Divine Evil

sat in RTR for an hour drinking Perrier and gnawing on the tablecloth.”
    “Sorry. I forgot.”
    “What else is new?”
    Clare set the sketch aside, knowing Angie would look at it the minute her back was turned. “Want some lunch?” “I had a hot dog in the cab.”
    “Then I'll grab something, and you can tell me what we were supposed to talk about.”
    “The show, you imbecile!” Angie eyed the sketch and smothered a smile. Clare had drawn her with flames shooting out of her ears. Refusing to be amused, she glanced around for a clear spot to sit and finally settled on the arm of the sofa. God knew what else lurked under the cushions. “Are you ever going to hire somebody to shovel this place out?”
    “No, I like it this way.” Clare stepped into the kitchen, which was little more than an alcove in the corner of the studio. “It helps me create.”
    “You can pull that artistic temperament crap on someone else, Clare. I happen to know you're just a lazy slob.”
    “When you're right, you're right.” She came out again with a pint of Dutch chocolate ice cream and a tablespoon. “Want some?”
    “No.” It was a constant irritation to Angie that Clarecould binge on junk food whenever the whim struck, which was often, and never add flesh to her willowy figure.
    At five ten, Clare wasn't the stick figure she had been during her childhood, but still slender enough that she didn't check the scale each morning as Angie did. Angie watched her now as Clare, wearing her leather apron over bib overalls, shoveled in calories. In all likelihood, Angie mused, she wore nothing under the denim but skin.
    Clare wore no makeup, either. Pale gold freckles were dusted across her skin. Her eyes, a slightly darker shade of amber-gold, were huge in her triangular face with its soft, generous mouth and small, undistinguished nose. Despite Clare's unruly crop of fiery hair, just long enough to form a stubby ponytail when it was pulled back with a rubber band, and her exceptional height, there was an air of fragility about her that made Angie, at thirty only two years her senior, feel maternal.
    “Girl, when are you going to learn to sit down and eat a meal?”
    Clare grinned and dug for more ice cream. “Now you're worried about me, so I guess I'm forgiven.” She perched on a stool and tucked one booted foot under the rung. “I really am sorry about lunch.”
    “You always are. What about writing notes to yourself?”
    “I do write them, then I forget where I've put them.”
    With her dripping spoon, she gestured around the huge, disordered space. The sofa where Angie sat was one of the few pieces of furniture, though there was a table under a pile of newspapers, magazines, and empty soft drink bottles. Another stool was shoved into a corner and held a bust of black marble. Paintings crowded the walls, and pieces of sculpture-some finished, some abandoned-sat, stood, or reclined as space allowed.
    Up a clunky set of wrought-iron steps was the storeroomshe'd converted into a bedroom. But the rest of the enormous space she'd lived in for five years had been taken over by her art.
    For the first eighteen years of her life, Clare had struggled to live up to her mother's standards of neatness and order. It had taken her less than three weeks on her own to accept that turmoil was her natural milieu.
    She offered Angie a bland grin. “How am I supposed to find anything in this mess?”
    “Sometimes I wonder how you remember to get out of bed in the morning.”
    “You're just worried about the show.” Clare set the half-eaten carton of ice cream aside, where, Angie thought, it would probably melt. Clare picked up a pack of cigarettes and located a match. “Worrying about it is a lesson in futility. They're either going to like my stuff, or they're not.”
    “Right. Then why do you look like you've gotten about four hours′ sleep?”
    “Five,” Clare corrected, but she didn't want to bring up the dream. “I'm tense, but I'm not worried. Between you and your sexy husband, there's enough worrying going on already.”
    “Jean-Paul's a wreck,” Angie admitted. Married to the gallery owner for two years, she was powerfully attracted by his intelligence, his passion for art, and his magnificent body. “This is the first major show in the new gallery. It's not just your butt on the line.”
    “I know.” Clare's eyes clouded briefly as she thought of all the money and time and hope the LeBeaus had invested in their