"Right turn ahead," said the electronic voice.
"Thank you, Bill," said both women in unison. Bill was the name they had given the GPS.
"It's too bad you never got to meet my father, Rosemary. I'm sure you and he would have found one another, interesting."
"I met your mother."
"Only once or twice, and it was after she'd gotten so sick she really wasn't herself anymore. Trust me, there was no way my parents were ever going to allow any daughter of theirs to become an artist. It was way too beneath them. I'll always remember when Cynthia first went off to college. She was studying to be an elementary school teacher. As far as they were concerned, that was an appropriate career, and I was to follow in her footsteps."
Rosemary sighed as she turned the minivan to the right at the next stoplight. "I don't know why, Gillian, but for some strange reason I've had a bad feeling about tonight's show. It started about the time we drove over Raton Pass and crossed the Colorado border."
"I don't know why you'd feel that way. It's not like this is my first time having an opening. You brought all our paperwork, didn't you?"
"It's in my briefcase."
"And we already know my paintings arrived safely. When did you last speak to the people at the gallery?"
"About an hour ago," said Rosemary. "They said everything was just about ready to go."
"Have you spoken to your family today?"
"Lou called this morning. He and the kids are managing just fine."
"Then I'd say we have all our bases covered. You've probably just have a case of opening-night jitters, that's all."
"I hope you're right," said Rosemary, "but for some reason I just can't shake this feeling."
Bill announced that they had reached their destination, and the minivan turned into the gallery parking lot. Anthony Sorenson Fine Art resided in a large, single-story office building which had been converted into an art gallery. A catering truck was parked nearby. Its crew was busy unloading boxes and carrying them into the rear entrance.
"See, Oh Worried One, we have arrived. In one piece, and in plenty of time," said Gillian with a grin.
Rosemary shut down the engine and the two women emerged. They stopped for a moment to smooth the wrinkles from their dresses before Rosemary grabbed her briefcase. Walking toward the front door, a passing car honked at them.
"You've still got it, girlfriend," said Rosemary as she opened the door for Gillian. "I told you that yellow outfit would make you look hot." Entering the art gallery, they came upon a reception area in the foyer. Beyond it, the building was divided into two sections. The main gallery was on the right, with the smaller changing exhibit gallery on the left, where final preparations were being made for Gillian's opening. At the back was a hallway leading to the administrative offices.
Rosemary stepped up to the receptionist's desk and introduced herself. A minute later Tony Sorenson, the gallery owner, entered from the hallway and greeted them, but he appeared to be a bit out of character. He looked uncomfortable in the stiff, three-piece suit he was wearing, and his thinning, curly gray hair appeared as though it had been hastily pulled back into a ponytail. Gillian guessed his typical work attire was probably a well-worn pair of blue jeans with a tie-dyed shirt. As they made their introductions, a harried-looking young man, whom Tony introduced as his assistant, Paul, quickly joined them.
"What we need to do now," said Tony, "is take a little tour and make sure everything is absolutely correct."
"Of course," said Gillian. "Rosemary, do you have copies of our inventory sheets?"
"Right here," she said as she retrieved them from her briefcase.
They stepped into the gallery and proceeded to go over every detail, inch by inch. Gillian's favorite subject matter was architectural and outdoor scenes as well as the occasional still life. She worked mostly in acrylic and watercolor, and she was known for using big, bold, brightly colored shapes. Mounted next to each painting was a small descriptive paper plaque, but they discovered one plaque with a minor error. Paul ran back to his office, quickly printed out a corrected copy, and remounted it next to the painting. Once everything passed inspection, they went to Tony's office to go over the last-minute details.
"Okay," he said as he seated himself behind his desk. "We sent out the media releases two weeks ago. There was a mention of you, Gillian, along with a photo, in last Sunday's paper, and, as I already told Rosemary over the phone, a reporter and photographer from The Denver Centennial, one of our weekly papers, will be coming here tonight. They'll want to interview you and take a few photos, and they said they'd be here sometime between seven and seven-fifteen. Our friend, Paul, will position himself near the front door so he can watch for them, and he'll let you and Rosemary know the minute they arrive. We don't want to keep them waiting."
"Understood," said Rosemary. "I'll keep an eye on the clock myself, so I'll know when to watch for Paul."
"Good," said Tony, "then it sounds like we've covered our bases on that one. We've sent announcements to all of our regulars and we've had a good response. We've also updated our website and social media pages, so between that, and last Sunday's paper, we hope to have good turn out from the general public as well. I have a feeling this will be a very good evening for all of us."
Tony and Rosemary went over the rest of the last-minute details before the meeting broke up. Stepping back into the gallery, they walked past the caterers, who were almost finished setting up.
"See Rosemary, everything is fine," said Gillian. "I expect tonight will go flawlessly. Tony and his staff are pros. You have nothing to worry about."
"I know, Gillian, but I still have a feeling that something's about to go terribly wrong."
"Well, I can't imagine what it would be." Gillian glanced at her watch. "The show starts in ten minutes, so I'm going to go freshen up. I'll be back in a sec."
By the time she returned, people were beginning to arrive. One or two, here and there, trickled in at first. Then more began showing up. Before long the room had become crowded, and Gillian had her work cut out for her. She would have to introduce herself to as many of the guests as she could and talk to them about her art. Unlike some artists, Gillian wasn't shy. She genuinely enjoyed meeting new people and answering their questions. Once again, her knack for charming people paid off. Within forty-five minutes, several patrons had followed Tony down the hallway to open their wallets.
"How are we doing?" Gillian whispered to Rosemary as she took a short break at the bar to get a glass of water.
"Not bad, not bad at all. So far, you've sold three acrylics and one watercolor, and the night is still young. We have another hour or so to go." Rosemary pointed out one of the paintings hanging near the back corner. It featured an abandoned tractor parked in front of a rustic old barn.
"There was a man standing there admiring that one for the longest time. Did you by chance go over and speak with him?"
"Not yet," said Gillian. "I've been so busy that I haven't been able to work my way to that part of the room."
Rosemary looked down the hallway toward Sorenson's office. "Well, I guess it didn't matter. I see him coming back with Tony. Looks like you may have just sold painting number five. You're doing well, Gillian. Keep it up."
"See Rosemary, your worries were all for naught."
Gillian watched the two men coming back up the hallway as she sipped her water. There was something familiar about the man who had purchased her painting. As he stepped back into the room, she could see him more clearly. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat and she felt her entire body go limp. She was experiencing one of those strange moments in time which sometimes happened to people right before a terrible accident. Everything seemed to be running in slow motion as she felt the water glass slipping from her hand. Somehow, she managed to snap out of it in time to regain her grip, but as she did, the glass slammed down hard on the bar. She quickly turned her face away, hoping the man hadn't seen her.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" asked the bartender.
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."
"What's wrong?" asked Rosemary.
"Nothing, nothing at all. I just lost my grip for a moment," she said as she tried to regain her composure. "You know, I haven't eaten very much today, so I guess I must have gone too long without food. I'll be glad when we're finally done here, and we can go grab a bite. Meantime, I think those reporters are coming soon, so I'm going to fix my makeup. Would you mind bringing me my purse, Rosemary? I don't remember where we put it."
Rosemary reluctantly did as she was asked. Gillian grabbed her purse and quickly headed down the hallway. As she rushed into the ladies' room, she was relieved to find no one else inside. Her entire body was shaking. She took several deep breaths as she held onto the vanity. Many times over the years she had wondered if he was still in Denver. Now she finally had her answer, but why did he have to come tonight? Her show would be on display for several weeks. He could have just as easily stopped by another night.
She remained at the vanity, breathing slowly and deeply. After a few minutes her body started to relax. As she thought it over again, she realized it was perfectly innocent. She now had a different last name, and he couldn't have known that. This would make his being here purely coincidental. He always had an appreciation for art. For all she knew, he was one of Tony's regulars. Her hands were still a little shaky as she took one last deep breath. Reaching for a tissue, she gently patted the little beads of sweat that had popped up on her forehead. As she patted, she looked more closely at her face in the mirror.
Gillian looked a good ten years younger than her actual age. Despite all the time that had passed, she still looked much the same. About the only noticeable difference between then and now was that her long blonde hair was now a shoulder-length pageboy. As she reminisced about the past her mind suddenly filled with a whirlwind of images of all they had shared, the good times as well as the bad. It was like watching a movie, but the scenes were spliced together out of sequence.
"Calm down, Gillian," she said to her reflection. "You've got to pull yourself together." As she took a few more deep breaths the events of one particular day began playing back in her mind with crystal clarity. It was the day she first laid eyes on Ian Palmer.
