Aria touched the top of an old spinning wheel that had sat in the corner of the gallery as long as she could remember—kind of like a lot of the artwork here. “What’s his name?” she asked.
Ella peeked out the front window. “Asher Trethewey.”
Asher Trethewey. Aria couldn’t have made up a more appropriate name for a retired lawyer-turned-artist if she tried. She could just picture him with a box of pastels, dithering over a pastoral scene of the Brandywine Water Gap. “Do you need my help?” she asked.
“Actually, I do.” Ella checked her watch. “I’m scheduled to meet another artist for lunch in fifteen minutes—so I have to go. I’m wondering if you’ll talk to Mr. Trethewey in my place.”
“Me?” Aria thumbed her chest. It seemed like a big responsibility.
“He just needs to pick up some paperwork.” Ella gestured to a stack of papers on the desk. “All you need to do is make sure he gets it, okay?” She checked her watch again, then grabbed her keys and purse from her desk. “I’ve got to run. I’m sure you’ll be fine!”
She flew out the door. Aria walked to the window and watched her scurry down the front steps and climb into her car. The motor growled to life, and her mother was gone. The street was eerily quiet in her absence. A squirrel paused on a branch, its head cocked. Wind chimes on the front porch swayed but didn’t touch. An airplane soared overhead, too high up to hear.
Aria spun around the big room, first staring blankly at a wall of watercolor still lifes, then looking down at the paperwork for the artist. It was full of legal mumbo-jumbo she didn’t understand. What if the artist had questions? This was so her mother. When they were living in Iceland, Ella had broken her leg while trying to catch a lost baby puffin up a tree, and while she was laid up, she’d asked Aria to drive their Saab to the grocery store. Never mind that Aria was only fourteen and had never driven in her life. “You’ll be great!” Ella had insisted. “Just stay on the left side of the road and stop at red lights!”
There was a knock at the door, and Aria turned. Rolling back her shoulders, she crossed the room and tried to prepare what she’d say—only, she had no idea what to say. When she opened the door, a young man in a black T-shirt and skinny gray pants, carrying a large black portfolio, stood on the porch. He had broad shoulders, smoldering ice-blue eyes, a perfect nose, a strong chin, and sensuous lips. He looked like a cross between a sexy British soccer player and a guy from a Polo cologne ad.
Aria raised an eyebrow. “Um, hello?”
He thrust out a hand. “Hi. I’m Asher Trethewey. Are you Ella Montgomery?”
“O-oh,” Aria stammered. She backed up, almost stumbling over her kitten heels. “Um, no, I’m her daughter, Aria. But I can help you. Come on in.” Her voice rose on that last part, making it sound like a question. “I have the papers right here,” she said, walking toward the desk.
Asher walked into the room and placed his hands on his hips. “Actually, I was going to show your mom my work—see what she thought would be best for the exhibit.”
“Oh.” Aria gritted her teeth. See? She knew something like this would come up. “Well, she’ll be back soon, I think . . .”
Asher cocked his head and smiled at Aria. “Or you can take a look, if you like.”
He set the portfolio on the desk and opened it up. Inside were a bunch of photographic images. All of them had an ethereal, out-of-focus quality to them, and most featured people caught in movement—jumping, spinning, flipping on a trampoline. Aria leaned down and inspected one picture of a little girl running through a sprinkler more closely. It wasn’t a photo at all but made of tiny pixels, like a mosaic.
“Whoa,” Aria said. “You’re a digital Chuck Close.”
A corner of Asher’s bow-shaped mouth rose. “A few reviewers have said that, too.”
“He’s one of my favorites,” Aria admitted. “I’ve tried to do pieces in his style, but I’m not talented enough.” She’d been inspired after going to a Chuck Close retrospective at the Philadelphia Museum of Art last summer. Noel had gone with her, spending hours there while she intently studied each work, not saying even once that he was bored.
She stiffened. Don’t think about Noel, Aria chided silently, giving herself a mental slap. She cleared her throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you in Rosewood?”
Asher raised his head and chuckled. “I’m in Hollis because I have a fellowship gig I have to fulfill. Before that, I was in San Francisco.”
“Really?” Aria picked up a coaster that featured a fly trapped in a blob of amber, kind of feeling sorry for the poor bug. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“It’s chill.” He stretched his long, sinewy arms over his head. “Tell the truth. You thought I was going to be one of those artists who painted Amish buggies and cow pastures, huh?”
“Well, maybe,” Aria admitted. Her gaze returned to Asher’s work again. “Have you had a lot of shows?”
“I have an agent in New York, so I’ve been lucky.” He lowered his long lashes. “A couple of celebs have been interested in my work, so that’s kind of cool.”
Aria raised an eyebrow. “Anyone I’d know?”
Asher closed the portfolio. “A lot of indie musicians, old players in the art-gallery scene. The biggest name was probably Madonna.”
“The Madonna?” Aria couldn’t control her shriek. “Did you actually meet her?”