Chapter 9
They walked through a rabbit warren of offices that was broken up by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with a jagged, colorful array of books. When they came to a set of double doors, Jack rang a bell on the wall. Moments later, the metal panels were opened to reveal a small, older man. Under his sparse, graying hair, his face was surprisingly young looking, mostly because of the enthusiasm in his eyes.
"Jackson, how are you?" The man's voice was high and lilting, marked with a subtle French accent, and the hands that reached up and removed a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from his nose were beautiful enough to have been a woman's.
So this was Gerard Beauvais, Callie thought as she shook one of those hands after Jack introduced them. She tried not to get swallowed by hero worship.
Beauvais smiled at her as he motioned them inside. "Come in, come in. Please."
There were six workstations in the room and at each one a person dressed in a smock was leaning forward toward the surface of a breathtaking work of art. She saw a Pissarro and a David held upright in vise grips and several paintings lying on tables. The place smelled like chemicals, and as her nose tingled, she thought back to her days at NYU.
Only this was no classroom.
This was where Beauvais had carefully repaired the Fra Filippo Lippi that had been splashed with acid. It had taken him two years to find a way to mitigate the damage and conserve what was left of the paint, but the wait had been worth it. He'd also stabilized one of da Vinci's rare self-portraits in the lab. Da Vinci's experimentation with paint mediums meant that his exquisite labors could sometimes be ravaged by fading and flaking. Beauvais's work on the chemical composition of the master's oils had been revolutionary.
"Your mother is being so generous," Gerard said to Jack. "As always."
Jack cracked a dry smile. "I can only imagine."
"I mean, loaning the Walker painting to us after conservation, how gracious. It will look stunning next to Copley's Paul Revere. They are perfect companions." Beauvais smiled. "We will throw a party, yes? Something to properly welcome Nathaniel back to Boston."
Callie noticed Jack's eyes narrowing even if Beauvais did not.
"And you," the man said to her, "I am great friends with Professor Melzer. He speaks very highly of you and that is a rare recommendation indeed. You must be anxious to get down to work."
She felt blood rush to her face. Or maybe the tingling meant it had left her head altogether. "I'm going to do my best. But I have to admit, I'm nervous."
"Good. Good, good! You should be." He wagged his glasses at her. "We should all approach the canvas with sure hands, a clear mind, and palpitations in the chest. It is a sign that you understand the value of what you can do for a painting and the destruction you may cause if you are not reverent and careful. C'est bon!"
As he beamed at her, she was quite sure she didn't view her fear with the same kind of optimism, but she felt herself relax a little.
"Now, tell me, what of the painting? Have you examined it yet?" Small, rapt eyes searched her face.
As she nodded, she cleared her throat, feeling like she'd had an oral exam sprung on her.
"The canvas is solid and the paint is holding together nicely for the most part, but the varnish layer is yellow and dingy. Technically this will not be a complicated job, but the significance of the painting makes the project rather daunting." Enthusiasm warmed her voice. "The work is obviously from the period before Copley left for London because his style is still maturing. Even so, the brush technique and use of color are incredible. I can't wait to see what Nathaniel's face looks like under the old varnish."
"Anything else?"
She stared at the man. His smile was just as warm but his eyes had narrowed.
"Not yet." She hesitated. "Is there something I should be looking for?"
He shrugged but kept his voice low and his eyes on Jack who was scrutinizing the David. "I examined the painting myself once. In the late nineties. After the Blankenbakers purchased the portrait from Jack's father, they hung it above a fireplace in their Newport house. They came to me because they were concerned about the effect of the fluctuating heat and changes in humidity it had been subjected to. We did not do a cleaning, so I know less than I would have had we performed such work. I will say, however, that you would be wise to pay particular attention to the surface texture."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he looked passively at Jack who had turned back and was heading for them.
"Discretion among owners is prudent. Especially when things are not clear," Gerard said softly. He gave her his card after he'd written something on the back. "There is my home phone number, as well as the one here in the lab. You must call if you have trouble or if you require another set of eyes. Particularly if you are tempted to go into the paint layer. As you are well aware, that should not be done lightly."
Jack smiled as he approached. "So, we were wondering if you could spare a—what kind of light did you want?"
"A halogen steam lamp," Callie said. "And a microscope as well, if you don't mind."
Gerard smiled, nodded, and worked miracles. Twenty minutes later, Jack pulled the Aston Martin around to a rear entrance and a microscope was eased into its trunk. The light and stand were too big to fit in the car, so they were to be delivered that afternoon.
As they were leaving, Gerard took Callie's hands in his and looked down at them. "These, along with your eyes, are the most important tools you have. Call me if you need help. Do not be afraid."
As he squeezed, the full weight of the job hit her and she wondered whether she was up to the task.
"Ah, cherie, it will be okay," he whispered, as if he knew she wouldn't want Jack hearing him reassure her. The lilt of his accent was musical. "You have done this before and you will do fine. There is love in your eyes when you speak of the painting, and you would never hurt what you love, would you?"
She shook her head with a series of jerks, worried that if the man were any nicer to her, she might burst into tears.
"So go now, go and do what you have been trained to do. And know if you call me, I will come."
He squeezed her hands again and then went back into his museum, a slight man with the bouncing walk of a child.
Later, as they waited for a break in traffic, Jack said, "You've got a hell of a glow going."
She glanced over at him. "What? Oh, Gerard. He's just so amazing. And surprisingly humble."
"The great ones always are," Jack murmured as he put the car into gear and eased them into traffic. "What were you two whispering about?"
"He was just giving me some advice."
"Good man to take advice from."
She nodded and tilted her head toward the back of the car. "Generous, too."
His brows tightened. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to disabuse him of the notion that my portrait is going to hang next to Paul Revere. Damn it, my
mother's ability to commit the assets of others is un-equaled, at least now that my father is dead."
Callie waited, hoping he would continue, and was disappointed when he didn't. She shifted her gaze to his hands on the steering wheel. She wanted to ask him to elaborate, but then he changed the subject.
"By the way, I was wondering if I could introduce you to a friend of mine."
She looked at him with surprise, thinking that taking on another private client after she finished the Copley conservation would be great. "Of course. But are you sure you don't want to wait until after you've seen some of my work?"
"This isn't about work."
The Aston Martin darted out in front of a truck and Callie gripped the door again.
"Gray was my college roommate and he's an all-around good guy. He lives in New York, but he's going to be here for the next couple of weeks. I think you two might get along."
Jack wanted to set her up on a date?
"No pressure, of course," he said, glancing across the seat at hen "I just thought maybe we could invite him out to Buona Fortuna. You could meet him, see if you like him."
Callie told herself this was normal. This was how people met other people. Through friends. Contacts.
Business associates.
And it proved how serious he was about keeping things between them... out of the closet, as it were.
"Er—okay."
Jack focused on the traffic again. "Good. That's just great."
The next morning, Callie had just settled in front of the painting when the garage door opened down below. She got up and went to a window, just in time to see the Aston Martin shoot down the driveway. She was watching the taillights disappear when Arthur came over and nudged her thigh with his head.
Work, she thought. She had work to do.
But it was hard to think about the job.
Yesterday, when she and Jack had returned from the museum, he'd helped her set up the microscope, and after it had arrived, the light as well. In the course of getting her workplace organized and removing the portrait's massive, gilded frame, he'd asked her innumerable questions about the project. He wanted to know what the process for cleaning the painting was going to be. What kind of solvents she would use to remove the dirt and old varnish. What type of new varnish she would apply at the end to protect the fragile, original oil paint.
Given what had happened that morning, she was surprised by how comfortable she'd felt around him. He was witty and charming and had smiled at her with respect as she answered each of his queries. And the best part had been the sense that he was hitting her with all the questions simply because he was curious, not because he didn't trust her.
He'd been on his way back to the house when she'd asked him how to work the complicated stereo system. In the process of showing her how to turn the thing on, he'd discovered that it wasn't working and that had led to him going up into the shallow crawl space over the room. She'd played nurse to his electronic surgeon as he'd banged and crashed around overhead, trying to get the speakers to receive a signal.
The cursing that had drifted down through the ceiling had been priceless and when he'd reemerged, cobwebs hanging from his hair, his beautiful business shirt and slacks covered with dust, she'd had to laugh.
Still, he'd got the damn thing working.
By the time they'd gone back to the house, dinner had been served and cleared. Jack had parceled out some leftovers, overdone it with the microwave, and they'd laughed as they tried to chew through the rubberized chicken. Neither of them had wanted to take a shot at the flaccid, weary green beans.
As much as she'd tried not to, she'd thoroughly enjoyed his company.
Callie shook her head and went back to the painting. She really needed to get started.
Positioning the microscope over the top right-hand corner of the painting, she brought the paint surface into focus by twisting a pair of knobs. Her eyes sought out the craquelure, memorizing the pattern of fissures, their direction, their depth. Inch by inch, she surveyed the surface of the portrait and meticulously recorded the status of the varnish, paint, and canvas support. This documentation, as she'd explained to Jack, was the first step in any conservation.
When she got to the mirror Nathaniel was holding, she frowned and cranked the microscope closer to the canvas. The paint layer was thicker in this area, suggesting an extra coat had been applied. The craquelure was different as well, the pattern tighter and the direction subtly dissimilar. She told herself she was imagining things, but further inspection only confirmed what had gotten her attention. There was something faintly inconsistent about the paint layer over the glass portion of the mirror, a slight change in the texture of both the brushstrokes and the cracks across the surface of the painting.
Callie pulled back and looked at the portrait with her naked eyes, telling herself not to get worked up. The difference was very subtle and it could be explained by a function of the paint itself. The mirror was one of the few pale parts of the painting, aside from Nathaniel's face and hands. Maybe Copley had used a different kind of oil base for the lighter hues.
She bent down and checked the forehead, cheeks, and chin of the face. The cracks were all consistent with the rest of the painting, which kept her suspicions running instead of slowing them down.
She retrained the microscope on the depiction of the mirror.
The change was so slight that, if it was an alteration, it had been made a long time ago. Or by an expert. And the varnish across that part of the painting was consistent with the rest of the work's surface. She'd just read in a book on Copley's work that the Walker portrait had last been conserved and re-varnished some seventy-five years ago. The change, therefore, could be no more recent than that.
Callie sat back and stared off into space, wondering why the inconsistency hadn't been noted during that prior conservation. The book had mentioned details about the condition of the painting back then, but there had been no reference to any discrepancies in surface texture.
And Gerard Beauvais had seen something, she thought.
She recalled what he'd said about where the painting had been placed in the Blankenbakers' home, over a working fireplace. Such temperature fluctuations could have been the catalyst that revealed the retouching. Which would explain why the last conservationists didn't mention anything.
Maybe it was something as innocent as a repaint by Copley himself. Painters, even great masters, did that frequently. Not liking a shape or a tone, they would paint over what work they had done. Over time, as the paint layer aged, these changes could become more obvious, appearing as shadows in pale backgrounds or as pockets of disruption in the craquelure just like the one over the surface of the mirror.
Thinking perhaps the explanation was as simple as that, she recalled one of the things Professor Melzer had drilled into her. When you see hoofprints, don't think zebras.
It was good advice, she told herself. But damned if she wasn't skeptical anyway.
She spent the rest of the day on her preliminary review of the painting, going over every square inch of the canvas, searching out areas of chipping or flaking, discoloration or fading, changes in brushstroke. Her notes were as copious and objective as she could make them.
When she finally had to stop because her back ached from stooping over the microscope, she stood up feeling pleased. The painting was in good shape and she'd confirmed that there was no extensive work that had to be done. A removal of the old varnish and a cleaning, followed by an application of a new coat of varnish to protect the surface would be all Nathaniel would need.
She felt better able to complete the project and figured she'd probably only need another day to finish the documentation. And then the real fun would begin.
As she left the garage, she decided not to tell Jack about her suspicions. The chances of her making a neophyte mistake and jumping to a wrong conclusion were very real. And you didn't tell a man who's just spent five million dollars on a painting that it might have a flaw, based on a single inspection done before the thing was even cleaned. You waited until you were 100 percent sure and backed up by half a dozen other professionals in the field.
Wearing hockey pads was probably a good idea, too.
On Saturday, Jack hung up the phone oh his desk and stretched in his chair. He was doing a deal with Nick Farrell, the renowned corporate raider. The guy was off-loading his interest in an international conglomerate and Jack was happy to take the shares off his hands. The company owned various European wireless and fiber optic networks arid would fit in perfectly with Jack's private portfolio of international broadcasting and TV stations. Farrell was going to realize a hefty profit and Jack was positioning himself to be one of the largest providers of electronic media and Internet service on the European continent. It was a good deal for them both.
Except at the moment, Jack was feeling nothing of the triumph he usually did when an acquisition came together. He leaned back and listened as the grandfather clock across the room began to chime.
Five o'clock. Which meant he could have a bourbon.
He walked over to the wet bar, poured himself a good portion of Bradford's best, and sat back down behind the desk. The liquor burned his throat as it went to his gut.
In spite of his success, he was feeling unsettled and vaguely aggressive and he knew precisely the cause.
When his phone had rung an hour ago and his caller ID had spelled out Blair's cell phone number, he'd let it go into voice mail. He'd done that a lot lately and he'd gotten into the habit of calling her back at her hotel when he knew she wouldn't be there. The decision not to tell her what had happened with Callie was harder to stomach than he'd thought and he knew he couldn't put off talking to her indefinitely.
After another hit of bourbon, Jack lifted the phone and his fingers punched out a familiar pattern.
Blair's voice was sharp when she answered. "Hello?"
"Sorry I missed your call."
"Finally, it's you! Hold on—listen, Joey, I need those light fixtures now. Karl wants me to show him this suite at the end of the week. I don't care if you have to gold leaf them yourself. It can't wait." She let out a laugh. "Sorry about that, Jack. Things are pretty crazy here."
"So Graves is as demanding as I've heard." He brought up his glass again.
"But not impossible. He has high standards, but if you meet them, he lets you know it."
Jack moved his chair around and looked out the window behind his desk. The light was just beginning to fade from the sky. "So how're you holding up?"
"Other than the not sleeping? I'll get through it somehow—here, wait a second. No! No, I want the dark green in velvet. The gold is the brocade," she yelled to someone in the background.
"You sound busy."
"I am," she said, sounding tired. "I knew going in that redecorating the Cosgrove Hotel was going to be a big project, but Graves has moved up the date of when he wants to reopen. I've only got a couple of months to do what would normally take a year."
"If he drives you too hard, let me know and I'll take a hunk out of him. Me and a couple of my buddies could do a hostile takeover of his company and bounce him out on his ass in a heartbeat."
She laughed. "Thanks."
"When are you coming home?"
There was a hesitation. "Actually, I was thinking I would stay in the city for the next couple weeks, even through Thanksgiving. We're picking colors and fabrics and I've got to get to Karl whenever I can. His schedule's ridiculous, but he insists on being the decision-maker about everything. He's offered me an old suite in the hotel."
Jack told himself that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was from the bourbon. It was not relief because she was staying in New York.
"Sounds reasonable."
A flash of movement outside caught his eye. He watched Arthur go bounding after something and he wondered how the dog had gotten out.
When Callie came across the lawn, Jack sat upright and leaned toward the window.
"You sure you don't mind?" Blair said. "It will be a while until we see each other."
"No, that's fine. Really."
Arthur ran back to Callie, dropped a stick at her feet and backed up, poised to run. She picked the hunk of wood up and extended her arm behind her. With one strong, fluid motion, she let the branch rip, flinging it a tremendous distance. The dog surged forward, his head tilted to the sky.
While Callie watched Arthur go, a gust of wind swept some of her long hair into her face, and with a laugh, she pulled the red waves back and tucked them into the collar of the fleece she was wearing. She got down on her haunches as the dog raced back toward her.
"Jack?"
He came to attention. "Yeah?"
"I'll definitely come for the holiday party, though. You're still having your usual blowout this year, right?"
"Yes." He shifted the phone to his other ear and tried to think of something to say to her. Usually it wasn't tough.
"Jack? Are you sure you're okay with me staying down here? I could just take the shuttle back and forth if it really bothers you." As he tried to reassure her, his voice must have tipped her off. "Jack, is everything all right? Did the painting arrive safely?"
"Nathaniel's back in Boston and in one piece."
"And did the conservationist come?"
"Yes, she did."
"I can't wait to meet her. I saw Grace yesterday and she told me Callie's quite lovely. Hey, did you know that Grace is seeing someone? She didn't have time to give me a lot of details, but she looks very happy. We met him. At Newport."
Jack frowned. "The bodyguard? Jesus. He was a tough character."
"Well, Grace is certainly in love with him. She just couldn't stop smiling and I was so happy for her." The phone, was muffled as Blair yelled out another set of commands. "Listen, I've got to go. Why don't we talk later on tonight?"
"That'd be great."
"I love you," she said before she hung up.
Jack put the phone down and stared at it. The conversation was typical of the ones they shared. Easygoing, warm.
Placid.
He turned back to the window, watching Callie and Arthur play.
Nothing was easy with Callie. He felt as though he had to work to earn her smiles, her laughs, her respect. But when she'd send one of those rare, wide grins his way, he felt like he'd been blessed.
As soon as he finished his drink, he headed back to the bar.
This was wrong, he thought. This was all wrong. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about another woman and having Blair look unexciting by comparison.
With his glass full again, he went to the window and watched Callie pick up the stick and throw it toward the house. As Arthur sprinted across the grass, she caught Jack's eyes through the window and froze. He lifted his hand.
She waved back and then moved out of sight.
With studied effort, Jack tried to think of all of the things he liked about Blair: the shape of her eyes; the way she dressed; her sense of style. He heard the rhythmic inflection of her voice and the slight lisp that marked her th's.
He couldn't remember either of them raising their voices at each other, and considering all of the tension in his household and all the conflict in his business life, that calmness had been a welcomed change. With Blair, it had always been smooth sailing. Smooth as glass.
And maybe a little flat.
"Jackson," his mother said crisply from the doorway. He looked around. She was wearing her mink and pulling on slim leather gloves. "I'm going out for the evening. Thomas has prepared a buffet for you."
"I'm sure Callie and I will enjoy it," he said, swirling the bourbon in his hand.
His mother's lips tightened. "I had Elsie mail the invitations to the holiday party today. I used the standard list."
He nodded even though he didn't care and she knew it.
"You know, I really wish you'd take more of an interest," she said, easing one of the gloves down the back of her hand. "Your father was so very helpful. With the guests, the choice of food. He was such a master at these things."
Jack shot her a dry smile. "So paying for it isn't enough?"
Her eyes lifted from the glove. "Really, Jackson, that's uncalled for."
"Sorry." He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sat down in his chair. "Long day."
He heard her come farther into the room, her high heels clipping across the marble floor until they were silenced by the rug behind his desk. When he felt her hand on his shoulder, he looked up.
"You know, Jack, I do appreciate all your hard work." Her eyes were as soft as they ever got. "Your father may have been blind to everything you have done for this family, but he never knew what it was like not to have money. I, on the other hand, have never forgotten."
So she remembered after all, he thought. His mother, the well-composed illusionist, had kept a little of her past with her.
Jack reached up and put his hand over hers. The bond of work, of industry, of pressing the limits because they were there to push against, was something they would always share. His drive and ambition had been his inheritance from her and they sure as hell had proven more lucrative than what had been left to him in his father's will.
From the doorway, Elsie cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to bother you both, but I'm going home now. Unless you need anything else."
Mercedes snatched her hand back, and before she turned around, her face settled into the elegant mask she showed the world. "No, we're fine. Have a good evening."
Elsie bowed a little and then left.
His mother walked back across the marble.
"By the way, you'll never believe who I'm having dinner with," she said as she went to the door. "Senator McBride."
Mercedes waved one of her gloved hands and disappeared down the hall.
Jack frowned, wishing his mother was eating with just about anyone else in town. Jim McBride was on the short list of people who were being approached to serve on the exploratory committee. The invitation was supposed to have been extended sometime this week.
Which meant if his mother asked the right kind of questions, she would find out Jack was thinking of running in the next election.
She wouldn't be totally surprised. He had a feeling she might have guessed he wanted to try his hand in politics. He'd deliberately cultivated connections in the Massachusetts statehouse in recent years and had hosted many dinners with powerful legislators and lobbyists at Buona Fortuna. But that wasn't the same as her knowing his plans outright.
In order for him to declare his intentions in a strategic way, he and Gray needed to first assess his chances of getting on the ballot and then the odds of him winning. The exploratory committee would be responsible for rating him against the competition and for doing their work in confidence and with discretion.
His candidacy's groundwork needed to be established quietly, something his mother knew little if nothing about. Jack was only going to tell her he was running right before he publicly announced it and he hoped like hell McBride wouldn't let the cat out of the bag, assuming the guy knew anything.
After Jack heard the big door close, he picked up the phone and called Gray. When he hung up, he went to look for Callie, feeling relieved and pleased with himself.
McBride hadn't been asked yet, so he knew nothing. And Gray was more than willing to meet an attractive redhead.