Silver Linings, стр. 47

“He looks drunk as a skunk.”

“He probably is.” Mattie bit her lip in concern.

Emery hid his problem fairly well. He was in his late fifties, but he had the craggy, slightly dissipated good looks that suited authors whose status had once been near-mythical in high-level literary circles. He was aging well, in spite of his increasing fondness for the bottle. It was true his jaw was getting a bit thick and there was evidence of a certain softness around his midsection, but he paid attention to his clothes, and they, in turn, hid a multitude of sins. His shock of silver-gray hair was as stunning as ever, and his pale eyes brimmed with intelligence, even when they were slightly bloodshot.

Mattie had always liked Emery, and he had always treated her with an avuncular affection.

“He's been under a lot of stress in the past few years,” Mattie confided softly to Hugh as Emery approached. “His career has been in the doldrums for ages, although he still gets tapped for lectures and readings occasionally.”

“More stress, huh? Is that the cause of everybody's problems back here in the States these days?”

“A large portion of them, yes.” Mattie smiled at Emery as he came to a halt in front of her and inclined his head with regal grace.

“Mattie, my love, you look positively splendid, as always. How would you like to join me on Whidbey for a few days? I could use a muse. Bring something comfortable to change into, dear. We'll drink cognac and talk about poetry.”

“You know I never really got the hang of poetry, Emery. And you look pretty splendid yourself, tonight.” Mattie went on tiptoe to give him a small peck on the cheek. “But, then, you always do.”

“It's called style, my dear. Some of us have it—” Emery broke off to give Hugh an amused head-to-toe glance. “And some of us don't. Pray introduce me to your rustic friend, Mattie. He is a friend, I assume, and not a hired thug?”

“Hugh Abbott,” Hugh announced coldly. “I'm going to marry Mattie.”

“Good lord, Mattie.” Emery turned back to her with an expression of stagy astonishment. “I told you that you should have invited me to go along when you went on vacation. Send you out to the wilds of the Pacific alone and look what happens. You come back with a really tacky souvenir.”

“I may be tacky, but Mattie thinks I'm cute.” Hugh shoved an entire canapé between his teeth and bit down hard.

“Mattie's tastes have always been a little plebeian, to say the least. That's why she's been so successful with her gallery. And it may explain her problem with men.”

Mattie scowled at both males. “That's enough out of both of you. If you want to squabble, go outside in the alley.”

“Much too physical. I wouldn't lower myself to that sort of activity, my dear,” Emery demurred.

“I would.” Hugh stuck another entire round of cheese-and-pimiento-decorated cracker into his mouth and chewed vigorously, showing his teeth. “Any time, Blackwell.”

“Dear, dear. Where ever did you find him, Mattie?”

“I didn't. Aunt Charlotte did. He works for her.”

“That explains it, of course.” Emery smiled benignly at Hugh. “Charlotte Vailcourt is a noted eccentric.”

“Pay's good, too,” Hugh said.

Mattie lifted her eyes toward heaven in a silent plea that was answered almost immediately when a handsome, rather hard-eyed woman in her late forties joined the small group. She was an imposing female built along statuesque lines, who favored southwestern turquoise and silver jewelry.

“Hello, everyone,” Elizabeth Kenyon said cheerfully. “I do hope you're enjoying yourselves.” Her hazel eyes were bright with the glow of success.

Elizabeth Kenyon's gallery was one of the most important on the West Coast, and everyone knew it. She catered to wealthy collectors whose only goal was to be considered at the vanguard of the contemporary art movement.

Elizabeth, herself, was important both socially and in the art world. She could make or break an artist, and she had done both frequently. She had a reputation for being able to cow clients into buying anything she told them was collectible, and she had broken the creative spirits of artists whose works she deemed retrograde.

Mattie admired Elizabeth Kenyon enormously. Although Mattie, herself, had a different taste in art and knew she was much too soft-hearted for her own good when it came to dealing with artists and clients, she respected Elizabeth's success. Someday, Mattie sincerely hoped, Sharpe Reaction would be in the same league as Elizabeth Kenyon's gallery.

“Good evening, Elizabeth,” Emery said with another gracious inclination of his head. “Fantastic bash, as always.”

“Thank you, Emery. You know how thrilled I am that you were able to attend. Your presence is always an asset at this sort of thing.” She turned to Mattie. “Who is your friend, Matilda, my dear?”

“Hugh Abbott,” Mattie said.

“Mattie's fiancé,” Hugh drawled, sliding Mattie a mildly disgusted glance as he completed the introduction. The warning gleam in his eyes made it clear he was getting tired of having to explain his status in Mattie's life.

“Abbott. Abbott. Abbott. Now, where have I…? Oh, yes.” Elizabeth's eyes brightened. “Weren't you the one from Ariel's Elemental period?”

“Excuse me,” Emery Blackwell said, drawing himself up and reaching for another glass of champagne. “I believe this is where I came in. I think I shall go mingle. See you later, Mattie. Elizabeth.” He ignored Hugh, who, in turn, ignored him.

“Later, Emery,” Mattie said, raising her glass in a small farewell.

Elizabeth frowned at Emery's retreating back. “I'm afraid dear Emery has not only become rather passé, but he doesn't handle his liquor as well these days as he used to. I rather wish he had not bothered to attend tonight. But I suppose he couldn't resist. In spite of the divorce, he still feels a sort of paternal interest in Ariel's success.”

“Well, he was a major influence on her early work,” Mattie said, feeling obliged to defend Emery. “And he introduced her to all the right people back