New York, 1986

THE LOFT LOOKED as though it had been struck by a hurricane. But then,

Emma supposed, Marianne had always been a strong wind. There was a

scatter of papers and magazines, three empty handbags, two of which were

Chinese red, a single sling-back pump of the same bold color, and a pile

of records that were spread out on the floor like a deck of cards.

Choosing one, Emma set it on the turntable and was met with a blast of

Aretha Franklin.

She smiled, remembering that Marianne had played it the night before

while she'd finished her furious packing. It was hard to believe that

both Emma and the loft would have to do without Marianne for the better

part of a year.

Emma picked up a purple silk blouse and a red Converse hightop. 'fWo

more items that had somehow escaped Marianne's maniacal search for the

essentials. The chance to study for a year in Paris, at the Ecole des

Beaux Arts was an opportunity Marianne hadn't been able to turn down.

Emma was thrilled for her-but it was hard, very hard, to stand in the

middle of the loft alone.

She remained for a moment, listening. Over the sound of Aretha was the

rumble of traffic from the street below. Through the open windows she

could hear the high, strong soprano of a neighboring opera student

practicing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro. Maybe it was ridiculous

to consider herself alone in New York, but that was precisely what she

was.

Not for long, she reminded herself and set the blouse and shoe on the

bottom step. She had her own packing to do. In two days she

would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but

this time, she had a t.i.tle. Official photographer. It was a t.i.tle

she'd earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her

bed. She'd been given her shot when her father had asked her to

photograph the group for the alb.u.m cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma

remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough

acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he

hadn't said a word when she'd been asked to shoot the cover for their

current alb.u.m.

It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the

group's manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and

expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something

about the commercialization of art.

London, Dublin, Paris-a quick visit with Marianne-Rome, Barcelona,

Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour

was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something

she'd been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her

own studio.

Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the

stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating

mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio

exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and

broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise

jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases were stacked drunkenly against the