The Husband Project

On Susannah, rather. Alison knew very well that no one was paying any particular attention to her. Still, as they walked up the wide ramp into the main gallery, she felt as if every gaze in the museum was directed at the small silver flute player on her shoulder.

Guilt, she told herself, is a powerful thing.

“Perfect timing,” Susannah murmured, and just as Alison started to ask what she meant, the double doors at the back of the gallery opened and two men—the museum’s director and a Bohemian figure who could only be the famous artist—strolled in and straight across the gray-carpeted floor to the painting in question.

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