The Color Of Night Read Online Free Page B

before the pictures, Strand’s mind was divided between the images and the woman who owned them. He remembered Truscott saying that he thought the sale of the art was being prompted by a “divorce thing,” and he assumed that also accounted for the discrepancy between her two names. The drawings were going to bring a handsome price; he guessed that a handsome price had been paid to acquire them. Since Mara Song was having to sell them, Strand surmised that she had not come out well in her divorce.
    After they had talked for a while about the drawings, she took a step back, folded her arms, and looked at him.
    “They’re jewels, aren’t they?” she said.
    He noted the distance from her waist to the hem of her skirt, and he remembered the long legs slipping through the bright water.
    “Have you owned these awhile?” he asked.
    “Most of them about four years.”
    Strand scanned the drawings again, his hands in his pockets as he stepped back away from them, too, beside her, surveying the group of images.
    “I’m guessing that you already know I won’t have any trouble selling these,” he said. “You seem to know very well what you’re doing here. I’ll be glad to go ahead and work up appraisals and all of that whenever you’re ready.”
    She didn’t say anything for a moment, and Strand turned his head slightly to observe her. She was thoughtful, but her expression was uncommunicative.
    “You don’t want to sell them,” he said.
    “I teach art,” she said. “I know how… wonderful these things are.” She turned to him. “Before five years ago I never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would ever own art like this myself. Then, for a while, a small window of time, I could afford them.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid if I get rid of them, I’ll never ever be able to afford anything like them again.”
    Strand said nothing.
    “I’m going through a divorce,” she said. “I don’t need the money, but the fact is, I’m not going to be in the same financial comfort zone that I was in while I was married. I just thought I ought to, sort of, take stock.”
    “These aren’t easy choices,” Strand said. “I’ve been a dealer and collector all my life, and I have to face these choices all the time. Can’t keep them all, no matter how much you love them. I tell myself that the pleasure of just having them for a while is a value every bit as real as the profit I’ll get when I sell them. It’s a mind game. It’s really the truth, too.”
    When he turned back to her she was looking at him, the beginning of a smile on her mouth. But it never quite developed. They looked at each other, and for a fleeting moment he thought he sensed in her expression a vague notion of having seen him before.
    “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I made a fresh pot about an hour ago.”
    “No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
    The filtered sun was gilding the plants in the garden behind her, outlining her gray silhouette with a thin seam of gold. She would not have been universally considered beautiful, for her features, when taken individually, could not have been described as classical. Her nose was a little more prominent than Asian features usually allowed, and there was a small rise in the bridge. She had high cheekbones, and her eyes were as much Caucasian as Eastern. But regarded as a whole, these attributes conspired to make Mara Song a striking woman. She sure as hell lived up to his memory of her from the swimming pool. She was still looking at him, her arms crossed again as before. Then with her middle fingers she lightly touched her full lower lip.
    “How long have you been married?” she asked abruptly.
    He frowned at her, and she tilted her left hand back and touched her ring finger with her thumb.
    “Oh. It would have been four years… well, in July.”
    She didn’t move her eyes or speak.
    “She died in an automobile accident. Almost a year ago.”
    Her face fell. “I’m