Page 42 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

A woman approached, smiling broadly. She had long salt-and-pepper hair that fell well below her shoulders and looked like a younger version of the woman in the painting.

“Ed, Susannah, I’m so glad you could make it.”

She gave them each a kiss on the cheek.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Susannah said. “Stone, I’d like to introduce you to Ivonne Cervantes. Ivonne, this is our friend Stone Barrington.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Please, call me Stone. And the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Cervantes. Your work is exquisite.”

“You are too kind. And if I’m to call you Stone, then you must call me Ivonne.”

“Ivonne, then.” He gestured to the painting “I take it she’s a relative.”

She smiled. “My mother.”

“Speaking of mothers,” Susannah said. “You may be familiar with Stone’s.”

“Oh? And who is she?”

“Matilda Stone,” Stone said.

“My God. I love her work.”

“As do I.”

“I attended an exhibit in New York that included several pieces of hers. They drew me in instantly.”

“She would have appreciated that. For me, each is more than just the painting itself. They’re memories of her and my fatherand our lives together. Which makes them priceless as far as I’m concerned.”

“Do you own many yourself?”

“Not nearly as many as I’d like.” He looked back at the painting on the wall near them. “I must say, your work shares the same qualities as hers.”

Ivonne tucked her arm through his. “For that, you get a guided tour. And, please, don’t feel the need to hold back on compliments.”

She took Stone and the Eagles around the gallery, giving insights into each painting they passed.

They were about halfway through the exhibit when a man approached, smiling broadly. “And who do we have here?”

He couldn’t have been more than five and a half feet tall, and was dressed in a vibrant blue suit, matching blue tie, and black shirt. His thick-framed glasses were also blue, and his spiked graying hair seemed glued in place.

“These are my good friends Susannah and Ed Eagle, and their friend Stone Barrington,” Ivonne said. She motioned to the man. “This is Simon Duchamp, owner of the gallery.”

Simon flashed a set of bright white teeth. “Isn’t Ivonne’s work marvelous?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaned forward and stage-whispered, “We’ve already sold six. So, if there’s one you’re interested in, I wouldn’t wait too long.”

“Oh, Simon, stop with the hard sell,” Ivonne said, though the news clearly pleased her.

“Are you collectors?” Simon asked.

“We have several works by local artists in our home,” Ed said. “Including two by Ivonne.”

“I love hearing that. And you, Mr. Barrington?”

“I am.”

“His mother was Matilda Stone,” Ivonne says.

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