Just Before Sunrise Read Free

chair well into a middle row and sat down, tucking her tapestry bag at her feet, suddenly feeling ridiculously tense.
    What if someone else bid on the painting? What if she didn't get it?
    The rest of the chairs soon filled up, an announcement was made that the proceeds from the auction would go to the Haley Linwood Foundation, and, finally, things got under way. The auctioneer was thin, white-haired and regal, a far cry, Annie thought, from Ernie Hathaway.
    The first items went fast, with only token competition. There was no yelling, no complaining, no hooting. This was San Francisco. This was Pacific Heights. Even Gran, a pragmatic woman who didn't stand on ceremony, had considered Ernie's auctions a spectacle.
    After forty minutes, the painting came up. Annie held her breath as it was brought out and set on an easel, then gasped in shock the moment it was uncovered. The buyers seated near her glanced at her in surprise. She tried to control herself. She was totally unprepared for this one: the painting was Sarah's work. There was no question.
    Clutching her shawl in her lap, Annie forced herself not to speculate on how a painting by a reclusive, eccentric artist had ended up in a Linwood auction.
    She'd first met Sarah last week when she'd made a brief, uneventful visit to Annie's Gallery. She was an eccentric woman with lank, graying hair, plain features, and a wardrobe of thrift-store clothes. A debilitating condition necessitated the use of a cane. She hadn't bought anything or asked any questions, and Annie only remembered her because of her unusual appearance— and because she didn't have that many customers. Then, two days later, Sarah called and invited Annie to tea.
    With nothing better to do, Annie had accepted, venturing up to Sarah's tiny house on a hill overlooking the city. The strange woman was again dressed in thrift-store clothes but was using a walker to get around instead of her cane. Annie might have dismissed her as a lunatic and politely excused herself but for the canvases haphazardly stacked throughout Sarah's small house. With a grandmother artist, artist friends, and her own experience setting up art displays at the maritime museum where she'd served as director, Annie had developed an eye for art. She'd learned to recognize the real thing when she saw it. And that was what Sarah's canvases were, without doubt: the real thing.
    In her excitement over her discovery of an amazing new artistic talent, Annie had perhaps acted in haste in agreeing to represent Sarah at today's auction. She hadn't pressed for any details of who Sarah was or why she wanted the painting or why she just didn't go buy it herself. All that, Annie had thought, could come later.
    Now she had her first hint of why Sarah wanted this particular painting. It was her work, undoubtedly an early piece. The technique was awkward in places, unsure of itself, lacking the boldness and confidence of the canvases Annie had seen over tea. But the essential ingredients of what made the reclusive, eccentric woman in mismatched socks and tattered Keds such a compelling artist were there.
    The subject was a red-haired girl of fifteen or sixteen with pale ivory skin and warm blue eyes. She wore just a denim shirt and jeans, her long hair pulled back, her casual manner in contrast to the formal, traditional sitting room background. Even in this early work, Annie could see Sarah's hand in the unabashed nostalgic mood of the painting, its subtle use of color, its determination to capture the spirit of its subject and get at who she was, what she wanted to become.
    Sarah, Annie thought, could have dispatched her to buy the portrait in an effort to get any strays back under her control before going public with her art. It would be a smart move. But Annie tried not to get ahead of herself in case she was wrong, and this brilliant, unknown artist had no intention of letting Annie's Gallery represent her work.
    The auctioneer announced he had a sealed