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Garrett’s attention. Was this his ability to mesh with anyone that Maureen had talked about? And was Maureen reacting too, because it was being directed at another woman? Glancing at her, Kiernan noticed the rigidity of her shoulders, saw that her thumb was working away at the raw spot.
    “I took that photo in Alaska before I left last month.”
    “You left there last month?” Kiernan asked.
    “Uh-huh. It’s a shame to leave Alaska in May. That’s when you first start to see the grass. There’s that odd scrunchy feeling when the frozen earth softens to mud. It’s like walking on Styrofoam.”
    Kiernan laughed. Garrett looked at her, vaguely surprised, then smiled too, as if he were humoring a child.
    “The painting, Garrett,” Maureen insisted. “What are you aiming for in it?”
    “What makes my work so individual, Kiernan,” he said, still smiling at her, “is its sense of place. I present the people through their environment.” His words, Kiernan recollected, were taken directly from the gallery brochure. But he had the air of an excited small boy telling a secret to a special friend. It was a very effective—and very flattering—presentation, especially since he must have given it many times. And yet there was something not quite right about it.
    Kiernan held her breath for a moment. Although the studio windows were open, the air felt used and stale. She’d expected the place would smell of paint or turpentine, but all she could detect was a vague aroma of coffee. She made a decision. “What about the three paintings in the house?” she asked.
    “Three?” Garrett shook his head. “You should have your eyes checked. You’re seeing triple.” He grinned at her, but the grin had a watery quality about it. “I did one, but it’s not quite right.”
    Kiernan hesitated. Behind her, she could hear Maureen give a little gasp. “No, honey, there are three in there.”
    “Maureen,” he said, shaking his head, “are you ladies playing some kind of joke on me?”
    “Come back to the house and see, Garrett.”
    “There’s only one painting, Maureen. You know that.” His grin was firmly locked in place, but his jaw was tense.
    “Humor me.” Maureen led the way across the dry October grass. The tightness had spread from her shoulders to her back; she walked stiffly, as if the discs in her spine had turned to stone.
    When Kiernan stepped inside, the chill and darkness startled her. It was one of those houses that would never be warm no matter how big a fire they built in the baronial fireplace. Maureen and Garrett were standing behind the sofa, leaning against the back. Neither was looking at the paintings, but Maureen’s face seemed wary and hopeless. Garrett glanced around the room with the calm, indifferent expression of someone who has been away for months and is reacquainting himself with his surroundings.
    The earliest of the paintings was propped up by a table, the other two against a wall. “There, Garrett,” Maureen said. “There are your paintings.”
    “Paintings?” he asked, as if this were the first time he’d heard of them.
    Maureen’s lips quivered: She pointed to the canvases.
    Garrett glanced at the wall, then focused on the picture by the table. “This isn’t quite right,” he said. “I’ll do it over.”
    Maureen stepped closer. Her eyes, which had seemed so angry earlier, were tear-filled. “You’ve already done two more, Garrett. They’re right here.”
    “No, no.” He reached for her arm as if to comfort her in her delusion, but she moved away quickly, the veins in her neck rigid. “Look at them, Garrett!” Her voice was louder, shriller. “They are yours, aren’t they?”
    “Well, they look like mine.” His face twisted in bewilderment. He moved closer to the canvases, squatted down in front of first one, then the other, peering at the brushstrokes.
    “You did paint these, didn’t you?” Maureen insisted.
    “It’s my style, certainly.” He stood up.