I run around the gallery, checking and double-checking nameplates and details. I’ve worked myself into a mild lather by the time I turn around and practially plow into Bette Porter. “Oh! I’m sorry.” “Clea, are you okay?” She steadies me with her hands on my shoulders. “Just jittery.” “Listen, this show is already a hit. Everything is ready to go. Steve and I have checked and double-checked everything. It’s perfect.” “What if they hate it?” I hate the way it sounds the instant it leaves my mouth. I sound like a whining baby, and if there’s anyting I hate, it’s that. But Bette just smiles maternally as if used to dealing with freaking-out artists. “They won’t. The Times and L.A. Magazine have both raved about it, so has New York. The show is just a formality. It’s gonna be great.” “Yeah.” “Go put on some shoes. We’re opening in fifteen minutes.” I put on shoes and retouch my lipstick and fluff out my hair. I look good. She is going to be here tonight. In an hour or two, or three, she’ll see me in this sweet little dress. I sigh, and press my forehead to the tile. My body feels hot all over. When I come out of the bathroom I see Bette standing in front of L.A. is Burning. She has the most expressive eyes I have ever seen, eyebrows curled into a pained and beautiful expression. “What are you thinking?” “Um. This pink neon. It reminds me of something, from a long time ago.” “Provocations?” She turns to me with big wide eyes. “How did you know that?” “I was there.” “That night changed my life.” “Mine too.” She turns and looks at me, surprised. “What happened?” “Just between you and me…I found out that my mother was sleeping with the girl I was in love with. I learned my dad was capable of murder. And I realized that I had absolutely no clue who I was.” “Wow.” “You?” “I lost my wife, because of something I’d done.” “I’m sorry.” “It was a long time ago.” “I know. Alice told me that she can’t decide if she loves it or hates it. I agreee. Anyway, what I told you. Please don’t repeat it to anyone.” “I won’t.” She reaches out and presses a red dot to the nameplate. “It’s sold?” “I think I should have a reminder.” she says sadly. “I’d be honored to buy it from you.” I look up at her, surprised. “Thank you.” “Thank you,” she says sadly, walking away. “I’m opening!” Steve calls out from the other room, and adrenaline flows through me. I take a few more steps in and again take one last private look at her painting. Lush blooming cheeks and lips, fragile curves and fierce lines. Either I’m hallucinating or a damn good artist or in love, because every time I look at it I see something different. And right now I don’t really care to think about which of those is true. My eyes flicker to the nameplate. I wracked my brain to find something worthy of describing her. Finally last night at four in the morning I settled for just calling it Shane. Suddenly the gallery is full of people, most of whom I’ve never met, and time begins to go very quickly. This is a blessed thing. I have the same conversation again and again. People tell me they love it. Steve hands me champagne, which I barely sip. The night is a whirl, and red dots pop up like poppies. I linger in the middle of the room where the portraits are, curious to get people’s reactions to Shane. “Wow,” they say. “She’s ***** gorgeous.” “Is that Shane?” “That, is ***** exquisite.” I listen covertly, looking at other paintings as if I were just another gallery-goer. The reactions to my self-portraits are similar, to my surprise. They say I’m beautiful, say that they’re exquisitely done. I don’t get this. They’re not even remotely close. I know that the best thing in this show is my eleventh hour portrait of Shane. And that’s cool, I accept that, because I put a lot of my heart into that painting. “Clea, honey.” I turn and my aunt Dorothy is there, to my horror wearing the same purple dress she wore in her portrait. Her mere presence, as always, puts me at ease. “Hi, Dodo.” I hug her, and she smells of baby powder and L’air Du Temps. The scent of constancy. “Oh, honey, you look beautiful.” “Thank you.” Movement in the doorway catches my eye. Shane steps into the room. And all the air is gone. Then Steve’s hand is tugging me, pulling me toward a cluster of people at the back of the gallery. “Excuse me, I need to borrow her.” I raise my hand at Shane and a look passes between us. “Jesus, Steve, that was rude. That was my aunt.” “I don’t care if it was the Pope. The assistant director of the MoMA is here and he loves your work.” It goes on like that for an hour or so. Complete insanity, sips of champagne, escapes to the bathroom to freshen my makeup and catch my breath. My friend Angela got married last summer, a big Hollywood ***** wedding, and I imagine that this is what she felt like in the chaos of the reception. Throughout the insanity I’m keenly aware of Shane. She is wearing a leather miniskirt with red stilettos, and a $700 Armani blazer over a white wifebeater. Her hair is chaotic, jaggedly cut much the way it was that summer of burning and betrayal, and she is absolutely ***** stunning. She mingles and looks at the canvases. Every time I see her looking at my work I feel naked, as if she is looking at my bare body, and each time is the first. My conception of space is measured by my proximity to her, but I try not to stare. I’m going to have her tonight. I don’t care what happens. She’ll break my heart, but I don’t care now. I don’t think I can stop myself from having her. I’m talking to Alice Pieszecki and her wife Dana, slowly making my way closer to Shane, when Steve invades my space and whispers something in my ear. “You’re sold out, babe.” I look at him and grin. Alice and Dana just look irritated by his rudeness. We are quiet for a minute, and then Shane is there, standing very close to me. “Hi.” she says in that sweet deep voice. “Hi.” I smile. “You look stunning.” So do you, I say with my eyes, but I just smile and thank her. We hug each other gingerly, aware that people are watching. Her lips ever so slightly graze my cheek and my pulse quickens. All the while Alice watches us, noticing everything. I need to make sure that Jaz and Alice never meet. The two biggest gossips in the world, and if they were ever in the same place at the same time, they would likely both implode. “Hey Shane,” Dana says. “Are you stag tonight?” “Yep.” “No date?” “I’m meeting someone here.” Alice rolls her eyes. “*****,” she says. I smile insipidly. That was the ultimate double entendre. What did that mean? She wouldn’t… “Bite me,” Shane grins. “Shane, my editor wants a whole-page reproduction of your painting in the lifestyle section. You’re the second star of this show.” “All I did was lie there and fall asleep.” She says modestly. “Clea gets the props.” “Thanks.” I say. I’m about to scream from all the interaction and small talk, or burst into tears from the tension of of this show and worrying and wanting her so badly, and the desire to take Shane by the hand into the bathroom and do unspeakable things. Then, Jaz and Oliver arrive. “Oh *****.” I mutter. “What?” “Alice’s doppleganger just walked through the door.” I greet Jaz and Ollie and hug them. I make the round of introductions and then, mercifully, I see Bette beckoning to me. “Excuse me, guys.” I smile politely. “Don’t leave,” I mouth discreetly to Shane. She gives me a smile that makes me weak in the knees, and I turn away before I trip over something. “Phone call.” Bette says. “Now?” “I think you want to take it,” she smiles. “Okay.” I pick up the phone, wondering who the ***** it could be. “Hello?” “Hi Clea.” Oh my god, my brother is calling me! “Sky? Oh my god, how are you?” “I wish I was there.” “Me too… where are you?” “Germany. I’ll be stateside soon.” “I’m so glad you called. How long can you talk?” “Not long. How is everything?” “It’s great. Um, I sold out this exhibit an hour ago.” “Is Jaz driving you crazy?” “She just arrived, so the potential for that is minimal.” He laughs. “That’s good.” “When will you be here?” “Three weeks.” “You should get a chance to see my show.” “I can’t wait. So are you seeing anyone?” “Um, I will be… sorta. You’ll never guess who.” “Well I’ll email you as soon as I get my orders. And I can’t wait to see your show.” “I miss you, bro.” “Me too. I have to go.” “Okay. I love you. Be safe.” “Love you too.” “Bye.” “Bye.” I hang up, smiling. “You okay?” I look up. Somehow Shane wound up in Bette’s office. She’s standing right in front of me, leaning to one side in her *****-me pumps. Far more stunning, though, is her smile. It makes me feel a bit high and not so frightened. “That was my brother, calling from Germany. You look so ***** beautiful.” She smiles. “You too.” “Let’s get out of here.” I say. “With pleasure.” Oh god. Her voice is ***** foreplay. Its timbre alone makes me wet. “Great, um, I just… have to extricate myself from this. Let me talk to Bette and I’ll meet you at the cafe on the corner in ten?” “Okay.” “Okay,” I nod. . I find Bette in Steve’s office, rummaging through a file cabinet. “Bette, I’m taking off.” “Okay. You did great.” She hands me a sheet of paper. It lists every painting in the show, the buyer, and the amount. There are some familiar names. Of course Aunt Dodo bought the painting she commissioned, and Bette’s own name is by L.A. is Burning. Someone named Clarence Church bought Shane and I feel a pang that it no longer belongs to me. I have no idea who he is. Next to Refraction, I see the name of the MoMA guy Steve introduced to me. “Oh my god,” I mutter, knowing what that means for my career. Then I see the name next to Reflection. My self-portrait. My snow-globe painting of wild color and lines. S. McCutcheon. “Oh my god.” I repeat. I get my purse and when I walk back into the gallery I see Shane standing riveted in front of one of the paintings. The one of my mother. I step a bit closer, and when I see the look on her face, naked, pained longing, it feels like a knife to the heart. Instantly I am back in time ten years earlier, trapped in a lesser me in a lesser time. I close my eyes and retreat at the same time her head turns. I run out into the Los Angeles night, unsure of just where the ***** I’m going.