Falling Angel (21 page)

Cara retrieved the paper from the recycling. Usually Ann left it out as they both liked to read it, and Cara was somewhat irked that she had already tossed it.

She sat back down at the table and unfolded the paper. It was opened to the arts section. At the bottom of the page, she noticed a small article:

New Artwork to Adorn Federal Building

Seattle’s downtown Federal Building has a bright new look thanks to the King County Arts Commission’s recent Art About Town program, in which grants were awarded to local artists for the purpose of beautifying public buildings. In addition to a mural in the lobby by Alicia Keen, the appearance of the Federal Building was enhanced by new benches created by Toby Funkhauser, painted tiles by Rosalind Cho, and an abstract oil painting by Benjamin Kilpatrick.

The public is invited to attend the art unveiling on Thursday, May 25 at 5 p.m. at the Federal Building. The short ceremony will be followed by refreshments and a performance by the O’Donnelly High School Band.

Thursday, Cara thought. That was only two days away. Impulsively, she decided to attend the unveiling. Hopefully Ben would be pleased to see her make the effort to come out and support his work. If it turned out he was feeling as unsure about everything as she was, they could talk about it. Either way, she couldn’t wait to see him again.

It wasn’t until later that night that the thought struck her. Could Ann have read the article and purposely recycled the paper so that Cara wouldn’t see it? And if so, why? It was pretty clear that Ann had a low opinion of Ben. Maybe she was trying to save Cara’s feelings by hiding any references to him. Or was there a more sinister reason?

.   .   .

By the time Thursday rolled around, preparations for the weekend’s wedding event had reached fever pitch. Cara was unable to leave her office until after 6. Thankfully, Ingrid’s driver Michael was able to drive her to the bus stop, but it was still past 7 p.m. by the time the #48 bus lurched to a stop at 6th and Piedmont. Cara practically ran the three blocks to the Federal Building. When she arrived, her heart sank.

The lawn out front showed obvious post-party signs. A janitor was packing away the rows of folding chairs, from which a few shreds of crepe paper fluttered forlornly in the breeze. A heavyset kid with a pimply face and a large tuba hoisted on his shoulder plodded down the steps toward a waiting minivan.

Cara climbed the steps and tried the door. It was locked, and the lights were off. She sighed deeply, descended the stairs and trudged back to the sidewalk.

It was over. She’d missed the reception, missed seeing Ben. Now she would have to find another bus to take her home. As she began to walk toward the city center, she almost ran into a short, heavy-set woman, elegantly attired in a black cocktail dress and pearls. It was Rachel Fineman.

“Cara!” she exclaimed. Cara managed to paste a smile onto her face as she returned Rachel’s cheek-to-cheek kiss. “How nice to see you again.”

“Good to see you too, Mrs. Fineman,” Cara said.

“Dick and I were just talking about you the other day,” she said. “We were so pleased with the party you and Ingrid put on for my birthday. I wanted to talk to you about organizing my niece’s Bat Mitzvah. It’s coming up in September.”

“Of course. We’d be happy to do it, I’m sure.”

“I’m glad we ran into each other. You’re friends with Ben Kilpatrick, aren’t you? I saw the two of you chatting at my party.”

“Yes.”

“Did you come to see the art unveiling?”

“I meant to, but I got here late,” Cara said. “Things have been so hectic at work. I missed the whole thing.” Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much she had been looking forward to seeing Ben. Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked fiercely, hoping Rachel wouldn’t notice in the semi-dusk.

 “Listen,” Rachel said. “Why don’t you come along with me? You can offer Ben and the other artists your congratulations at the reception.”

Noticing Cara’s blank expression, Rachel smiled warmly. “Dick and I are hosting a reception for the artists at our place. It’s already started, actually, and I should have been there half an hour ago, but I got to schmoozing with the mayor. Ben will be thrilled to see you.”

“I don’t want to intrude. . . “ Cara began.

“Nonsense, the more the merrier. Do you need a ride?”

“That would be great.”

Taking Cara’s arm in a proprietary manner, Rachel continued to the end of the block, where a white Lincoln idled in the fire lane. A white-haired driver opened the rear door and Cara slid in beside Rachel. As the car purred through the evening traffic she felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball.

“Stay as long as you like,” said Rachel. “When you’re ready to leave, tell Mr. Roberts here. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

The Fineman’s residence was a penthouse in a luxury high-rise on First Hill. Mr. Roberts parked in an underground garage.

Cara and Rachel took the elevator to the 21
^st
floor.

As Rachel opened the front door, Cara stared, awestruck. A huge Warhol pop-art painting of Marilyn Monroe hung in the foyer, beyond which was a large rectangular room with an entire wall of windows facing west, affording a spectacular view of the downtown and the Puget Sound beyond.

About 40 people were gathered within, some clustered around a long buffet table in the center of the room, others seated on couches by the gas fireplace built of river rock.

To the right of the fireplace, a set of French doors led out to a balcony that stretched almost the length of the windows. A few people braved the wind and stood outside, dragging furtively on cigarettes.

The walls were hung with abstract and modern art. Cara recognized another Warhol, one of iconic Campbell Soup paintings, and what she thought was a Pollock.

Rachel pointed to a couple by the bar, which had been set up on a marble countertop dividing the kitchen from the living room. A petite Asian woman with short, spiky white hair, dressed in an orange taffeta dress, stood talking to a young man dressed in a blue T-shirt, combat boots and a plaid kilt. Multiple rhinestone rings flashed on the woman’s small hands as she lifted her champagne flute.

“That’s Toby and Rosalind, two of the other artists,” Rachel said.

Compared to the other partygoers, Cara felt rather conservative in her white blouse, sling back sandals, and short brown suede skirt.

Rachel gave Cara’s arm a friendly squeeze. “Help yourself to a drink. Ben and Alicia are around somewhere. So glad I ran into you.” She excused herself and was quickly surrounded by a bevy of women, all as well-groomed and bejeweled as she.

Cara remembered the words Ben had used to describe his ex-girlfriend, Alicia. “Beautiful, talented and ambitious.” She was an artist, too.

Cara scanned the room. A lump rose in her throat as she spied Ben standing by the French doors on the other side of the room, looking tanned, relaxed and incredibly handsome. He was engaged in an animated conversation with a statuesque brunette.

Alicia. It had to be.

As if sensing her gaze, the woman’s eyes flicked to where Cara stood by the entrance, giving her a cursory up and down appraisal before returning her attention to Ben. She touched his shoulder and laughed, showing a blaze of white teeth. Cara felt a stab of jealousy.

Her first impulse was to great straight over to Ben and greet him with a proprietary kiss. But she wasn’t bold enough. Instead, she made her way over the bar, where a waiter poured her a glass of red wine. She stood next to the orange-clad Rosalind Cho and took a deep swallow of her drink.

It was then she realized Ben had noticed her. Across the room, their eyes met. Cara felt a blush warm her cheeks. She raised her hand and gave a little wave. At the same moment, Rosalind flung her own hand into the air to emphasize a point. Her elbow knocked Cara’s glass, and wine splashed across Cara’s blouse. Rosalind and Toby gasped as the stain spread across Cara’s shirt like blood on snow.

“Oh, no!” Rosalind exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there. You were so quiet,” she added accusingly.

Slightly more gracious, Toby offered her a napkin. Cara noticed that Ben’s brunette was snickering behind her perfectly manicured hand.

“I’m sorry,” said Cara to no one in particular, holding the napkin over her ruined shirt.

“Well, thank god the floor isn’t carpeted,” snorted Rosalind. Her companion laughed.

“Yes,” Cara agreed. “Thank goodness.” With that, she mustered the last shreds of her dignity and walked out of the room back into the foyer, from which a hallway branched off that she prayed would lead her to a bathroom.

Chapter Twenty

In a tiled bathroom that was twice the size of her living room, Cara dabbed at the stain with a piece of damp toilet paper. This had no effect except to dissolve the paper into small wet worms and fade the stain to a sickly pink hue that spread across the entire front of her blouse.

Maybe it was time to leave. To sneak out the door, down the elevator, and ask Mr. Roberts to take mher home. Then everyone would be happy. Ben could keep drinking wine and enjoying the accolades everyone was no doubt heaping on him. Alicia could keep flirting with Ben, Rosalind could fling her arms around with wild abandon without worrying about knocking anything over. And she, Cara, would be happiest of all, away from this uncomfortable party where she felt like a complete interloper, uninvited and out of place.

Cara looked at her flushed face in the mirror and spoke sternly. “Honey, you are not leaving until you talk to Ben.” She gave a last, futile swipe at her chest and flushed the paper down the toilet. Squaring her shoulders, she reentered the fray.

Miraculously, Ben was standing alone. He watched as she marched purposefully toward him, his face a blank mask.

As Cara opened her mouth to speak, a high-pitched call came from the adjoining room. “Ben, you have to see this!”

Cara had a strong feeling she knew who the owner of the voice was.

Without a word, Ben strode past her, so quickly she could feel the wind in his wake.

“Isn’t this something? I think it’s an original Ming vase!” the woman enthused from around the corner. “How old would that be?”

“Could be anywhere from the 14
^th
to the 17
^th
century,” Ben replied. “It’s amazing.”

They continued, talking of glazing techniques, porcelain marks, and copper oxides in a jargon Cara couldn’t understand. In a desperate attempt to look occupied, she strolled to the buffet table and grabbed a canapé of smoked salmon on rye toast that turned to cardboard in her mouth.

Why was Ben acting so strangely? Had he decided that she really wasn’t his type after all? It was hard to believe, but here he was, treating her like some distasteful riffraff with whom he’d rather not associate. Could it be that he’d decided to hook up with Alicia again? If so, he was probably afraid that Cara would try to make some sort of scene in front of her, revealing his two-timing ways. Not that she could claim the moral high ground in that department, she thought with shame.