Page 14 of Footprints in the Sand (Coleman #13)
It was clear that whoever William Cottrill was, he liked to collect things, he liked to own history, to feel more powerful because he could reclaim the past. It was a false logic, she thought. What did it mean to own the past? You couldn’t.
Suddenly, Dimitra was conscious that someone else was in the room with her.
A man with dark black-and-gray hair and penetrating dark eyes was looking at the paintings on the walls with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted.
He looked inquisitive and intelligent and very handsome.
Dimitra always enjoyed watching people as they viewed art, trying to guess what emotions they were experiencing.
But a second later, he caught her looking and didn’t glance away.
The intensity in the room mounted. She thought he would accuse her of staring.
She had been and still was, she supposed.
Dimitra surprised herself by talking first. “What do you think of it?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Of this painting?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s extraordinary. I think the pain it represents is jagged and personal and unique. The use of color in the left-hand corner makes my brain feel like it’s on fire,” he said.
His answer surprised Dimitra incredibly. She took a small step toward him, drawn to the deepness of his baritone voice.
“And what do you think of the fact that these paintings and ancient artifacts are locked away in here, where nobody ever really sees them?” Dimitra asked.
The man cut her a crooked smile. “I think I know what you’re thinking about it. You don’t hide your thoughts away.”
“I just can’t get my head around it,” Dimitra said.
“Artisans from my home country carved these wonderful things thousands of years ago. And now they’re here?
Behind glass? It makes me wonder what I’m doing as an artist. Is that what I wanted, too?
Do I want my things to be under glass? Do I want my art to last forever?
Is it selfish to take up so much space if it isn’t useful for anyone else but whoever this William Cottrill is? ”
The man thought for a moment. “Would you rather your art fall apart over time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said. “Maybe nothing is supposed to last forever. Perhaps it’s selfish to think that it should.”
The man gave her a look that reminded her of Harry, the dog owner and sailor, that showed how intrigued he was by her. Dimitra’s heart fluttered.
She brought Kostos’s face to her mind’s eye and reminded herself of her singular truth. She would always be in love with Kostos and only with Kostos. It was how things were meant to be.
That was when Oriana tracked her down in the little side room where no one, apparently, was meant to be. “There you are!” But a moment later, Oriana glanced at the man, and her face brightened into a false-looking smile. “Ah! I see you’ve already met.”
Dimitra’s heart dropped. She realized at once that she’d made a grave error.
“William, it’s a wonderful party, as usual,” Oriana said.
Dimitra winced. Tears filled her eyes. She’d insulted William Cottrill to his face. She suggested his art collection wasn’t worthwhile. Why would he ever buy her paintings now?
“I find the party terribly boring,” William said, “but I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
Oriana’s smile looked pained. “Has Dimitra been telling you about her work?”
“A little bit,” William said, arching a single eyebrow. “I rather like her unique perspective.”
Oriana clasped her hands. “She truly is a spitfire, isn’t she? She’s taken Martha’s Vineyard by storm.”
“I can only imagine,” William said. “I’ve always been a lover of Greek mythology. The Greek goddess Dimitra has always been a favorite of mine. But she came to Hades in a rage. I imagine you came to Martha’s Vineyard in a cloud of your own emotion,” he said to Dimitra.
Dimitra recognized he was flirting with her, toying with her now that she’d made such a fool of herself. But she got the sense that she hadn’t fully ruined her chances of an art sale, not yet.
“I came to Martha’s Vineyard for inspiration,” Dimitra said.
“Is it working?” William asked.
Dimitra hadn’t yet put a pencil to a pad of paper. She hadn’t yet mixed any paint. She’d unpacked everything, laid everything out in the spare room downstairs, one that she’d decided would be her studio.
But she felt haunted, guarded, and unsure. She was worried that her house-swap with Eva wasn’t as successful as she’d hoped for. She was worried it would be a waste of time for both of them.
To William, she said, “Martha’s Vineyard is a remarkable place. It’s going to take my art in new directions. I don’t think I can fully fathom it yet.”
“I look forward to seeing your paintings soon,” William said, reaching out to take her hand. “Oriana always introduces me to the most fascinating artists.”
With that, William turned and left Oriana and Dimitra alone in the little side room. Oriana gasped and squeezed Dimitra’s arm happily. “I don’t know what kind of Greek magic you just performed on him, but I’ve never seen him so interested in someone!”
Dimitra laughed nervously and rubbed her arm where Oriana had squeezed it a little too hard.
Oriana was talking fast, outlining what would happen next, now that William was interested.
But Dimitra wondered if she was compromising her morals by selling to such a wealthy man.
Was she making art for the wrong reasons? Had she changed since Kostos’s death?