Chapter 11
Jack wadded up the napkins, threw them into the hamper and shut off the light. Instead of heading for the stairs, he went out a side door. The last thing he wanted was to get into a bed that was only the width of a hallway away from her.
The cold wind cut through his clothes and he liked the sting of the night as he walked aimlessly across the lawn. Distantly, he heard cars go by, the sound of Route 9 a soft, unceasing hum.
She wanted him to forget? He'd have more luck turning back time.
When a light came on in Callie's bedroom, he stopped and watched the shape of her body as she moved around. When she paused by the window, he stepped deeper into the shadows. She seemed to be scanning the night.
Forgetting her was just not an option.
And he knew playing Peeping Tom was only going to push him further into the clutches of insomnia, so he headed for the garage. Hitting the light switch and climbing up the narrow stairs, he looked at her carefully arranged workspace.
Brown jars of liquid were lined up neatly to the left of the painting as were an assortment of brushes, wooden sticks, and cotton swabs. The microscope, which had been poised over the painting surface, had been put aside and he saw that a breathing mask and some rubber gloves had been brought out. He picked up a notebook and flipped it open. Her notes on the portrait's condition were voluminous, her writing very neat, her statements almost lawyerly in their tone and accuracy. She'd ordered the documentation under headings like "Surface," "Edge-wrap," "Soakage," and "Thread Oxidation." In talking with her about her work, he'd been surprised at how scientific the terminology was. She knew a hell of a lot about chemistry, for instance, and had been able to describe at a molecular level what would happen when the solvent she was going to use hit the old varnish and liquefied it.
She was, he'd learned, incredibly smart.
As well as sexy as hell.
He closed the notebook and put it back.
Damn it. If his mother hadn't come in, he would have taken Callie on the kitchen table. On top of the damn dishes. He'd been so driven to have her, he hadn't cared where they were.
He shook his head. He had to talk to Blair. He could have put one slip up with Callie behind him. Two was a trend he couldn't live with.
It was not going to be easy. No matter how carefully he expressed himself, he was going to hurt a woman who loved him and that made him feel wretched. He also knew there was a possibility she'd end the engagement and he wouldn't blame her if she did.
As the deep growl of a car sounded out in the night, he glanced at his watch, surprised Thomas was home so early.
Before Jack turned off the lights, he looked back at the table, picturing Callie bent over the painting, totally absorbed in her work. He thought about her losing track of time and not eating properly and realized there wasn't a clock in the place, not even a digital readout on the stereo.
He lifted his arm and took off the Patek Philippe wristwatch he wore. He'd bought it when the first company he'd ever invested in went public and made him a millionaire a couple of times over. It was gold, with a black alligator band, and he didn't take it off except for when he showered, even though it was waterproof to some ridiculous depth.
He laid it face-up next to her can of brushes, hoping she'd use it until he figured out what kind of clock to install for her. The thing kept perfect time, and with any luck, she'd know when it was lunchtime now.
Jack was just stepping outside as Thomas got out of his car. The Pontiac GTO was the man's pride and joy. Deep purple with lots of chrome, it was the quintessential muscle car.
"You're home early, old man."
Thomas let out a shout of laughter. "They call her the fair Angelina, not the faithful. Found another backseat she was interested in trying out."
"Sorry about that."
Thomas grinned and ambled over. "S'alright There'll be others."
They walked into the kitchen together.
"Beer?" Thomas asked, throwing open the fridge.
When Jack nodded, a bottle came flying through the air at him. He caught it, opened it, and sent it back across the counter. Thomas tossed another at him.
"So that conservationist's a looker," Thomas said after a deep draw.
jack frowned, twisting his cap off. "Yeah."
"How're you two getting along?"
"Is that an honest question or a leading statement?" Jack tipped the bottle back, swallowing hard. It was better than cursing.
"Lil' bit of both. Right now, you're prowling around like you're on a short leash with a plate of food just out of reach. So it makes me wonder."
"You're reading into things."
"Don't think so."
Jack was sorely tempted to go with a lie but he knew he wouldn't get away with it. Not with Thomas. The man had known him his whole life.
"It's no damned good." Jack shook his head. "And the timing is awful. Just when I decide to settle the hell down. I thought I was through chasing women."
"You're lucky it happened now. Before things got permanent."
"Is this why you never got married?"
Thomas grinned. "Naw. I never got married because the woman I loved wasn't interested in me."
"Really?"
"I know. Can you believe it? With all my charm." Thomas arched his neck to finish the beer. His eyes had a faraway look in them when his head came back
to level. "She wouldn't have me. Thought she was too good for me and was probably right."
"What happened to her?" Jack polished his beer off and put it down.
Thomas shrugged. "What does it matter?"
"Maybe you could have a second chance."
"There are no second chances, Jack-o'-lantern," the man said, using the old childhood name. He tossed his beer into the trash. Tm heading upstairs. 'Night."
"Hey, Thomas?"
"Yeah?"
"If Callie doesn't surface around noontime for some eats, bring something up to her, will you?"
Thomas smiled, long and slow. "Sure thing."
When the man went up to bed, Jack headed to his study and called Blair's cell number. It rang three times and he got voice mail. He tried the Waldorf, where she had been staying, and then remembered she'd moved into the Cosgrove. When the front desk answered and he asked for her, they transferred him immediately, but there was no answer.
He checked his watch. It was 10:30. She was probably still hard at work.
Jack rubbed his hand over tired eyes. It was a good thing she hadn't picked up. He was in a rush to get through the hard conversation and might have been inconsiderate enough to try it over the phone.
Besides, his mind was as clear as silt.
The next morning, Callie left her room quickly. After what had happened the night before, she would rather not run into Jack. Or his mother.
She was surprised to find Thomas in the kitchen, but he explained an early night had meant he'd been up with the sun and in the mood to make bread.
She grabbed a piece of fruit, because it was the only way he would let her go without making her breakfast, and went to the garage. Arthur was excited by the rush, prancing alongside her.
When she got upstairs and sat down in front of the painting, she saw a heavy gold watch set carefully beside her tools.
She picked it up, recognizing it immediately.
"Oh, Jack."
She'd spent most of the night sitting on the window seat, a satin pillow cradled in her arms, Arthur asleep on the floor next to her. In the quiet hours, she'd attempted to negotiate a compromise between what was good for her and what she wanted. It was like trying to broker peace between warring tribes.
Which was a bit of a surprise considering how clear-cut the situation was. She knew it would be crazy to think Jack would end his engagement. So if she were to get involved with him, she was just going to end up exactly where her mother had. As second best to a rich man's better half.
She was going to have to make it her business not to get caught alone with him again.
Because she obviously couldn't trust herself. And if she let Jack kiss her again, if she let him touch her body, God forbid if she let him make love to her, she was bound to start confusing the intense physical sensations with emotions. Isn't that what the naive always did and why first loves were so painful? If her heart got involved, she'd feel a hell of a lot worse than sexually frustrated.
Hell. If.
She had a feeling it was too late for if. The man captivated her with all of his contradictions, with his hard shell and his soft touch. He was like no one she'd ever met and not because he was rich and powerful.
But he was never going to be hers.
With a deep breath, Callie set the watch back where he'd left it, trying desperately not to get lost in the thoughtful gesture.
Staring at the painting, she attempted to find the appropriate enthusiasm for the adventure she was about to embark on, but it was a while before she was ready to get started.
With the documentation finished, her next step was to strip off the dirt and the old varnish layer. First, she needed to determine what kind of varnish had been applied and choose a solvent that would be strong enough to remove the protective coat but not so intense as to take off any of the paint layer. She was going to use the lower left-hand corner to do the testing, in an area that would be covered by the frame.
When she'd finally gotten into bed the night before, she'd reviewed the painting's records one more time. The varnish had been applied in the early 1930s, at the time of the last cleaning, and this meant it was made of natural compounds. Nothing synthetic would have been used back then and she'd come prepared with chemicals that were appropriate to remove a tree-sap-based resin.
She had six different solvents of graduated strength and she picked out the weakest one, opening the lid and releasing the familiar sweet, chemical smell. Before she set to work, she opened two windows a couple of inches to make sure that Artie would have plenty of fresh air. Strapping on her breathing apparatus, which would filter the vapors as she worked so closely over the solvent, she plucked a wooden stick from the can and wrapped a small amount of cotton around one end. She dipped the bud, as it was known, into the solution and gently brushed over the canvas. She wasn't surprised when there was little effect and moved up a grade.
After considering the effect of the stronger solvent, she went back to her jars and readjusted the strength one more time to settle on the perfect composition to dissolve the varnish layer safely. She was careful to document the chemical compounds she tried out, noting when she had reached the right balance.
And when she had, she ventured out onto the painting proper. Whenever the bud became too dirty, she disposed of it in a sealed jar, wound another one on the stick and kept going. This was the part of her job that she loved the most. The quiet, the intense focus on such a small area, the delicate work, the solitude. It gave her peace, focusing her mind while she used her hands. The world and her problems faded into the distance, no longer crashing cymbals, not even a whisper.
It was just her and the painting.
While she worked, her eyes traveled over the portrait intermittently. She was learning the landscape of the masterpiece, the vast darkness around Nathaniel's head, the dense grays and deep blacks of his jacket, the frothy cream and white of his shirt. His tormented, handsome face was her favorite part. She was enchanted with the faint blush of pink across the cheekbones, the dark velvet of his pupils, the thick browns and blacks of his hah;
It was quite possible she'd be in love with him by the end of the project, she thought, looking into the eyes again.
They were so like Jack's.
A couple of hours later, the quiet of the studio was broken.
"Hello?" Thomas's voice barreled through the silence. "Mind if I come up?"
"Hi! You're always welcome."
She got up, as did Arthur. The dog had been a patient observer throughout the morning, and as he put his front paws out and lowered his shoulders in a big stretch, he looked as if he had high hopes for the man's arrival.
"I've brought you lunch," Thomas said as he clomped up the stairs. He was carrying a picnic basket and a phone jack.
Arthur loped over to him, ignoring the wire and sniffing the wicker. His wagging tail suggested he was touched by the gesture.
"That's awfully nice of you," Callie said, accepting the food and frowning as Thomas got down on his hands and knees under her table. "But you didn't have to. Er—is something wrong?"
"Just hooking up a phone for you." His head popped up and he nodded at the basket. "Would you mind? It's in there."
She laughed and took out a small cordless unit. "But I don't really need one."
"Jack called this morning. He wants me to install one for you."
"Oh."
When Thomas was finished connecting the wires, he checked for a dial tone. "You're all set. Now, I've got a message from Jack for you. He wanted to know if you'd meet him in Little Italy for dinner tonight. At seven, at Nico's."
Nico's. At seven. Her heart skipped a beat.
At least they wouldn't be alone. Restaurants had people in them. Lots of other people.
"Okay."
"And don't worry about getting there. I'll drive you. Hey, can I look at what you're doing?"
"Sure."
As Thomas studied the portrait, Callie set the basket down on a side table. Arthur put his snout right next to it, as if to remind everyone of the pivotal role he was going to play when it was opened.
She was stroking one of his ears when Thomas looked up. "How long did it take you to do those four square inches?"
"A couple of hours."
"You've got some work ahead of you," he said with a grin. "I better get out of your hair."
"Thanks for the lunch. And the phone."
"No problem."
Thomas went over to the stairs and paused. When he looked back at her, his eyes seemed somber, as if he was debating the merits of saying something. Evidently he thought better of it, because he just lifted his hand in a wave and disappeared.
Callie stared into Artie's brown eyes, telling herself not to get worked up.
It was just dinner, she told herself. In a public place. Where they couldn't possibly get into trouble.
She tried not to think about what it would be like if Jack happened to be a free man and they were going to go out somewhere together.
It would be nice to go on a real date with someone, she thought. She'd enjoy getting dressed for a lover. And she wanted to walk into a crowded restaurant where a man would look up and take her into his arms with his eyes. She wanted to know what it was like to feel that she was beautiful to someone and had been eagerly waited for.
Callie cursed under her breath. Of course, as she spun the fantasy, Jack was sitting at the table and the image made her think of her parents.
And all those nights her mother had made herself beautiful for someone else's husband.
Preparing for her father's arrival usually started in the late afternoon, and as her mother had prepped in front of the mirror, pleasure made her normally dull eyes shine. Callie would always help her decide what to wear and how her hair should be worn, but no matter how considered the choice, a change would always be made at the last minute. A different dress, another pair of shoes, hair back instead of down.
Unfortunately, more often than not, the nights had ended with a delay, an apology, a letdown. The disillusioned undressing had been terrible to watch.
And yet she'd spent decades waiting for the man.
Callie had often wondered why, at least until she'd met Jack.
The answer, she now knew, was passion. When her parents had been together, there had been magic and sparks and tenderness, even with the perennial conflict. Her father had been very tall and statuesque, a powerful man with a deep chest and a low voice that rumbled like thunder. Usually, he was very serious, but under the right circumstances, her mother could shake him out of his somber moods. Callie suspected that must have been part of the attraction for her mother. Transforming someone so great, so powerful, even if it was only for a short time, must have been meaningful.
And perhaps the passion, the emotion, the laughter, was what her father had lacked in his bigger life, but found in their tiny apartment.
Callie shook her head, thinking she would never know. Maybe he'd had those same things at Grace's house, too.
Arthur butted his head against her hand, but when she went to scratch the scruff under his chin, he looked pointedly at the picnic basket.
"Right." She snapped to attention and opened the thing up. Tossing him a strip of chicken, she started in on the salad while deciding it was time to take a break. She was contemplating a walk when she remembered the documents that were in the closet.
When she was finished with lunch, she lifted the top container off the stack and muscled it over to the couch. As she removed the lid, there was no sense pretending she wasn't preoccupied with going out to dinner with Jack and she figured she could handle sorting paper with a scattered brain.
It was safer than playing around with chemicals and the painting, that was for sure.