Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Picasso.”
    “Hardly the fault of the paintings.”
    “Then what caused you to faint?”
    I had yet to answer that question myself, so I asked, “How do you know Evelyn?”
    “Everyone knows Evelyn.”
    I lifted an eyebrow. “Everyone?”
    “She’s a collector. I met her through my mom a long time ago, but she’s also one of the top donors at the SAM, part of the President’s Circle.”
    “Is that a big deal?”
    “It is if you want a presence in the art world.”
    “Ah,” I said, more confused than ever about Evelyn and why Dad wanted nothing to do with her. “And what exactly is your job at the SAM, aside from heaping opinions on unsuspecting viewers?”
    “That is my job,” he said arrogantly, “when I’m not shooting my own photos.”
    “Are you a student?” My face crinkled as I tried to picture him strutting around the University of Washington campus with a camera in hand.
    “A student?” he said, mulling over my words. “ Um, of photography. Today, I’m in search of long, creepy shadows.”
    “If it’s long, creepy shadows you’re wanting, you should go down to Point Robinson Lighthouse. The place is loaded with them,” I said off-hand, offering my best tourist guide information in hopes he might take the bait and leave. “And, if you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of the deranged woman they keep locked up at the top of the tower.”
    “Okay.” He stood abruptly and pulled cash from his pocket, tossing it on the table.  “You’ll come, show me the shadows, and protect me in case the deranged lady plans a sneak attack.”
    His quick movements and what I think is an invitation, throw me off. “And why should I risk my life for yours?”
    “Because you owe me.” His tone was unwavering, persuasive, sending all common sense fleeing from my mind. Noting my hesitancy, he added, “I did, after all, keep you from cracking your head open at the SAM.”
     

     
     
    My plan was to follow behind him, hide in his shadow, assess the passer-byers on the sidewalk before stepping out of the restaurant. But he waited, holding the door open for me, chivalry beating out my paranoid nerves.
    My eyes adjusted to the bright light and found nothing. No one waiting or watching. The only abrupt movement was my overly active imagination.
    The door swished closed behind us, and Quentin said, “Why don’t we take my car.”
    “Um, sure,” not mentioning I didn’t have a car for us to take. I followed him down the street to an army green Range Rover, circa not much newer than my Karmann Ghia. He opened the passenger door and waited as I climbed inside the pristine interior.
    My stomach made a series of somersaults at my rash decision to get in a car with a complete stranger. What the hell was I doing? Ignoring my intuition, I pointed him south on Vashon Island’s two-lane highway after he asked which way to go.
    I stole glances of him out of the corner of my eye as he quietly manipulated the car per my directions, but he offered no conversation in return. The silence should have been painful, choking, like at home, but it was different, soft in a way I couldn’t quite place my finger on.
    We rolled our way down Point Robinson Road to a parking lot that sat above the lighthouse. Glimpses of the tower peaked through the swaying treetops, the soft cawing of seagulls a reminder that water was near.
    “The lighthouse is this way.” I stepped out of the car and pointed to a narrow path that vanished into the woods.
    He nodded and grabbed his camera case from the backseat.
    We ventured down through the dense mini-forest, slow and deliberate. Quentin stopped often to take pictures, never rushing a shot or becoming distracted by my presence as the soft click of the shutter opened and closed to a private view intended only for his eyes. His concentration emanated a deep intensity from his face, etching hard lines across his cheeks. The harshness portrayed a red flag that should’ve had my nerves