Just One Look by Harlan Coben Page A

hall.
Study
was a rather ornate word for this converted screened-in porch. The plaster was cracking in spots. There was always a draft in the winter and a stifling lack of anything approaching air in the summer. There were photographs of the kids in cheap frames and two of her paintings in expensive ones. The study felt strangely impersonal to her. Nothing in here told you about the past of the room’s main occupant-no mementos, no softball signed by friends, no photo of a golf foursome taking to the links. Other than some pharmaceutical freebies-pens, pads, a paperclip holder-there were no clues as to who Jack really was other than a husband, father, and researcher.
    But maybe that was all there was.
    Grace felt weird, snooping. There had been strength, she thought, in respecting one another’s privacy. They each had a room closed off to the other. Grace had always been okay with that. She’d even convinced herself it was healthy. Now she wondered about looking away. She wondered if it’d derived from a desire to give Jack privacy-needing space?!-or because she feared poking a beehive.
    His computer was up and online. Jack’s default page was the “official” Grace Lawson Web site. Grace stared at the chair for a moment, the ergonomic gray from the local Staples store, imagining Jack there, turning on the computer every morning, having her face greet him. The site’s home page had a glam shot of Grace along with several examples of her work. Farley, her agent, had recently insisted that she include the photograph in all sales material because, as he put it, “You a babe.” She reluctantly acquiesced. Looks had always been used by the arts to promote the work. On stage and in movies, well, the importance of looks was obvious. Even writers, with their glossy touched-up portraits, the smoldering dark eyes of the next literati wunderkind, marketed appearances. But Grace’s world-painting-had been fairly immune to this pressure, ignoring the creator’s physical beauty, perhaps because the form itself was all about the physical.
    But not anymore.
    An artist appreciates the importance of the aesthetical, of course. Aesthetics do more than alter perception. They altered reality. Prime example: If Grace had been fat or homely, the TV crews would not have been monitoring her vital signs after she’d been pulled from the Boston Massacre. If she’d been physically unappealing, she would have never been adopted as the “people’s survivor,” the innocent, the “Crushed Angel,” as one tabloid headline dubbed her. The media always broadcasted her image while giving medical updates. The press-nay, the country-demanded constant updates on her condition. The families of victims visited her room, spent time with her, searched her face for ghostly wisps of their own lost children.
    Would they have done the same had she been unattractive?
    Grace didn’t want to speculate. But as one too-honest art critic had told her: “We have little interest in a painting that has little aesthetic appeal-why should it be different with a human being?”
    Even before the Boston Massacre Grace had wanted to be an artist. But something-something elusive and impossible to explain-had been missing. The whole experience had helped take her artistic sensibilities to the next level. Yes, she knew how pretentious that sounded. She had disdained that art-school clatter: You have to suffer for your art; you need tragedy to give your work texture. It had always rung hollow before, but now she understood that there was indeed something to it.
    Without changing her conscious viewpoint, her work developed that vague intangible. There was more emotion, more life, more… swirl. Her work was darker, angrier, more vivid. People often wondered if she’d ever painted any scenes from that horrible day. The simple answer was only one portrait-a young face so full of hope that you knew it would soon be crushed-but the truer answer was that the Boston Massacre