Page 27 of Footprints in the Sand
Almost immediately when they arrived, Oriana was pulled into conversation with other high-rolling Manhattanites, andMeghan and Dimitra made their way alone, laughing together and gazing out the window. Meghan confessed, “I never feel comfortable at these things,” and then told Dimitra a very soft-spoken story about Oriana’s early years in this field, how she’d accidentally sold a big client a forged art piece. “She could have been ruined,” Meghan whispered.
Dimitra was amazed. What a scandal!
“Oriana never would have done it on purpose,” Meghan said. “Her best friend was responsible for the forgery. Sometimes I think about that. How can we trust the people we’re closest to?”
Dimitra filled her mouth with her cocktail and felt her heart thud with recognition.
But before long, Meghan was pulled into a conversation with another woman whose daughter had just “moved halfway around the world to Japan for no reason,” and they were commiserating. Dimitra felt guilty and moved away from them, eyeing the guests, wondering which of them was the “high-paying client” Dimitra was supposed to meet before the night was through.
Before long, Dimitra found herself in a side room, eyeing the art tucked away in here. Much of it was incredibly strange and exciting, art that broke new ground and demanded fresh perspectives. It made her want to talk to the artists, to ask them how they felt about their work being displayed in a room that, it seemed, people very rarely entered.
Was that what she wanted for her own pieces? Did she want them to be hidden away like this—in exchange for money? It felt so purposeless.
She walked farther into the room and discovered a long glass table, within which were displayed numerous artifacts. The artifacts took her breath away. They were old marble sculptures, old papyrus texts, things from Ancient Egypt, Ancient Rome,and Ancient Greece. So much history was here, hidden away. Did anyone even look at these anymore?
It was clear that whoever William Cottrill was, he liked to collect things, he liked to own history, to feel more powerful because he could reclaim the past.It was a false logic,she thought. What did it mean to own the past? You couldn’t.
Suddenly, Dimitra was conscious that someone else was in the room with her. A man with dark black-and-gray hair and penetrating dark eyes was looking at the paintings on the walls with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted. He looked inquisitive and intelligent and very handsome. Dimitra always enjoyed watching people as they viewed art, trying to guess what emotions they were experiencing. But a second later, he caught her looking and didn’t glance away. The intensity in the room mounted. She thought he would accuse her of staring. She had been and still was, she supposed.
Dimitra surprised herself by talking first. “What do you think of it?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Of this painting?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s extraordinary. I think the pain it represents is jagged and personal and unique. The use of color in the left-hand corner makes my brain feel like it’s on fire,” he said.
His answer surprised Dimitra incredibly. She took a small step toward him, drawn to the deepness of his baritone voice.
“And what do you think of the fact that these paintings and ancient artifacts are locked away in here, where nobody ever really sees them?” Dimitra asked.
The man cut her a crooked smile. “I think I know what you’re thinking about it. You don’t hide your thoughts away.”
“I just can’t get my head around it,” Dimitra said. “Artisans from my home country carved these wonderful things thousands of years ago. And now they’re here? Behind glass? It makes mewonder what I’m doing as an artist. Is that what I wanted, too? Do I want my things to be under glass? Do I want my art to last forever? Is it selfish to take up so much space if it isn’t useful for anyone else but whoever this William Cottrill is?”
The man thought for a moment. “Would you rather your art fall apart over time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said. “Maybe nothing is supposed to last forever. Perhaps it’s selfish to think that it should.”
The man gave her a look that reminded her of Harry, the dog owner and sailor, that showed how intrigued he was by her. Dimitra’s heart fluttered.
She brought Kostos’s face to her mind’s eye and reminded herself of her singular truth. She would always be in love with Kostos and only with Kostos. It was how things were meant to be.
That was when Oriana tracked her down in the little side room where no one, apparently, was meant to be. “There you are!” But a moment later, Oriana glanced at the man, and her face brightened into a false-looking smile. “Ah! I see you’ve already met.”
Dimitra’s heart dropped. She realized at once that she’d made a grave error.
“William, it’s a wonderful party, as usual,” Oriana said.
Dimitra winced. Tears filled her eyes. She’d insulted William Cottrill to his face. She suggested his art collection wasn’t worthwhile. Why would he ever buy her paintings now?
“I find the party terribly boring,” William said, “but I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
Oriana’s smile looked pained. “Has Dimitra been telling you about her work?”
“A little bit,” William said, arching a single eyebrow. “I rather like her unique perspective.”
Oriana clasped her hands. “She truly is a spitfire, isn’t she? She’s taken Martha’s Vineyard by storm.”
