“Not that she needs it,” added another. I tried not to snort. That I could agree with.

They ambled down the steps and disappeared. I looked down at my hands, one of which had gripped the railing until the knuckles had lost all color.

Max was still mid-conversation, so, without anyone to speak to, I unclamped my hand, downed my cocktail, and stared down a large abstract painting to my right. It looked like a Rothko, but somehow…better, a door-size rectangle of blues and tans whose figures seemed to float over each other. The paint was applied so thinly that initially I thought part of it was made from layers of nylon stockings, and it wasn’t until I examined the surface from multiple directions that it was clear how the work had been accomplished: by the talents of an extraordinarily skilled hand. I squinted at the corner, looking for a signature. Private collections rarely had wall text; the display wasn’t for strangers. The point was to talk about it.

“Arcangelo Ianelli,” a voice said. “Brazilian. He’s dead.”

It was Tyler, in a frayed and faded navy tuxedo, leaning against the wall, golden skin shining against the concrete, hands in his pockets.

“How do you know?” I asked, suspicious. I still didn’t see a signature and I hated to be shown up about a painting.

“Mexico City. The Tamayo has Ianelli by the meter.”

“I’ve never been,” I said. “You mean—Rufino Tamayo.”

“The one and only.”

“Seems out of place. I didn’t think they owned any works by men.”

“It belongs to Max. Isn’t it good? I think it’s so good,” he said, meaning it—then changed the subject. “Your painting looks nice.”

I nodded, then turned very deliberately back to the painting in front of us. “Helen Frankenthaler was his student, you know—Tamayo, I mean.” I was determined to regain my ground on my only subject of expertise. “She said in an interview that she made very good Tamayos. I once made very good Frankenthalers,” I admitted. “But I would give my right arm to make a good version of this.”

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said, abruptly changing the subject again.

“I assumed Susan had.”

“Tomato Tomato, at the Menil last year, right?” he said, referring to one of my biggest paintings, displayed in an exhibition at a privately owned museum in Houston.

I nodded.

“I’m madly in love with that painting,” he said.

I didn’t believe him. “Tomato Tomato has that effect on people,” I deadpanned, swallowing the rest of my drink.

“So that’s how you pronounce it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m sorry for being so rude. Susan said ‘my friend.’ I thought you were some…dilettante. That’s why I gave you the barn. I thought you would leave. She—Susan is old. She doesn’t always communicate well.”