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Prudence was quite put out with her friend, and they rode the elevator in silence. She busied herself with checking her makeup in a compact mirror, in which she noticed a loose lock of silver hair and tucked it back into the flower bun tied at her nape. She put the compact away and fussed with her outfit, straightening her fuchsia-rose suit jacket, smoothing the matching pleated skirt, and adjusting the cameo brooch that buttoned the collar of her white silk blouse. They were late, but presentable.

Her towering companion was the man of the hour, Edgar Blair. He was, as always, dressed to the nines in one of his many pinstriped, double-breasted suits, a glossy sateen dress shirt with white contrast collar and cuffs, a fine silk necktie, and a pair of wingtip spectator shoes. He always reminded Prudence somewhat of a 1940s mobster. “I take it we’re running a bit late?” he broached with an apologetic look.

Prudence shot her large friend a stern gaze. “You are running late. I arrived on time.”

Edgar adjusted his glossy black suit jacket and gave Prudence one of his subtle close-mouthed smiles. “Well, now I can make a grand entrance.” He leaned in and kissed Prudence on the cheek. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

Prudence almost scolded him in response, but stopped when she noticed his necktie was secured with the platinum tie clip she bought him the other night as a gift, inscribed with his initials. He’d chosen tonight to wear it for the first time. Prudence sighed in defeat and kissed Edgar’s cheek in return. “You’re welcome, darling.” The elevator doors opened, and Edgar offered Prudence his arm. She took the proffered elbow and stepped out of the elevator with him. “All right, Casanova, turn your charm thataway.” She gestured into the gallery where Edgar’s relief carvings were on display.

They greeted the nearest group of visitors, and Edgar thanked them for coming to the gallery. He graciously answered their questions regarding his portraits, speaking at length about his design process, carving tools, and how he mixed the tempera when painting the reliefs. He was eager and friendly, a drastic change from the reserved and melancholy artiste Prudence met two years before.

“Your work is skillfully executed, but what’s the significance behind these portraits?” a handsome fellow in a brown suit asked, fixing Edgar with steely gray eyes. “Are they just meant to be decorative?”

Edgar met the fellow’s condescending look with a courteous smile. “I’d be happy to explain their significance, Mister …” He let the visitor introduce himself.

“Stephen Briar.”

“Well, Mr. Briar, the individuals in these portraits were people I once knew—my friends and family—and I’m sad to say that they are no longer with us.” Edgar’s pensive gaze drifted to the memorials he’d carved.

Prudence rubbed Edgar’s shoulder, recognizing the vulnerability in his eyes. “You’re doing just fine,” she whispered, earning an appreciative look from her friend.

Stephen glanced at the nearby portraits with a curled lip. “Oh, well … sorry for your loss.”

Edgar gave the small crowd of visitors a tranquil look. “There’s no need for condolences. I produced these portraits to celebrate these wonderful people. I’ve grieved too many years, and it’s time for me to let my loved ones go and open myself to finding companionship once again. That is the meaning behind this exhibition, to commemorate my former community and welcome a new one.” Edgar held his hand out to Stephen. “Care to be the first neighbor I befriend in this community, Mr. Briar?”

Stephen stared at the extended hand for a moment in confusion, then cleared his throat and accepted the handshake with a strained smile. “Eh … yeah, I guess.”

Do contain your enthusiasm, young man, Prudence thought, hoping Edgar would not take Stephen’s frosty reception to heart. Her friend’s theatrical personality was an acquired taste for many, but Prudence was confident most people would warm to Edgar in no time. Edgar introduced Prudence to Stephen, who gave her an offhand greeting in a flippant tone. Oh, so he’s a heel to everyone.

The woman accompanying Stephen shook hands with Edgar and Prudence. “The sentiment behind your exhibition is lovely, Mr. Blair.” She spoke with a faint French accent.

“Thank you,” Edgar replied. “May I ask your name?”

“Violette Dufrêne. I do have a question. Why are the people in these portraits dressed in period clothing? You say you knew them, but it looks like they’re all from the 17th and 18th centuries.”

Edgar stroked his meticulously groomed ducktail beard and chuckled. “I suppose I got carried away with the Renaissance aesthetic.” He answered several more questions, and after some time addressing the small cluster of people, they dispersed to finish looking at the rest of the exhibition.

Prudence nudged Edgar’s side with her shoulder. “You get a brief reprieve before the next group descends upon you.”

“Thank goodness.” Edgar wrapped his arm around Prudence. “And thank you for helping me with this event. None of this would have been possible without you.”

“Oh, stop. All I did was introduce you to the curator, show him your portfolio, book the gallery …” Prudence cocked an eyebrow. “Actually, yes, this is all my handiwork, isn’t it?” She twirled her finger around, pointing to their surroundings.

“You’re a treasure, my …” Edgar froze, a startled look on his face. He inhaled through his prominent aquiline nose and looked around the room.

“Edgar, is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Edgar replied, reasserting his smile. “I think I just saw an old acquaintance. Do you mind if I step away for a minute to check? I won’t be long.”

“Um, sure,” Prudence said.

Edgar cupped Prudence’s hand, then walked off at a brisk pace. He headed for the far end of the gallery, shoulders set and leather-gloved hands fisted at his sides. Prudence frowned at her friend’s rigid posture. What on earth had Edgar so agitated?