Chapter 20
Early the next morning, Callie sat on her stool, grabbed one of the solvent jars, and cracked it open. After adjusting her breathing mask, she dipped a cotton bud into the isopropanol and carefully brushed the solution over the surface of the painting. She was all the way into the center of the portrait now, right at the edge of the mirror, having logged countless hours while she and Jack were at odds. There was not much left of the cleaning to do.
She glanced up. Outside, the sun was bright in a clear New England sky.
She couldn't stop thinking about the night before. They'd made love and Jack had held her long afterward. They hadn't talked very much, but it had been enough just to be with him, to close the distance between them even if it was only physically. And she'd been relieved that he'd allowed her to be with him at a vulnerable time and that she'd had the opportunity to console him.
In the morning, as he'd left her room, he'd promised her they would talk tonight.
She was hoping that he was going to tell her he wasn't going to run in the election and that they could go back to the way things had been. In her heart, she knew that both were unlikely and she tried, once more, to reconsider the ramifications if he did get into the race.
The outcome wasn't any better than it had been all the other times she'd thought about the situation. He was right; if her father had been a private citizen, the papers would have no real cause to follow the story. Unfortunately, Cornelius Woodward Hall's infidelity was going to be huge news.
If Jack ran, she had to back out of his life. That was the only way to keep the past from coming to light. But the idea that she wouldn't end up in Boston, by his side, was intolerable. Whenever she pictured herself going back to New York and never being with him again, her heart just about shattered.
Callie took a deep breath, looked back down at the painting, and shot up in a panic, knocking her chair over. She barely heard the slamming noise of the thing hitting the floor or Artie's terrified yelp and scatter.
"Oh, no, no, no..."
She threw the swab down and grabbed a rag though it wasn't like she could do anything with the damn thing.
Suspended with horror over the painting, she stared in disbelief at what she'd done. She'd burned a hole right through the varnish and into the paint layer. She bent down further, hoping that closer proximity would reveal it was just superficial damage. It wasn't.
Across the face of the mirror, in a swath about an inch square, Copley's original paint had been eaten up.
Callie cursed as she quickly looked at the jar she'd opened. By mistake, she'd picked out the strongest solvent she'd brought with her and had compounded the error by leaving the damn stuff on as she'd stared out the window. The chemical had had plenty of time to seep in, infecting a larger area than just the part she'd applied it to as it spread outward.
A hot flash ran through her body, bringing sweat to her palms and her underarms and her forehead.
She'd marred a great work of art. She'd never work again. Jack was going to kill her.
And all because she'd let herself get distracted.
Of all the stupid, neophyte—
But now was not the time to beat herself up. God knew, there would be plenty of opportunity for that as she waited in line to collect unemployment.
She needed to focus. Focus and assess the situation and the remedies. Then she would call Gerard Beauvais.
She hovered above the painting, her eyes moving desperately around from the damaged area to all the work she'd done so well.
Screw it. She needed to call Beauvais now.
Callie reached into her tool kit for his card and dialed the number on the back, praying her voice would work if he answered. And God help her if she burst into tears. Looking weak as well as incompetent would just about put the finishing touch on a total nightmare.
She got his voice mail and left him a message to call her as soon as he could.
After a couple of deep breaths, and with a resolve not to keep picturing herself career-less and tossing pizzas for a living, she bent over the painting again. The solvent's appetite hadn't waned. The damaged part was getting bigger. : It was like watching an evil tide.
Yeah, and that path of destruction was wiping out her professional future as well as all that paint, she thought.
She propped her head on her hands and told herself that Beauvais's shop could do a repaint on the mirror, just as he'd done for the Fra Filippo Lippi. They'd match the paint tones and brushstrokes with as much precision as possible so that it would be virtually impossible to tell that anything had gone wrong.
Which was a cold comfort, she thought. Even if the damage was hidden masterfully, she had still irrevocably diminished the value of the painting.
Abruptly, Callie frowned. Blinking her eyes a few times, she told herself she was seeing things.
It couldn't be.
She bent down so low she felt the heat of the chemical reaction and her eyes burned.
From out of the mess, a shape was emerging. Underneath the blistered and melting layers of paint, she could see the outline of... a face.
She rubbed her eyes.
No, there was definitely a pattern coming through. Behind the pale creams of the mirror's surface, it looked like... the shape of a face.
Her heart started to pound for an altogether different reason than career suicide.
When the phone rang next to her, she grabbed it, hoping to pick up before anyone else did at the house.
Gerard Beauvais's cultured tones were the sweetest sound she could imagine hearing.
"Oh, God, I screwed up," she began, her words running together, just like the melted paint. "I was working over the mirror and I used the wrong strength solvent and I melted part of the paint layer—”
"Okay, okay, cherie. Slow down."
Somehow Beauvais's calm voice reached her inner ear and she forced herself to stop jabbering.
"Now," he said, when she had herself under better control, "tell me exactly what happened from start to finish. And what the chemical composition of your solvent is."
After she was finished, her throat was tight as she waited for his response.
"I must know," he said quietly. ""What was underneath? In the mirror."
"A dark figure, actually." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "In the shape of a head, I think."
Beauvais laughed tensely. "Well, perhaps your mistake is fortuitous. Did the paint layer there react differently to the solvent than the other parts of the portrait?"
"Well, I didn't burn any of the rest of it off, thank God, so it's hard to say. But no, I don't think it did. It came up easily but that could be explained by the increased strength of the solution."
Beauvais was silent for a moment. "I must see it for myself. But do not move the painting. I will come to you tomorrow. I have family here now and cannot leave. In the meantime, say nothing to Jack or his mother. I don't think you should go to them until we know what our plan to remedy the situation is. There is no reason to upset them, if it can be avoided."
Callie's breath came out in a shudder. "God, I feel awful. Jack's going to fire me. I'm never—”
Beauvais laughed easily. "Jack is not going to fire you. And you are going to work again, trust me. The conservation science is administered by human hands and we make mistakes. There is nothing we cannot fix together, but let us not be foolish. I will call on you tomorrow and we will decide what to do."
"How am I ever going to thank you?"
"That, my dear, is simple."
She laughed with a choked sound, finding it hard to imagine she could offer him much of anything.
"You, Callie Burke, are going to do the same thing for someone else when you are well along in your career and a younger colleague has a problem. Twenty-five years ago, I was working on a Titian when I managed to spill raw turpentine in one corner." When he heard her gasp, he laughed merrily. "It was awful. After I retired to la salle de bains wherein I revisited my lunch in a most unpleasant way, I came back, told my mentor what I had done and the two of us took care of it. The painting is hanging in the Uffizi to this day, and every time I go for a visit, I make sure I take a hard look at that canvas. I can still see the strip we had to repaint. Few others can, of course, but it always reminds me of my folly. I will say this. Egos are far more damaging in our line of work than mistakes. So when someone calls on you years from now, remember this experience and do the right thing. Help. Do not judge."
"I feel so ashamed," she whispered. "That I have to come to you like this."
"And that is good. What your regrets will do to you will be far worse than the harsh words of someone else. We all go through this, cherie. Just make sure it is only once."
When Callie hung up the phone, she wiped her eyes with her palms and looked down at Artie who'd come over to offer his condolences. He gave her a little wag as he put his head on her thigh.
Her sense of failure warred with her relief that Beauvais was willing to help and it was a while before she could go back to the house and face anyone. Not saying anything to Jack made her feel uneasy, but she trusted Beauvais implicitly and she knew the man was right. It would be far easier to present the problem to an owner if the solution were offered as well.
As soon as she opened the back door, she was enveloped in a wall of cooking smells. It was like being hugged.
"You call that dough? " Thomas was saying to Nate while gesturing with a wooden spoon. "It looks like something you'd put wallpaper up with."
Nate cracked a smile as he kept kneading on the counter. "Why don't you give those onions a stir, old man. Before they have to be taken out of the pan with a jackhammer."
"Hey, Callie!" Thomas grinned. "Welcome to my nightmare. Two cooks, one kitchen."
As gratitude for some uncomplicated friendship washed her eyes with tears, she knew she was in a vulnerable place. If she was smart, she'd go up to her room and stay there. Now was not a real good time for her to be around other people. Particularly nice ones.
When the front doorknocker sounded, she volunteered to answer it and nearly let out a cry of joy when Grace and her bodyguard were on the other side.
She embraced her half sister. "I am so glad to see you."
The hug she got back was just as strong as the one she gave.
When they pulled apart, Grace motioned to the imposing man behind her. "You remember Ross?"
Callie smiled as she felt her hand taken in a firm grip.
"It's good to see you again," she said, looking up into his stark face. The smile he gave her made him look almost approachable, in spite of his black leather jacket and his hooded eyes.
She motioned the pair inside. "Come on in, it's cold out here."
Ross bent down and picked up a couple of leather bags like they were weightless.
"Where's Jack?" Grace asked, taking off her coat.
"He's still out, I think. But Nate's here."
"You're kidding me."
As Callie shook her head, the man in question came around the corner while wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Gracie!"
Grace let out a laugh and went to him. As they embraced, she said, "It's good to see you, stranger."
"You, too. Who's this?" Nate looked over at the other man.
"This is my fiancé, Ross Smith."
Callie gasped. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you. It just happened last night. We couldn't be more thrilled."
When Grace and Ross were seated in the kitchen, having a drink while Thomas and Nate cooked, Callie found the shouts of laughter and private jokes a little hard to bear.
Making a quick excuse, she slipped upstairs to her room, promising to return when the meal was on the table.
Jack parked his mother's Jaguar in its bay, turned off the ignition, and stared at the back wall of the garage. He was suddenly exhausted, but didn't want to close his eyes because he'd only replay scenes from the synagogue and the graveyard. He couldn't get the image of that small coffin out of his mind, no matter what practicalities he tried to distract himself with.
When he finally walked over to the house, he saw Grace and his brother through the windows, laughing while one poured dressing on a salad and the other tossed. Standing in the pitch dark, looking at two of the people he loved most in the world, he was grateful to be home. Grateful that his loved ones had not suffered as the family of that little girl had. As she herself had.
He opened the door and frowned when he didn't see Callie.
"There he is!" Grace exclaimed, rushing to him. She pulled up short when she got a load of the cast. "I heard all about your accident. I'm glad you're okay."
"And all the better for seeing you."
He gave her a quick hug and a kiss, but when he pulled back, she held onto his good arm.
"Hey, how are you really doing?" she whispered as she gave him a shrewd stare. "I also heard about you and Blair. I'm sorry."
"Thanks." Jack smiled and nodded across to the big, silent man in the corner. "John Smith, right?"
"My fiancé's name is Ross," Grace interjected.
Jack cocked an eyebrow at the name change and the announcement.
"Well, congratulations," he said, meaning it. As he shook hands with his friend's fiancé, he approved of the way Smith put his arm around Grace and brought her close to him.
"Hey, brother, go get Callie will you?" Nate said from the stove. "We're ten minutes out. She went upstairs."
Jack put down his briefcase and went up to her bedroom. When he knocked on the door, she answered softly.
When he walked in, he saw her sitting on the big bed, a pillow in her lap. She smiled. "I was hoping it was you."
He closed the door just as a wave of laughter drifted upstairs. "I don't blame you for wanting some quiet. It's pretty rowdy down there."
He sat beside her and the feel of her hand covering his was like a balm.
"How did today go?" she asked.
"The service was beautiful and incredibly sad. Afterward I went to the hospice center and gave them a check."
"They must have been very grateful."
"Yes, they were." He put her hand on his thigh and began to smooth the skin of her palm.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
"I've been talking to Gray." He could feel the tension come into her fingers. "It's time for me to declare what my plans are for the election."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
He looked into her eyes, as if that would help her understand what he had to say.
"You know, walking through the hospice facility today, I remembered exactly why I want to run." He shook his head. "I'm not saying I had some mystical experience. Actually, it was all very practical. I ended up in the executive director's office poring over P and L spreadsheets, and in the process of going through their numbers, I could see where they could improve their operations so they would have more cash. I knew what needed to be changed. I understood how I could help."
She listened to him with quiet intensity, but there was heartbreak in her eyes.
"My vision for this state is starting to take shape, Callie. My head's been spinning with ways to balance spending and drive revenue. I know where things need to be done differently. I won't be able to accomplish everything I want to, I won't be able to fund every program or save every center or shelter. But I can sure as hell try to help some of them. And I want to try. This is important to me." Her eyes went down to their hands and he intertwined his fingers with hers. "I want to put my hat in the ring because that's the only way to get where I want to go. So I can make a difference."
"I'm happy for you," she said, though she looked dejected. "I truly am."
"And I talked to Gray about your situation."
"You told him everything?" she asked, clearly horrified.
"I had to get his perspective."
"But what I said to you was private. Between you and me." She brushed her hair back from her face impatiently. Nervously, he thought.
"He won't say anything."
"That's not the point. I never expected you to tell him. Or anybody else."
Jack frowned, feeling frustrated.
"Who are you protecting?" When she didn't answer him, he squeezed her hand. "Who? Tell me."
"The only family I have left," she said urgently. "And I'm not at all comfortable with having private conversations broadcast to everyone else on the planet."
"Gray is hardly a stranger."
"Maybe to you, he's not."
Jack steadied himself, trying to get past her defensiveness. He chose his words carefully. "I also told Gray that I might not run."
Shock widened her eyes. "You did?"
He nodded slowly. "Even though I want to be governor, I would walk away from the election in an instant. For you."
Callie hesitated, as if she couldn't believe it was true, and then threw her arms around him. "Oh, Jack—”
He held her back.
"I would give up anything for you, even a shot at leading this state. But I'm not going to do it unless I know the whole truth. I'm not going to turn away from this thing I've spent years preparing for unless you can be real with me. A relationship with only part of you is not worth the sacrifice to me."
She closed her eyes and dropped her hands. "I understand. I totally understand. I just need some time, a little time. I need to... talk with someone."
"My exploratory committee is meeting in secret at my offices this weekend. I want to be able to commit to them one way or the other on Saturday afternoon." Jack stood up, not encouraged by the fact she wasn't meeting his eyes. "Talk to whoever you want to and let me know what you decide. But I have to say this. If you can't trust me, I can't be with you. No matter how much I love you."
She nodded without lifting her head.
He paused. "Nate wanted you to know that dinner's ready. Do you want come down?"
"Tell them I was asleep."
When he closed the door behind him, he felt hollow and spent.
Not wanting to deal with anyone, he changed into running shorts, made his excuses to the people in the kitchen, and hit the gym.