Page 29 of Fast Currents
“Good. Good. And what do we have here?” Chaz arched a brow, tugging the orgy depiction from the stack. He held it out in front of him, squinting. “Good balance. They placed the scenes well, though some of my clientele are going to squawk over the content. Who’s the artist?”
“Barbara Fenwick.”
Chaz’s lips twitched. “I should have guessed that one. I’m going to need an adults-only corner to display it in.” He tapped a peachy very phallic-looking lighthouse. “Possibly with that one.”
He really had seen it all. He hadn’t so much as twitched over Gran’s NSFW subject matter. Good, because we needed someone unflappable.
“We didn’t guarantee that all items would be on display or for sale,” I said. Maybe he needed an out.
He waved a hand in the air. “It’s fine, Lucy. A little controversy is good for the show. I’ve got the perfect corner for this. It even has a curtain, so we can build a little mystery. Help me bring them to the back, and I’ll get them framed before the show.”
Clay and I each picked up a stack of paintings and followed Chaz into his back room. Unlike the front of the gallery, which was pristine, his workspace was a disaster. Jugs of acetone and cans of adhesive spray littered drop cloths on the floor. Backing boards and acrylic glazing were stacked every which way along the walls. A large table at the back held canvas pliers and a stretching tool. Chaz gestured to the table, and we picked our way through the chaos, stacking our paintings there.
He led Clay and I back through the maze of art paraphernalia toward the front room. My foot connected with something on the edge of the mess, sending it spinning. I bent, trying to spot what I kicked. Chaz might not find whatever it was again if I didn’t retrieve it. A black hard-sided case had spun, coming to rest in between a gap in a stack of large canvases leaning against the wall.
I narrowed my eyes. The carryall looked more like a boater’s waterproof equipment case or something you’d find in the military than anything meant to transfer artwork. Curious, I flipped the latches. Locked. Turning it over, I spotted two letters etched in the plastic: J.D. Frowning, I set it back in place, tucked next to Chaz’s desk.
If it was valuable, why was it out? Chaz did enough shows with jewelry and other precious objects to own a safe. Surely, that would be more secure than a case in his back room.
A flash of memory tickled, gone before I could grasp it.
Chaz ducked his head around the curtain. “You get lost back here?”
I forced a smile. “I’m not going to judge. You should see my storage room.”
His eyes darted to the case at my feet, his expression hardening. He licked his lips, meeting my gaze. “I know I’m a terrible slob. My wife is always giving me a hard time about it. Luckily, I keep most of my mess confined to the gallery.”
“Dr. Underwood does strike me as the tidy type.”
Chaz rolled his eyes. “You have no idea. I blame it on my ADHD, and she reminds me there are meds for that.”
As much as I wanted another look at that case, I kept my focus on Chaz, following him back to the display room.
Clay stood contemplating a large canvas done in blues, greens, and earth tones. The artist had done an excellent job capturing Spieden Island, complete with exotic game. I’d heard rumors that the private island was a hunting ground in the 1900s. Maybe it was created from imagination or photographs, but the canvas made me believe the artist had managed an invitation.
“Ready?” Clay asked.
“We can drop off the next batch in a week or so,” I offered.
“Sounds good. I have a show next weekend, then I’ll start setting up for our Ghouls in the Gallery event.”
I nodded to a wall of abstract paintings. “Another showing from your anonymous artist?”
Chaz smiled. “Yes. A.A. is very prolific for us.”
“We’ll see you next week,” Clay said. He waved goodbye to Chaz.
“What’s your hurry?” I asked.
“Can’t a guy buy you ice cream?”
“There you go again with the questions.”
“And your answer is?” He extended his hand.
“Yes. What woman doesn’t want ice cream?” My palm nestled in his, his fingers tightening around mine. Even that innocent touch had me reliving our time on the couch. I wanted him to touch me. All of me. Soon. He seemed oblivious to the direction of my thoughts, captivated by people-watching.
We joined the line at the espresso stand. Clay ordered chocolate, and I picked honey lavender. The delicate herbal flavor shouldn’t have worked in the creamy base, but somehow it did. By silent agreement, we walked along the dock with our treats.
