Firebird (22 page)

The first strains of the balalaika and the warming scent of borscht floated from Primorski’s, beckoning seductively.  He blinked in the twilight.  Brighton Beach was coming alive with the night sounds and scents of Russia.  He gazed around at the people strolling past the brightly lit cafes and shops.  These people were free.  Proud to work, living in their own homes and apartments with their children, dancing in the evenings to the Russian music, breathing in the fresh sea air every day.  Most of them, content. 
Free
. 

And now he was planning to help destroy his adopted country.

Am I fighting for now what I was fighting for then? he asked himself.  How can I make sense of the present until I come to terms with the past?

“The way to freedom is harder than I thought,” he murmured.

CHAPTER 24

“Thou canst not see my face...”

Exodus

GEORGETOWN

“Mommy will be home soon, sweetheart.  I miss you, Rubygirl.  And I love you all the way up to the sky.”

Alexandra sat curled in a black wicker chair in the walled garden hidden behind Anthony Rhodes’ townhouse.  Rain had come and blown off, and beyond the high stone wall the haloed glimmer of Georgetown’s street lamps brushed the blowing oak leaves with gold.  Tires whispered on the wet cobble-stoned street.  Hurrying footsteps faded, until the only sounds came from the rustling leaves and the soft sigh of her breath.  She disconnected the cell phone with regret and pressed it close to her chest as if to prolong the link to her tiny daughter. 

Closing her eyes tightly, she thought, I just want to go home, to Ruby.  Damn.  I miss my girl.  I miss my paintings.  I miss my
hair
! 

She shook her head wryly.  Only one more day, she promised herself.  The important thing was that Ruby was safe, and happy, with Olivia and her brother.  If only…  she thought about Eve, so often separated from Juliet. 
I can’t let that happen to us, Ruby
.  For too long now, she’d been burying herself in her work.  No more.  As soon as this is over, she vowed, Ruby and I are going to spend more time together. 

Her eyes fell on the silent phone.  Ring, damn you.  Where are you, Billie?  Billie Jordan had promised to contact her before the day was over.  Now it was after seven o’clock, and still no word.  She punched in Billie’s number once more, then disconnected in frustration when she heard Billie’s voice on the now-familiar recorded message.

She closed her eyes.  Billie had said something to her earlier, something important.  But the words hovered just out of reach.  What had she said?  Call me, Billie, Alexandra demanded silently.  You know more about Eve’s death than you’ve told me.  Whether you know it or not.  Help me find the truth, so that I can go home.

A rush of wind ruffled her newly-shorn hair, carrying with it the sharp smoky scent of damp leaves and the threat of more rain.  The twilight sky reminded her of a Van Gogh painting, a deepening wash of purple, with violent streaks of gold disappearing into wild dark clouds that billowed in the freshening wind. 

She looked down at the phone in her hand.  She had checked in with the gallery, and spoken with Sister Joseph Maureen.  All was well at St. T’s, Juliet was at a rehearsal.  The earlier call to her niece hadn’t gone quite so well, ending too soon with  “You’re ruining my life!  Call someone who cares next time!” 
Slam
.

What did I expect, Alexandra asked herself.  What would troubled teens do when things were bad?  She tried to remember.  Fight back, take drugs, run away?  Lose themselves in music, art? 
Dance
?  Her niece’s words, spoken in Maine, slipped into her head. 
My mother never saw me dance
.  Oh, God, Eve, we need you.   I don’t know what to do for your daughter.  You died too damned soon.

Alexandra tipped her glasses over her nose and reached for a stick of charcoal and the sketchpad she’d brought from Maine.  The photograph of her sister – the one Billie had given her at the shelter that morning - rested in the center of the glass table beside her.  It was surrounded by a dozen crumpled sketches.  After countless tries, she’d given up trying to draw Eve’s face. 
We kept too many secrets from each other
, she thought sadly, staring down at the blank paper.

She turned the page and touched the drawing she’d made in Maine – the faceless hunter moving through the forest, the Prince Ivan of the Firebird legend as she imagined him.  Call me, Billie, she thought again.  I need your help.  I need to put a face to the name.

The clouds raced across the darkening sky above the garden as her hand moved once more across the paper.  She sketched a bare-footed Ruby curled on the sofa, her silky head bent to look at a picture book.  Not bad, thought Alexandra, studying the portrait with a critical gaze.  God, it felt good to be drawing again after so many months.  More strokes captured Juliet on the beach in Maine, hunched and alone, the sand dollar in her hand as she gazed out to sea. 

And still the phone was silent.

Turning the pad to a fresh page, she drew Anthony’s profile, carved and hawk-like, etched with mourning.  Then a portrait of Billie, her skin dark and shining over sharp bones, huge earrings flashing, eyes fierce with determination.  At the bottom of the page, one more face emerged as Alexandra drew quick, sharp lines without conscious thought. 

For several moments the only sounds in the garden were the murmur of the wind, the whisper of falling leaves and the brush of charcoal over smooth paper.  She was only vaguely aware of the distant door chime, sounding deep within the brownstone.

She drew the last few strokes of the eyes and studied the portrait with surprise.  The face that stared back at her was strong and edgy, an arresting mix of confidence and stillness.  Sculpted granite cheekbones, dark Spanish eyes that were too serious, intelligent and assessing, a hard curve of mouth... 

With an angry shrug, she flipped the pad closed.

“You look like a kid curled in that chair,” said a low voice behind her.

She leaped up, bracing her body.  Then, “Garcia!” 

He was leaning against the French doors, his eyes almost black in the twilight.  As he moved toward her across the tiny courtyard, she pushed the pad out of sight, slipping it behind the chair cushion as she faced him. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Are you always this cordial?  A lovely Irish woman named Mary told me you were out here – and she said you’d been alone
quite
long enough.”  He glanced up at the sky.  “Wind’s kicking up, the storm’s blowing back in.  Get your raincoat, we’re going to dinner.  I think you’re going to like this club.”

“You want to go clubbing?”  She looked at him as if he’d just told her he wanted to take her zip-lining.  “I’m not going to any club with you!”

His eyes swept over her.  “You have to eat, Red.  And I think you’ll find this particular club very interesting.”

“You’ve found something.”

He withdrew a paper from his jacket pocket and waved it in front of her.  “I’ve tracked down your sister’s credit card records.  Two nights before she died, she charged a pitcher of cosmopolitans at Club 1215, a D.C. jazz club on Florida Avenue.”

“Cosmos and jazz, now that sounds like Eve!”  She tipped her glasses to the top of her head and looked down at her heavy black turtle neck sweater and leggings.  “Just give me a minute to change.”

“No need.  Black suits you, Red.  And that gaunt New-York-art-world look of yours will fit right in at the 1215.”  He looked back toward the brownstone’s lighted windows.  “Unless you were planning to have dinner with Rhodes?”

“No, he had a late business meeting.” 

“Good.”  Garcia dropped into the chair beside her, stretched long jean-clad legs out in front of him.  “Still early, we don’t have to leave quite yet.”  He gestured toward her phone.  “Talk to your kid?” 

“Yes.”  She hesitated, then sat down beside him.  How had they suddenly gone from professional to personal? 

“Tell me about her.”  His voice held a tone she hadn’t heard before.  Emotion?  Sadness?   No, she decided.  It was more - yearning.  Hurt.

She looked at him with a question but the dark eyes were unreadable.  Okay, then.  The truth.  She slipped the locket from around her neck, flipped it open and held it out to him.

“I could never imagine anything more beautiful than art, or opera,” she said softly.  “But then Ruby was born.  I’ve never loved
anyone
the way that I love this little girl.  She’s…”  She stopped, closed her eyes.  “So expressive, so animated.  She loves books about puppies, and dressing up, and strawberry ice cream with sprinkles.  Her favorite colors are pink and purple. She gives the sweetest butterfly kisses.”  She smiled, picturing her child.  “And she likes me to rub her back when she’s falling asleep…”

“Don’t we all.  Smart kid.”  He gazed down at the tiny photograph for a long moment, with an expression she couldn’t read.  Then he closed it gently and pressed it into her hand.  “Little Red.  She’s beautiful.”

Her phone chimed Puccini and she lunged for it, waving a hand at him with a ‘hold your thought’ gesture.  “Marik.”

She listened, then nodded.  “Terrific, Ace.  I want the best glass restorer you can find.  Then contact the folks in Cambridge and Israel and set up the meeting.”

She disconnected and turned back to Garcia.  “Sorry, Baranski business.”

“Glass?  I thought your gallery dealt in canvasses.”

She smiled.  “
Stained
glass.  The art of glass was born 5,000 years ago in the land of the Bible.  So fragile and valuable, stained glass windows were removed piece by piece from several of the great European cathedrals during World War II to protect them from the bombing.”

His attention was full on her.  “Didn’t know that.  Why do you need a restorer?”

“Stained glass is a dying art.  For thousands of years, using holy soil, the designs were passed from father to son.  Now everything is computerized, no one is learning to work with glass anymore using the old traditions, the ancient techniques.”  She looked up at him.  “How do we preserve grace and beauty from generation to generation?  How do we keep the history alive?”  She faltered, too aware of the sudden flare in his eyes.  “Sorry,” she said.  “When something really matters, I tend to get too passionate.”

“No, I like it.  A woman who fights to keep the past alive, who knows that beauty
does
matter.  I
do
know how to appreciate beauty,” he added, his eyes on her, blazing like the last moment of a sunset.

She felt the sudden flush on her skin and looked away.  “It’s too easy to lose sight of what’s important,” she rushed on.  “We have to protect our vanishing worlds, for our children.  So I’m planning a series of master classes at the Baranski this spring that will teach the earliest glass techniques.”

“What a curator does, right?  Takes care of art, other artists.  But what about taking care of
yourself
?  You told me when we met that you used to paint. What inspires that?”

She shook her head.  “Chagall was inspired by fiddlers and dancing cows.  But for me...  I remember seeing my first Van Gogh, and Matisse, in Boston when I was a young child.  The colors, the emotional intensity – they set me on fire.”

His eyes moved over her, assessing.  “I figured you more for… Botanicals?  DaVinci charcoals?  And portraits - brooding Dutch women staring out at a dark sea.”

She arched an eyebrow.  “Is that how you see me?  Portraits, yes.  But I love big swaths of color.  Light and shadows.  Movement.”

“Like the sea.”

“Yes.  Painters find their place.  Van Gogh had Arles.  Gaugain, Tahiti.  Georgia O’Keefe needed the deserts of New Mexico.”

“And Maine’s sea and fog got under your skin.”

He understood.  “Yes.  As it’s gotten under yours.”  She glanced up at the rainswept clouds.  “Everywhere I look, I see a painting.  Water and sky are as inseparable as Ruby and art in my life.  And now, I find myself intrigued by Modern Art.  Mark Rothko’s purples, his bright orange sweeps.  Abstracts.”

“Abstracts,“ he murmured, amused.   “Explains a lot.”

She returned his smile.  “Art is art,” she quoted.  “Everything else is… everything else.”

“So what happened?”

“Painting was like breathing for me.”  She shrugged.  “But then – life happened.”  

The wind touched her face and she saw her papers begin to flutter.  “Oh, no!”  Reaching quickly for the photograph of Eve before it blew away, she saw that he was looking down at the crumpled papers now skittering across the flagstones. 

“You’ve been trying to sketch your sister?”

“Yes.  But I can’t.”

He glanced at the rescued photograph in her hand, then back to her.  “She was a beautiful woman.”

“But when I try to draw her, I can’t seem to see her face.”

“You’re never quite what I expect you to be,” he murmured.

She stood abruptly.  “We should go,” she said, her voice uneven in her ears.  Turning too fast, her hip caught the edge of the garden chair and the forgotten sketch pad fell to the stones, fluttering open in the quickening breeze.

Before she could stop him, Garcia bent to retrieve the pad and saw the drawings. 

“I can see how much you miss your daughter.  These are good.”  He studied the haunting sketch of Juliet, head bowed in grief.  “
Really
good.”

Oh, no.  She reached for the pad.  Too late.

“What’s this?” he said softly.  He was staring down at the sketch on the bottom of page.  She’d captured him on the beach in Maine, the first time she’d seen him, eyes dark and hair blown across his forehead, with the sky and sea wild and violent behind him like a mirror of his thoughts.  

She held out her hand for the drawings.  “It’s - just a man and his dog and a deserted beach,” she murmured.  She was very aware of his gaze.  “You don’t like it…”

He scowled down at her.