Page 1 of Cassie
The artist
Hoss
He stood and watched the ebb and flow of the throng as they moved through the small gallery, drifting in predictable patterns around and through where the pieces were displayed on the walls. The worn black leather of his vest rode lightly on his shoulders as he leaned against the wall nearest the back entrance. It was crowded, but not to the point he felt uncomfortable.All these folks are here to see me, after all. Hoss scoffed, keeping the rude noise far back in his throat. Quiet, for his ears only. These law-abiding citizens didn’t need to know how he felt about them.
Art-seeking crowds in Fort Wayne generally fit into distinct types, and he was mentally categorizing the folks he could see into one of three. The first was yuppyish but with a more forward-leaning Midwest attitude. Another was the “oh, look who I know” set, where the more popular the artist, the more likely it would be they’d want a selfie with them. The third group—and God, he loved ‘em for it—was here only for the art, suffering through shoulder bumps and those little huffs of annoyance directed their direction when they stayed too long in front of a piece, interrupting the movement of the crowd who sashayed around on the see-and-be-seen route through a showing.
We have a definite art lover in the house tonight.
The corners of his mouth curled up in a grin. The woman was his favorite kind of people. She’d stayed down here amidst the paintings all evening, which was unlike the rest of the patrons who had come in and done their prescribed circuit as quickly as was acceptable, then moved their asses up to the roof with ticket in hand for a comped glass of wine, staying for the cash bar and ongoing party.Not this chick.
His only frustration was that even though he’d tried—and he had, putting significant effort into it in between pumping handshakes with the potential buyers his agent steered his direction—still, throughout the night he’d only been able to catch glimpses of her from behind as she faced the artwork. He’d watched as she hung out in front of each piece for long minutes, her study of the art intense. Ignoring everyone around her, she’d even politely turned down a drink offered by a well-attired man, a good-looking banker Hoss knew.
Currently, she was parked in front of a commission he’d done for a local writer. It was a stark watercolor of a weathered barn isolated by a snowscape. Not one of his personal favorites, but he felt it captured the author’s grief after the death of his partner, and the woman seemed to appreciate it.It’s always cool to find someone who digs my shit like this.
Other attendees came and went, the regulars approaching him for a few congratulatory words. There’d been several times he’d momentarily lost sight of her, like now, and the absence set up an uneasy reverberation in his chest, his heart speeding up in response. She wasn’t tall, so once the latest group of interruptions moved on after their photo op with him, it took a few moments of him scanning through the guests scattered around the space, but he found her finally. She’d moved on from the watercolor and was now planted in front of a more recently finished piece. Hoss watched with interest as her head tipped back and forth while she took in the detailed painting. Her body posture changed with the emotion evoked by the piece which made her every movement fascinating.
Glancing around, he identified a better vantage point and casually changed position, moving down to a different section. From his new location, he could finally see more than the back of her head.
She’s downright pretty.
Her bright hair was carelessly pinned up in a messy bun, and having it pulled away from her face revealed the lines of a strong jaw. Her soft cheek was exposed to his gaze, and he saw it crease into an unselfconscious smile again and again as she discovered pleasing nuances within his artwork.Wonder if she knows who I am?His gut tightened at the thought of meeting her, but not in a bad way.She’s really fuckin’ pretty.He surprised himself with his next thought, because women in general weren’t on his radar and hadn’t been for a long time. Something about her drew him, though.I wouldn’t mind getting to know her. Hoss let his imagination run free, constructing a scenario where he approached and chatted with her, laughing.
I could open with a lame line like, “Come here often?” She might respond with a smartass remark of, “Less often before now.” Maybe I’ll ask her opinion, “What do you think of this one?” Lifting an arm, pointing, letting my hand graze the back of hers by chance as mine fell while hers lifted in a gesture. Casual caress of skin on skin. I could fake nonchalance. Would there be a spark? A connection? If I set myself to dig into her response, I might ferret out the why behind the words. What if…I just might like what I find? What if I let myself follow this thread that’s pulling me towards her?
Movement attracted his gaze and, spell broken, Hoss, also known by his government name of Isaiah Rogers, narrowed his eyes as he watched his agent stop and speak to her. The two women were familiar enough his agent could loosely embrace the short blonde and force a pair of uncomfortable looking air kisses. Tamera Lienstill wasn’t the nicest of people, but that’s exactly why he’d hired her. Once she had gotten in line with the program that came part and parcel with his demands of how he wanted his art treated, she more than got the job done when it came to protecting his paintings like he needed.
Often he wouldn’t part with any pieces at shows, and she would still manage to get asses in the door even when there wasn’t anything to buy. When he did have a painting or drawing he was willing to give up, the prices listed in the brochure were always astronomical, and again, Tamera would manage to not only get asses in the door but could pack the joint like tonight. And, more often than not, by the end of the night, he’d find that every piece had sold. Quickly. The lookie-loo shows were the least attended of his events because people understood there was no reason to be there if you weren’t fascinated in seeing the progression of a series or to see the advancement of his skill and art.
Digging through faint memories of past shows, Hoss felt confident he had seen this chick at some of those evenings, which meant he had her pegged pretty accurately as art lover. For this show, mostly due to Tamara’s persistent demands, Hoss had somewhat reluctantly selected three of his newest paintings, ones he hadn’t grown overly attached to, and placed them up for sale. Tonight, the light-haired woman had been parked longest in front of one of those pieces.She must be a buyer. Setting aside his desire to approach her, pushing those fantasies aside, he slipped his hands behind his back, leaning deeper into the wall, anchoring himself in place.A buyer. Not someone he could approach for other, more personal reasons. Just…a buyer. Obviously just here for the art. Why else would Tamara know her?
Stretched and framed, the canvas on the wall was an oblique side view of a woman. Highlighted by the sun as that glowing ball hovered just over the distant horizon, the rays illuminated an expression of pure joy on the subject’s face, sharing with all observers a deep pleasure at the warmth of sunlight on her skin. She stood with chin lifted, the slightest of smiles stretching her lips. There was a mass of curly blonde hair captured in midfall down her back, individual locks appearing to bounce in place. The background was a scene of boundless fields of ripened wheat, stalks painted as multihued as her hair. The entire painting was golden-toned, from the vegetation to the woman, and the title he’d given it wasEndless Golden Beauty.
Hoss stared at the painting, all thoughts of the other woman fleeing when he felt the familiar painful clench in his chest as his heart acknowledged what he’d held in his hands and lost.
Hope Annabelle Collins-Rogers. Beloved wife and mother to his two children. Dead now these fifteen years.
