“Dotty, I want you to meet Mr. Dalgreen.”

“How do you do, Mr. Dalgreen⁠ ⁠… but Mommy the boy stepped on the doll and he laughed when it broke and⁠ ⁠…” The thought was once again too much to bear⁠—the tears began to course again through the well-used waterways.

“Cheer up, Dotty. You wouldn’t want your father to see you like this,” Brent suggested.

These seemingly innocent words, while having no affect on the little girl, had a marked affect on her mother. Her face whitened.

“Arthur is not Dotty’s father, Mr. Dalgreen. You see, this is my second marriage. He⁠ ⁠… I mean we cannot have children.” She spoke the words as if they were a pain, heavy within her.

Brent was slightly embarrassed⁠—yet elated at the same time. This was the first crack in the façade of normality that concealed the occupants of the house. Her sudden change of expression could only mean that there was something troubling her⁠—something he would give his last tube of oil paint to find out. Perhaps it wasn’t the secret hidden in the painting, but there must be a relationship somewhere. He was determined to search it out.

Apartment lights were out all over the city, the daytime world was asleep. Brent stirred in the large chair and reached out for the glass of sparkling Burgundy that was slowly dying on the end table. A little flat⁠—but still very good. It was one of the luxuries he allowed himself. A luxury that might really be called a necessity to one who lived by selling his emotional responses, translated into color.

The wine was going flat, but the view of the city never would. New York, the eternal wonder city. The soft lights of his studio threw no reflections