CHAPTER 1

Outer Banks, North Carolina

The tip of Mickey's brush slid across the brick-red globof paint he had inadvertently mixed with a pinch ofcadmium red, a touch of burnt umber, and Payne's gray.At times he felt like a mad scientist mixing the oil paints into anexplosion of color. It was a blissful exercise and one that he wasin total control of, unlike so many other things in his life. Buttoday the colors wouldn't come together. When his girlfriendapproached the doorway to his studio, he momentarily lost hisconcentration and plunged his brush onto the palette, pickingup too much gray and only gliding over the ocher. Too stubbornto start over, he scraped a teardrop-size mark away from the messand pondered which color would resuscitate the sunrise gold hewas looking for. Fearing the morning's argument about his lackof commitment would be rekindled, he couldn't bring himself tolook up at her.

Apparently, upon awaking that morning, Jennifer Olson hadfelt like the sand in the hourglass was running low for her, likethe prime of her life was passing. What was it going to takefor Mickey to make a commitment? As in so many discussionsbefore, she had been determined to take him through the historyof their relationship, as brief as that history was. Conjuring uphistorical emotion, Jennifer had provided a blow-by-blow, day-by-dayaccount of their life together, piling one demand on topof another. Far too many sentences started with "And one morething ..." This morning, Mickey had had nothing to say. It wasn'tthat he couldn't respond; he had just said it all before. This timehe had remained blank, staring out through the sliding door at theocean. This was the first time he had chosen silence as a response,which only infuriated her more, making her talk faster and louder.She had paced about the bedroom, taking turns pointing at him,at the beach, and at the house; everything was going to hear aboutit. He had continued to gaze at the ocean, straining to see whatmight lie beyond the horizon.

"Seems like more paint winds up on your shirt than ever findsthe canvas," Jennifer said as she took one step inside the studio,apparently having chosen to move on from the morning's rant."Paint can't be cheap. And why do you need so many of them?"

Comments like that had increased in regularity but no longerbothered him. He heard the remarks; he just didn't listen to them.And he certainly wasn't the least bit worried about the cost. Nowthirty-nine years old, Michael "Mickey" Anderson had foundsuccess in his early thirties. His works could be found in a varietyof four-star hotels and beach houses up and down the East Coastand throughout the Gulf Coast. In the last five years his artworkhad garnered national acclaim and growing international interest,with original pieces fetching over $50,000.

Overseas notoriety had seemed to happen overnight when aDubai sheikh and diplomat, visiting the Washington, DC, area,had bought almost two years' worth of work to decorate his newDubai Palm Island hotel. The sheikh had spotted one of Mickey'smore tranquil beach scenes in the lobby of the New CarltonHotel just outside Georgetown. Helping out was an attractivefemale guest, who had shadowed the sheikh the night before atan embassy gala. She was more than happy to introduce him toa local gallery owner, who easily tracked Mickey down. As usual,the sheikh was on his way to getting everything he wanted. He'dsoon have Mickey's paintings on permanent display, but beforethat, he planned to enjoy the company of a lovely woman duringhis stay in the nation's capital. However, once the conversationstarted with the gallery owner, the woman disappeared. Henever saw her again. After seeing just a few paintings, the sheikhpurchased over fifty original works and a number of prints; as aresult, a millionaire artist was born.

Since grade school, Mickey had loved to paint. Whilehis buddies were trying to hit a baseball, Mickey was busyblending and applying oil paints to a blank canvas to createsomething magical. He poured all his energies into every pieceand would be just as exhausted when he finished as his friendswere after nine innings. His paintings came alive. Folks oftensaid they could feel the spray of the ocean on their face whilethey got lost in his seascapes. What he loved to paint mostwas life on the beach. There was so much of it. People broughta dimension to the beach that he felt his work required, butMickey never included detailed facial features in his artwork,for two reasons. The first, which only a few people knew, wasthat he simply wasn't very good at painting facial features. Hehad tried portraits many times, but they never turned out quiteright, at least to his satisfaction. Second—and this was alwayshis public response—he wanted to leave "who is that?" up to theviewer. Maybe they see would themselves, maybe they would seesomeone else, or maybe, just maybe, they would see someonethey could be. Either way, he explained to people, the storybegins, continues, or ends. "That's what my work is all about,"he told people, "telling a story."

Some days he'd scour the beach for hours until he found astory that only could be told in colors, not words. Once he wasconvinced that the beach was bringing out the best in someone,the painting began. Often families were the best subjects. Thefinished product wasn't necessarily what he saw as much as whathe felt.

Of all the gifts he possessed, painting was the only one henurtured. "Do one thing, and do it well" was his mantra. Andsince he did only one thing well, he suffered for his choice of agirlfriend. He should have ignored her when they met at the artfair.

The Reston Town Center Art Fair, in northern Virginia,delivered elbow-to-elbow crowds, especially over the weekend.Even without the event, the combination of trendy restaurants andhigh-end shopping attracted hordes of weekend wanderers. In histhird year of attendance, they set him up in a booth near the waterfountain in the middle of the Town Center as a means of drawingpatrons in to explore other artists. The sun was ricocheting off thestore windows that lined Market Street, which ran down the heartof the Town Center. Shadows pierced the landscape everywhere,in a way only an artist would notice, particularly one sketchingout ideas on blank newsprint. With the power of a solar eclipse,an attractive blonde blocked out the only ray of sunlight thatreached Mickey's tent. Exuding an air of fashion and grace, shestrolled along the edge of the entrance and pointed to paintingsas she spoke to a young but obviously affluent couple. She spewedrehearsed lines such as "This would make your love seat pop!"and "This will bring out the pastels in your curtains," so Mickeyquickly pegged her as an interior designer, which was good forbusiness. Maybe there was more to her, though.

She was wearing a short, sleek summer skirt that invitedanyone to trace her body, from the top of her smooth shouldersdown to her perfectly manicured hands and then to her slenderhips and long, tan legs, ending at her delicately painted toes.Seeing Mickey study her, the woman raised her sunglasses andrevealed turquoise-blue eyes that matched her necklace andbracelet perfectly. She was expertly put together. And the manand artist in him agreed: "Let's meet her."

The first few months were extraordinary, but the newnessof the relationship couldn't be sustained. Jennifer, like the hard-drivingbusinesswoman she was, pressed for more. And forMickey, the curse of studying people as clients or...