felt as if she were about to be bridled, gently if allowed but firmly if necessary. Realizing she was alone with the man and that the keys in the locked door were likely his, she shifted her hand as unnoticeably as possible into the top of her purse.

  But he had noticed. He stopped in his tracks, watching her eyes. “I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally. It’s just that . . . It’s just that I’ve recently spent too much time in places where trusting people, particularly men, wasn’t an option.”

  “I can appreciate that, ma’am.” He had relaxed his body, neutralizing any outward sign that could be interpreted as aggressive intent. “But you’ll notice I’m not wearing my spurs tonight, and I left my rope in the barn.” He showed his open hands. “You’re safe with me – at least for the moment.” He smiled wryly, disarmingly, a smile she couldn’t help but return. He resumed his approach, more carefully. “The name is Ian, ma’am.”

  She felt ridiculous. Withdrawing her hand from her purse, she extended it to meet his. His handshake was gentle but firm. There was strength in it, and a sparkle in his eyes that was genuine and warm.

  “And I’m still Paige, Ian.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Paige. It’s been nice having someone so intelligent and appreciative in the gallery this evening.”

  “What makes you think I’m intelligent?”

  “The way you were studying the art. You’re perceptive, curious about things.”

  She had allowed herself to become so immersed in the art that she felt as if she had drowned in some of the works, while yet able to breathe. The still lifes and landscapes were enchanting, with their exquisite lines, rich colors and pleasing compositions, but what had captured her imagination were the figurative works – the fascinating, beautifully realized humans. These were real people, realistic yet romanticized, and not merely part of a scene but the focus and subject, brought to life by artists who seemed to genuinely like their subjects, to love and admire and respect them. It had been as if she had stepped into a cinematic world of captivating characters, all of whom she wanted to know, to know their stories and their lives – while somehow feeling as if, at some time in her past or in some way, she already knew them. It wasn’t quite a feeling of déjà vu or reincarnation, but a most wonderful, unsettling sense, as though she were being reintroduced to a world she had once inhabited as a child, a world forgotten until now.

  “Is this your gallery, Ian?”

  “No, ma’am. It belongs to my aunt and uncle. I just help watch the place occasionally.”

  “I’ve been to galleries and museums all over the world, and I’ve never been in a place quite like this. . . . But I’ve kept you well past closing – thank you for your patience – I don’t want to keep you any longer tonight. If I come back tomorrow evening, will there be someone here who can tell me more about the art?”

  “I’ll be here again tomorrow evening myself, ma’am.”

  “And you know the art?” She glanced down at his boots, dubiously.

  “I do.”

  “What can you tell me about this piece in the window?”

  He smiled. “Rapture – she’s one of my favorites too. How about this: when you come back tomorrow, we can talk about it, and if you have any questions I can’t answer, we can ask the artist herself.”

  “Herself? The artist will be here?”

  “No, but she lives close enough.”

  “I . . . I would very much like to meet her, if that’s possible, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”

  “Not at all. I’ll take you by her studio and introduce you, if you’d like. How about early tomorrow afternoon, if you don’t have other plans?”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.” Despite her hesitations, she found herself trusting him, or at least willing to take the risk. “This is a very interesting town, Ian. Are you from here?”

  “I am.”

  “Maybe tomorrow you could tell me more about this place.”

  “I could. We should meet for lunch first then. I know a good place. It takes a little while to get there, but I could pick you up at, say, eleven? You’re at The Sophia, yes?”

  “Yes . . .” Her defenses rose again. Had it been a mere guess on his part? She resolved not to get too comfortable or careless with him.

  “Eleven it is then,” he said decidedly.

  As he set the gallery alarm and turned off the lights, she thought she saw him smiling to himself. When he held the door for her, she had to pass quite close. He smelled of leather and prairie grass after a thunderstorm.

  “May I walk you back to the hotel?” he offered.

  “I’m fine, thanks. It’s safe walking through Old Town at this hour, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, but all the same – ”

  “Thanks, really. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can. Good night, Paige.”

  “Good night, Ian.”

  He was watching her as she walked away. She could feel his eyes on her, could hear him softly whistling a jaunty tune. It didn’t feel wrong. Not wrong at all. Apparently there are cowboys who don’t need a rope or spurs, she mused.

  Around the plaza, there were a few late diners lingering in the restaurants. The coffee shop was closing up. The sign on the Elbow Room was still lit. Two men were talking near the saloon’s door, one leaning against the wall smoking, but they took no interest in her. Otherwise the plaza was empty. The night air was crisp, the sky starlit and clear, her senses heightened and glowing. Her legs felt strong, in need of exercise. She had half a mind to jog back to the resort, just to stretch them out.

  She had walked a brisk block beyond the plaza, well into the darker canyon of Victorians and sparsely spaced street lamps, when a black silhouette stepped out from the shadows, blocking her. Before she could turn, he was holding her by her arm, tightly.

  “Be still,” he said. “Listen – ”

  She could just make out his eyes beneath the black brim of his hat – at firs
t she wasn’t sure that he wasn’t the man she had seen earlier in the plaza, or the one who had been spying on her at the hotel, but this man seemed younger, leaner, gaunter. He had taken both of her arms and pulled her close – it would require a violent wrenching to wrest her right arm free, to get her hand into her purse, if she could manage it at all. She would have to catch him off guard – his grip was steely strong.

  She stopped struggling and relaxed her body, trying to convey passivity, helplessness, hoping he might be lulled into easing his hold. She had to distract him.

  “Who are you?” she asked, trying to sound more docile than angry.

  “I am God’s servant, otherwise I am nothing.” His words came in a distracted, rote monotone, as though he had described himself thusly, unthinkingly, a thousand times before.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want nothing but God’s will to be done.” Another rote answer, without thought. He was examining her dispassionately, from her cropped hair to the unfastened top buttons of her blouse, down to her formfitting capris. She was startled when he released her arms as though he’d received a mild shock, taking a half step back as though she were something unclean. Now free, she focused on his center mass and balance. Given just a slight shift of his stance, she could deliver a kick between his legs and start running. She rehearsed it in her mind’s eye: the kick first, then turning to run, going for her gun. She would scream for help. It was no time for pride.

  “I trust that you’re here to observe Passion Week, Ms. Keller,” he stated.

  “I’m – Passion Week? What is Passion Week? And how do you know my name?”

  He ignored the questions. “Ms. Keller, you must be aware that the place upon which you rest your head again tonight is a holy place, bathem.” His words flowed and sang like a prayer. “Exposing and displaying the flesh of one’s body is a vain affront to God, and all the more so upon His Hill. You are urged to behave modestly here.” He studied her, gauging the effect of his words. “But our God is a forgiving God – ” He paused. He made a decision. From an inner pocket in his jacket he drew – to her relief, not a knife, but what appeared to be a business card. He extended it to her.

  “To be welcomed into His fold, Ms. Keller, God asks only for our repentance, humility, and obedience to His will. Won’t you join us at the cathedral for Sunday Service?”

  The invitation had come with neither a smile nor a hint of welcoming warmth, but before she could challenge him as to what she was to ask forgiveness for, he had slipped away into the shadows as suddenly and silently as he had appeared.

  There was just enough light from the nearby streetlamp to examine the card. It was printed on a smooth stock of medium weight; the background was black, with only a simple line-drawn symbol in white in the center – a cross atop a pyramidal shaped hill. The back of the card was white, with a line-drawn black symbol – a winged angel. There were no words, no address or phone number, only the two symbols, front and back – the white cross on the hill and the black angel.

  There had been something about his hands too. She replayed the memory in her mind’s eye, as she had trained herself to do, pausing and focusing on the visual frames when he had retrieved the card from his jacket. Both hands bore small round scars in the middle, as if someone had shot him through the palms with a rifle. Or as if someone had driven nails –

  The sound of steel-shod hooves striking pavement punctured the silence, echoing from the walls of the darkened Victorians, filling the empty streets, galloping away into the night.

  She started walking purposefully. Within a few steps she had broken into a jog. By the time she reached the first intersection, her shoes were in hand and the sharp-tipped posts of the wrought-iron fences were flying by in a blur.

  Beyond the open gate of the resort the grade rose steeply. She continued at a full run up the sweeping drive until she was safely beneath the bright light of the chandelier of the porte-cochere, where she allowed herself to slow to a walk, her chest heaving, heart pounding.

  The uniformed doorman, noting the manner and state of her arrival, made neither comment nor enquiry. He opened the door for her as though she had just stepped out of a limousine after a pleasant evening on the town. He greeted her with a formal, starched nod.

  “Good evening, Ms. Keller.”

  She walked into the lobby, shoes still in hand. Though she had come to expect personal service at The Sophia, she didn’t recall having met the doorman before.

  Three

  At precisely eleven o’clock the next morning, the front desk called to inform Paige that she had a visitor in the lobby. She ran the brush through her hair twice more and checked her makeup. When she passed the housekeeper in the hall, she greeted her brightly.

  “Buenos días, Maria.”

  “Buenos . . .” The housekeeper blushed in surprise – it was the first time the woman in Suite 117 had spoken to her. She watched Paige continue down the hall, smiling faintly as her fingers found the nametag on her uniform’s blouse.

  Ian was waiting in the lobby, dressed much the same as he had been the evening before but wearing a pressed blue shirt rather than white, blue jeans, his cowboy hat in hand.

  “Good morning, Paige,” he nodded.

  “Good morning, Ian.”

  “Shall we?” He escorted her through the entrance, opening the door for her before the doorman could get to it. Parked under the porte-cochere were a stretch limousine, an idling taxi, and two horses being held by a discomfited bellhop. Ian went to the horses.

  “You’ll be all right riding in what you’re wearing, I trust.”

  “Yes, thanks . . .” She was glad she’d opted for her closed-toe shoes rather than the sandals. “But why do you assume I ride?”

  “An educated guess. Remember the sculpture in the gallery of the woman on the horse?” He took the reins of both animals from the bellhop.

  “Of course . . .”

  “When you bent to look at the horse’s mouth, your hands drifted up – as if you were ready to take the bridle if he shied. And when you went around to the side of the sculpture, you looked underneath to examine the cinch.”

  “You were being quite observant yourself.”

  “I find that it pays.”

  He nodded towards one of the horses, a striking champagne Saddlebred. “You ride Western?”

  “Not as often, but I have and can.” Riding with a Western saddle and tack when accustomed to English was like climbing behind the wheel of a pickup truck after having driven a sports car, but the transition was easier than the reverse.

  “I can carry your purse in my saddlebag, if you’d like,” he offered. “I won’t be offended if there’s anything you’d prefer to keep on your person.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, handing it over. For all he knew, she could be carrying nothing more than pepper spray, but riding with a loaded pistol tucked beneath her belt, without a holster, was neither prudent nor appealing; moreover, it seemed absurd to be in the saddle under the big Western sky armed with anything smaller than a long barreled revolver. She had a momentary, silly vision of riding full out with the cavalry, the soldiers’ rifles blazing in a fight with Apaches, and her popping away with her Glock 27.

  Her mount was a regal, proud gelding that seemed eager for the day. She checked his tack, rubbing his nuzzle and stroking his neck, tingling at the prospect of riding again. “Oh, aren’t you beautiful? What’s your name, big boy?”

  “That’s Padre. He’ll take good care of you. He might want to stop for a snack occasionally, but he’s not stubborn about it. Used to be a show horse, English dressage. Not exactly our type, but he was just too handsome to pass up. Doesn’t have a ‘no’ in him. Loves to run, if you can handle it.”

  “He’s gorgeous. We’ll get along just fine, won’t we, Padre?”

  The stirrups had already been adjusted to her height. She knew Ian was watching out of the corner of his eye as she mounted. She sensed his approval when it was
evident she knew what she was doing. He slipped the bellhop a tip and mounted his own horse, a sturdy chestnut Morgan.

  He led out from under the porte-cochere and turned off the paved drive towards the west, following the path beneath the hedge at the end of Paige’s suite. She stood in her stirrups to see what she could see, but yesterday’s voyeur had either been taller than she, or had been on a taller horse, or both.

  The day was perfect for riding. The great blue dome above was raked with bands of high cirrus clouds, with wisps of mares’ tails trailing. A pile of cumulus was mounding above the peaks to the west but looked to be staying there, unthreatening. Had the day been windier or hotter, she would have wanted a hat, but on this late morning the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair was the kiss of the earth. She settled into the deep Western saddle, imagining herself on a cattle drive, herding cows and steers, chasing down strays with a lariat, sitting next to a fire beneath the stars, enjoying good stories, solid fare, and warm company.

  Where the path forked, Ian led down through a ravine, at the bottom of which the morning chill lingered in the shadows of a copse of aspens. They crossed a small stream and rode up and over the next rise before coming out onto a paved two-lane tracked with dried mud from the tires of construction vehicles. After turning north to follow the road upwards, Paige nudged Padre to come alongside her riding partner.

  “If you don’t mind my asking – last night, how did you know I was staying at The Sophia?”

  “You don’t seem the bed-and-breakfast type who would look forward to having breakfast with strangers, and you mentioned that you’d visited galleries and museums all over the world. You seem more the kind of person who would feel at home at The Sophia and could probably afford it.”