Pathways - Jeri Taylor [64]
“No, they’re done by a young artist. Very promising.”
“I’d have thought just about everything that could be explored on a canvas has been. Many times over.”
Harry shrugged. “Can’t hurt to check it out. The opening is tomorrow night.”
“You mean Nimembeh will give you the night off?”
Harry held up the book. “I pulled off the impossible. I think he’ll be sufficiently impressed.”
And so he was. Nimembeh was so impressed, in fact, that he gave Harry a week’s respite from his scrutiny, the first time that had happened all year. Harry was free to go to Libby’s opening with George.
The art gallery was a spacious building on Market Street, and by the time the young cadets got there it was already teeming with people. Harry and George worked their way through the crowd, Harry looking everywhere for Libby, but finding no sign of her.
Her artwork, however, was extraordinary. Harry was frankly unprepared for the effect it had on him. The showing was a study in contrasts: huge canvases, covering entire walls, with images of dark, preternatural creatures, powerful and mysterious, engaged in strange rituals that seemed to have sprung from genetic memory. But other walls contained tiny miniature paintings done in such delicate realistic detail that it was hard to believe both had been done by the same artist.
Even George was impressed. “I was wrong,” he stated firmly. “These are outstanding. Who’s the artist?”
“Her name is Libby Lattimore,” said Harry, hoping the pride in his voice wasn’t too evident. “She should be here somewhere.” Harry looked around the room again and finally saw her, talking with a group of middle-aged people who seemed to hang on her every word. She was wearing a white jumpsuit that accentuated the blackness of her hair and the red of her lips. She was stunning.
“That’s her,” he said eagerly, and noticed that George was staring at him somewhat curiously. “Come on, I want you to meet her.” He started making his way through the crowd, assuming George was right behind him. As he neared the group, Libby spotted him, and he saw her wrap up her conversation with the others and head toward him, clearly as glad to see him as he was to see her. She reached out her hands and took both of his in them, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she breathed. “It’s a madhouse, but people seem to like my work.”
“It’s incredible. I mean that—I had no idea.”
She beamed at him in response, and he turned around to introduce George, only to find that his roommate wasn’t right behind him. Harry looked back and saw him standing in the same spot, watching them, a strange expression on his face. Harry waved at him impatiently, and finally George moved toward them.
“This is Libby Lattimore, the artist,” said Harry proudly. “My roommate, George Mathers. He said your work is outstanding.”
Libby extended her hand. “Thanks so much for coming, George. Harry’s talked on and on about you.”
George made what looked like an attempt to smile, but to Harry it seemed forced. What was wrong? “You’re very talented, Miss Lattimore,” said George formally. “Thank you for the opportunity to see your work.”
George didn’t talk this way, thought Harry. Why was he so stiff and formal? Harry was baffled, but also disappointed. He wanted these two people, the two he most cared about, to like each other and to get along. But George was almost icy.
Now he turned to Harry with a façade of good cheer. “Well, I better get back to calculus. I have an exam day after tomorrow and I need every minute I can get. Nice to meet you,” he added to Libby, and then he hurried off through the crowded room.
“Did I say something wrong?” asked Libby, obviously having noticed his strange demeanor.
“Of course not. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well.” Harry looked into Libby’s black eyes and immediately forgot about George. They spent the evening together, Harry feeling unaccountably proud as he heard the accolades heaped on Libby from all who saw her work, and he didn’t think about George and his unusual behavior until late that night,