Divine Evil

of the nineties. The
woman
artist.” She tossed her head and gave a tinkling laugh for the benefit of the film crew. “I'm pleased to say that I was one of the first to recognize it, at your first show.”
    And for the glowing review she had expected countless favors, invitations, and free rides. It was business. Clare could almost hear Angie's voice in her ear.
We all play the game
.
    “I appreciate your support, Tina.”
    “No need. I only support the best. If the work is inferior,I'm the first to say so.” She smiled, showing off small, kitten teeth. “Like poor Craig's show last month. Miserable stuff, incredibly dreary, not a soupcon of originality. But this…” She tipped a ringed hand toward a sculpture in white marble. It was the head of a wolf, thrown back in mid-howl, fangs sharp and gleaming. Its shoulders, the mere hint of them, were undoubtedly human. “This is powerful.”
    Clare glanced at the piece. It was one of her nightmare works, inspired by her own frightening dreams. Abruptly chilled, she turned her back on it. Play the game, she ordered herself, then gulped down the rest of her wine before setting the glass aside.
    For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why the wine and the compliments were making her tense. “Thanks, Tina. Angie will breathe a lot easier when I pass your opinions along.”
    “Oh, I'll relay them myself, never fear.” She tapped a finger on Clare's wrist. “I'd like to speak to you, at a less chaotic time, about addressing my art group.”
    “Of course,” she said, though she hated public speaking even more than she hated interviews. “Give me a call.” Maybe I can have my number changed first.
    “Be sure that I will. Congratulations, Clare.”
    Clare took a step back, intending to slip off to Angie's private office for a moment of solitude. She bumped solidly into someone behind her.
    “Oh, I'm sorry,” she began as she turned. “It's so close in-Blair!” With her first genuine emotion of the evening, she threw her arms around him. “You came! I was afraid you wouldn't make it.”
    “Not make my sister's glitzy party?”
    “It's an art showing.”
    “Yeah.” He let his gaze skim the room. “Says who?”
    “Thank God you're here.” She grabbed his arm. “Come with me. And whatever you do, don't look back.”
    “Hey,” he said when she'd dragged him outside, “the champagne's in there.”
    “I'll buy you a case.” Ignoring the limo at her disposal, she hustled him down the street. Four blocks away, she walked into a deli, drawing in the scents of corned beef, pickles, and garlic.
    “Thank you, God,” Clare murmured and rushed over to the counter to stare at the display of potato salad, pickled eggs, smoked sturgeon, and blintzes.
    Ten minutes later, they were sitting at a scarred linoleum table eating thick slabs of pumpernickel stuffed with layers of pastrami and Swiss.
    “I bought a new suit and hopped a shuttle to sit in a deli and eat kosher pickles and cold meat?”
    “We'll go back if you want,” Clare said with her mouth full. “I had to get out for a minute.”
    “It's your show,” he pointed out.
    “Yeah. But is my sculpture on display, or am I?”
    “Okay, kid.” Leaning back in his chair, he crunched on a potato chip. “What gives?”
    She was silent a moment, working it through. She hadn't realized just how much she'd needed to escape until she saw Blair, standing there, so real and solid, amid all the glitter and paste.
    He was only slightly taller than she. His hair had darkened with age to a deep, reddish blond, and he combed it straight back from his face. He put many women in mind of a young Robert Redford, a fact that constantly embarrassed him. He'd never been conceited about his looks. Blair understood the frustration many beautiful women felt when they were categorized as brainless sex objects.
    He had, despite the fact that he looked naive, pretty,and five years younger than his age, managed to claw his way up the journalism ladder. He was a political reporter for the
Washington Post.
    He was, Clare knew, sensible, logical, and earthbound, the direct opposite of her own personality. But there was no one with whom she felt more comfortable sharing her innermost thoughts.
    “How's Mom?”
    Blair sipped at his cream soda. He knew his twin would circle around whatever problem she had until she felt ready to dive into it. “She's good. I got a postcard the other day from Madrid. Didn't you get