“Takeshi Kaneshiro! He was the star in a few of Wong Kar-wai’s movies, the dreamiest of all dreamboats.fn3 Actually, don’t you think George looks quite a bit like him?” Marian raised an eyebrow.

“My George? No way! George is handsome, but not that kind of handsome!”

“Hmm … I don’t know about that,” Marian retorted.

“But Takeshi was a bad boy, a sex god! Are you saying my son looks like a sex god?” Rosemary demanded.

George squirmed in his seat. “This is getting a bit awkward …”

“No shit. I never realized Mama was a cougar.” Freddie chuckled.

Marian turned to Lucie with a smile. “Why don’t you show George your artwork?”

Lucie looked at her mom awkwardly. “Um, I’m not sure he really wants to see it now …”

“Actually, I’d love to see your work.” George jumped up from the table, eager to escape.

The two of them headed out the French doors and took the winding, moss-covered path past the pool house. As they arrived at the art studio at the bottom of the garden, Lucie paused for a moment. “You should lower your expectations. My mom was talking things up way too much.”

“I have no expectations,” George said.

Lucie slid open the barn door, revealing a room flooded with natural light from the skylights in the roof. In front of them was a five-foot-square canvas Lucie had recently finished.

“This is my latest painting, and behind here is—”

“Wait,” George said, putting a hand on her arm.

“Oh, sorry.”

George took a few paces back and contemplated the painting for a few minutes, while Lucie stood next to the canvas uncomfortably.

“Okay, ready for the next one,” he finally said.

Lucie shifted the painting aside to reveal the next canvas underneath, and after a few minutes, she brought out another and then another. As George stood in front of each painting, she wondered why he was studying the work so intently, scrutinizing every brushstroke from corner to corner. Was this all just an act of his? Was he just trying to humor her?

She studied him quietly as he studied her paintings, taking in all the changes that time had wrought—his chiseled features even more pronounced than before, his ripped triceps, the hard line of his pecs glimpsed under his loose tank top. The nut-brown tan of his youth had faded into marble white, and his lanky swimmer’s body had transformed over the years into the sculpted physique of a committed athlete. She thought for a moment how she might paint his portrait.

“How long have you been working in this style?” George asked.

“Oh … probably since my freshman year of college,” Lucie replied, a bit startled. Did he notice her staring at him?

“I really love this one,” George said, pointing to one of the smaller paintings. Lucie walked over next to him to assess the work from his vantage point. They stood there in complete silence, so silent she could hear him breathing. She could smell the dry sweat on him from this morning’s yoga, feel the heat radiating from his body. She found it unexpectedly alluring, and for a moment, as their shoulders touched, the sensation of his bare skin brushing against hers sent a faint shock wave all the way down to her toes. She stepped aside skittishly.

“Yeah, I think it’s the best of the lot.” George nodded, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened.

Recovering herself, Lucie stuttered, “It’s, um, it’s a bit unresolved, I think. It’s an unfinished work.”

“Well, how could it ever be finished? Grief never truly leaves us, does it?” George said softly.

Lucie froze in surprise. She knew he would be staring at her in that way of his, and she wasn’t sure how she would feel if she looked back at him. She walked up to the canvas and began to put it away.

There was a knock on the barn door as Freddie came strolling in. “Fancy a sail, George? It’s the perfect weather to take the boat out.”

“Sure,” George replied.

“Join us, Lucie?” Freddie asked.

“No, I think I’ll stay here and straighten things up a bit,” Lucie said.

“Suit yourself,” Freddie said, as he put his arm around George’s shoulders and led him out of the barn.

Lucie removed the painting from its easel and placed it in a stack. She was about to put another painting in front of it when she stopped, sank down onto the floor, and stared at the piece for a while. In the chaos of white-on-white brushstrokes, it all came flooding back for the very first time since she was eight years old …

All of a sudden, she found herself standing in the hallway of their apartment on Park Avenue as the paramedics hovered over her daddy, lying on the cold white marble floor, forcing the defibrillator against his chest.

“Stand by … one! Stay with me, there. Okay, stand by, shocking again, two!” the paramedic said calmly.

“Reggie, please don’t leave me, please God,” her mother wailed on the floor as another EMT tried to hold her back.

“Someone get the kid out of here,” another voice said.

Before Lucie knew what was happening, a man grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her up, up, and away from the hallway, away from her father forever.

Lucie lay on the floor of the barn, gazing at her painting as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She understood, for the first time, why she had bolted that afternoon in Capri when the man was having a heart attack in the piazzetta. George had been there that day. He was the only one who had witnessed her panic, her grief, as she saw that man dying, just like he was the only one who had ever looked into her paintings and saw what she saw.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ditch Plains

Montauk, Long Island

Every Sunday, Lucie’s ritual was to jog along the coast just as the sun was rising and end up at Ditch Plains beach, a sandy stretch where dramatic moorlands rose up close to the shoreline. She would grab a coffee from Ditch Witch—the food truck in the parking lot—and sit on the rocks watching the early-morning surfers and locals out walking their dogs. Today, she had been admiring a surfer who looked far more skilled on the waves than many of the kooks out there. As he came ashore, she realized that it was George, his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Why does he have to be so damn good at everything? Lucie thought, as she decided to give a friendly wave.

George came over, unzipped the top of his wetsuit, and began toweling off his torso. “Morning,” he said, still panting a little.

“Did you catch any good waves?” Lucie made a concerted effort not to stare at the beads of water trickling down his abs.

“Nah.” George plopped himself down on the sand beside her.

“I guess compared with Bondi Beach the waves out here must be pretty pathetic.”

“Compared with just about anywhere. I needed a good swell, but beggars can’t be choosers.” George shrugged.

Lucie rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry our beach doesn’t meet your standards!”

“I never said that. You asked a question, I answered honestly.”

Ugh. Why did I overreact like that? Lucie kicked herself, as she tried to extend an olive branch. “I guess you must miss the beaches in California …”