The Art of Deception

clinch I happened in on in the library?” Pleased with himself, Fairchild turned back to Adam. “I ask you, when a man’s glasses are steamed, isn’t there a reason for it?”
    “Invariably.” He liked them, damn it, whether they were harmless lunatics or something more than harmless. He liked them both.
    “You know very well that was totally one-sided.” Barely shifting her stance, she became suddenly regal and dignified. “Rick lost control, temporarily. Like blowing a fuse, I suppose.” She brushed at the sleeve of her sweater. “Now that’s quite enough on the subject.”
    “He’s coming to stay for a few days next week.” Fairchild dropped the bombshell as Kirby walked to the door. To her credit, she barely broke stride. Adam wondered if he was watching a well-plotted game of chess or a wild version of Chinese checkers.
    “Very well,” Kirby said coolly. “I’ll tell Rick that Adam and I are lovers and that Adam’s viciously jealous, and keeps a stiletto in his left sock.”
    “Good God,” Adam murmured as Kirby swept out of the door. “She’ll do it, too.”
    “You can bank on it,” Fairchild agreed, without disguising the glee in his voice. He loved confusion. A man of sixty was entitled to create as much as he possibly could.
     
    The structure of the second tower studio was identical to the first. Only the contents differed. In addition to paints and brushes and canvases, there were knives, chisels and mallets. There were slabs of limestone and marble and lumps of wood. Adam’s equipment was the only spot of order in the room. Cards had stacked his gear personally.
    A long wooden table was cluttered with tools, wood shavings, rags and a crumpled ball of material that might’ve been a paint smock. In a corner was a high-tech stereo component system. An ancient gas heater was set into one wall with an empty easel in front of it.
    As with Fairchild’s tower, Adam understood this kind of chaos. The room was drenched with sun. It was quiet, spacious and instantly appealing.
    “There’s plenty of room,” Kirby told him with a sweeping gesture. “Set up where you’re comfortable. I don’t imagine we’ll get in each other’s way,” she said doubtfully, then shrugged. She had to make the best of it. Better for him to be here, in her way, than sharing her father’s studio with the Van Gogh. “Are you temperamental?”
    “I wouldn’t say so,” Adam answered absently as he began to unpack his equipment. “Others might. And you?”
    “Oh, yes.” Kirby plopped down behind the worktable and lifted a piece of wood. “I have tantrums and fits of melancholia. I hope it won’t bother you.” He turned to answer, but she was staring down at the wood in her hands, as if searching for something hidden inside. “I’m doing my emotions now. I can’t be held responsible.”
    Curious, Adam left his unpacking to walk to the shelf behind her. On it were a dozen pieces in various stages. He chose a carved piece of fruitwood that had been polished. “Emotions,” he murmured, running his fingers over the wood.
    “Yes, that’s—”

    “Grief,” he supplied. He could see the anguish, feel the pain.
    “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if it pleased her or not to have him so in tune—particularly with that one piece that had cost her so much. “I’ve done Joy and Doubt as well. I thought to save Passion for last.” She spread her hands under the wood she held and brought it to eye level. “This is to be Anger. ” As if to annoy it, she tapped the wood with her fingers. “One of the seven deadly sins, though I’ve always thought it mislabeled. We need anger.”
    He saw the change in her eyes as she stared into the wood. Secrets, he thought. She was riddled with them. Yet as she sat, the sun pouring around her, the unformed wood held aloft in her hands, she seemed to be utterly, utterly open, completely readable, washed with emotion. Even as he began to see it, she shifted and broke the mood. Her smile when she looked up at him was teasing.
    “Since I’m doing Anger, you’ll have to tolerate a few bouts of temper.”
    “I’ll try to be objective.”
    Kirby grinned, liking the gloss of politeness over the sarcasm. “I bet you have bundles of objectivity.”
    “No more than my share.”
    “You can have mine, too, if you like. It’s very small.” Still moving the wood in her hands, she glanced toward his equipment. “Are you working on anything?”
    “I was.” He walked