“You have?”
“Yes,” he said with a firm nod. “Life’s too damn short to spend time regretting or wishing for what might’ve been. From now on, I plan to live in the present and enjoy every minute.”
My throat was tight but I managed to whisper, “I’ve missed you, Abraham.”
He pulled me in for one last hug. “Ah, Punkin, that’s music to these old ears.” He let me go, but added, “We won’t be strangers anymore, agreed?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a while.”
“I’ll be there.”
He walked away and would’ve vanished in the crowd, but his mop of hair was like a beacon. I watched him until he slipped through the doorway leading to the small West Gallery and disappeared.
I knew the West Gallery led to a series of smaller display rooms that finally ended at the stairway that led to the basement where his temporary studio was located. One of the perks of working on a Covington exhibit was the free use of their state-of-the-art on-site workshops-if you could find your way through the jumbled warren of galleries and halls and stairways. Of course, if you were going to get lost, this was a great place to do it.
My heart felt as though a weight had been lifted. Abraham and I could go forward as friends and colleagues instead of the distant rivals I was afraid we’d become.
Feeling lighter, I moved toward the exhibit of Walt Whitman letters and photographs. The main hall was now filled to capacity with the cream of San Francisco society. Wall-to-wall old farts, as promised.
Thinking of old farts made me think of Robin, which in turn reminded me that I didn’t have a drink in my hand.
As I scanned the room in search of the bar, my attention was drawn to the far side of the hall. Near a large panel of original Audubon paintings, one man stood alone, leaning against the wall, a wary stranger in this swarm of friends and fellow book lovers. He sipped a drink as he observed the crowd, the exhibits, the ambiance, yet he seemed to hold himself apart from it all.
I’d never seen him before. I would’ve remembered. He was over six feet tall and his hair was dark and closely cropped. His leanly muscled build exuded tough-guy strength, almost as if he’d just as soon use his fists as his charm to get what he wanted. I could appreciate that. There was pure male arrogance and more than a few secrets in his dark eyes as he glanced around the room.
When his gaze met mine, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. Directly at me. I wasn’t mistaken. What was that all about?
His apparent disapproval was such an unexpected affront that I glowered right back at him. He didn’t look away, continued to stare, and there was no way I was going to look away first. But the room began to shrink and I had to grip the railing in front of the Walt Whitman exhibit for a second.
I might’ve blinked. I hope not. But in that instant his frown disappeared, replaced by a look of bland disinterest as he once again surveyed the crowd.
He didn’t look back at me. A good thing because I probably looked like a fool, heaving and panting for air.
I really needed to get out more.
More than a little annoyed with myself, I pushed my way through the crowd and by the time I made it to the bar, I was relatively sane again-until I saw who was pouring the drinks.
“Dad?”
“Hi, sweetie,” he said as though this were an everyday occurrence, his tending bar at a high-society opening, pouring me a glass of cabernet sauvignon without asking whether I wanted one. Weird.
Well, of course I wanted the wine. That wasn’t the weird part.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
He nudged his eyeglasses up (they had a tendency to slide down his nose), then handed me the wine. He poured two glasses of chardonnay and passed them off to another patron before turning back to me.
“Hey, babe, isn’t this a gas?” he said, grinning. “Abraham swung this gig. The Covington’s agreed to feature our wines at all their events from now on. Robson’s totally psyched. Can you dig it?”
He went back to pouring and explaining the complexities of the wines to the others gathered around the bar while I took two deep swigs of excellent cabernet sauvignon. It wasn’t the best way to savor a fine wine, but who could blame me? I’d been here less than half an hour and I was already wrung out.