Page 150 of Homeport

“Not exactly.”

They stood for a moment, each crunching pretzels and contemplating the annoyance of sexual frustration. “Wanna go out and get drunk later?” Andrew grinned at her. “Just a little recovery humor.”

“Ha ha.” She dug into the bag, came up with a few grains of salt, sighed. “Got any more of these?”

• • •

Ryan’s first stop in San Francisco was the gallery. He’d chosen the old warehouse in the waterfront district because he’d wanted a lot of space, and had decided to separate his business from the dozens of galleries downtown.

It had worked, making Boldari’s more exclusive, unique, and allowing him to provide fledgling artists with a chance to show their work in a top-flight gallery.

He’d decided on a casual ambiance rather than the elegance he’d created in New York. Here, paintings might be spotlighted against raw brick or wood, and sculpture often stood on rough metal columns. Wide, unframed windows provided a view of the bay and the busy tourist traffic.

A second-floor cafe provided artists and art lovers with foamy cappuccino and lattes at tiny tables reminiscent of a sidewalk trattoria while they looked down on the main gallery, or gazed up at the third-floor studios.

Ryan settled himself at one of the tables and grinned across at his brother Michael. “So, how’s business?”

“Remember that metal sculpture you told me looked like a train wreck?”

“I think my opinion was it looked like the wreck of a circus train.”

“Yeah, that was it. We sold it yesterday for twenty thousand and change.”

“A lot of people have more money than taste. How’s the family?”

“See for yourself. You’re expected for dinner.”

“I’ll be there.” He leaned back, studying his brother as Michael ordered coffee for both of them.

“It suits you,” Ryan commented. “Marriage, family, the house in the burbs.”

“It better, I’m in for the duration. And a good thing for you. It helps keep Mama off your ass.”

“It doesn’t help much. I saw her yesterday. I’m supposed to tell you she needs new pictures of the kids. How is she supposed to remember what they look like if you don’t send pictures?”

“We sent her ten pounds of pictures last month.”

“You can deliver the next batch in person. I want you and the family to come in for the exhibit and fund-raiser at the Institute. You got the memo on that, right?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Any problem with the scheduling?”

Michael considered as their coffee was served. “None that I can think of. We should be able to make it. The kids always love a chance to go into New York and see the family, fight with their cousins, have Papa sneak them candy. And it’ll give me a chance to see this Ph.D. Mama told us about. What’s she like?”

“Miranda? Smart, very smart. Capable.”

“Smart and capable?” Michael sipped his coffee, noting the way his brother’s fingers lightly tapped the table. Ryan wasn’t often given to restless or wasted motion, he thought. The smart, capable woman was on his mind—and his nerves. “Mama said she’s a looker, lots of red hair.”

“Yeah, she’s a redhead.”

“You usually go for blondes.” When Ryan only arched an eyebrow, Michael laughed. “Come on, Ry, spill it. What’s the story?”

“She’s beautiful. She’s complicated. It’s complicated,” he decided, and finally realized he was tapping his fingers. “We’re doing business together on a couple of levels.”

This time Michael’s brow lifted. “Oh really?”

“I don’t want to get into that right now.” Missing her was like a fire in his gut. “Let’s just say we’re working together on a couple of projects, this exhibit for one. And we have a personal relationship. We’re enjoying each other. That’s all.”

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