The late Isabella Stewart Gardner, who traveled there in the late nineteenth century, when that very world was still in full swing, apparently loved Venice just as much, because when she returned home to Boston, she designed an entire mansion around it, and then she filled it top to bottom with art. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful in my life. Four stories of Venetian design surrounding a gigantic, plant-filled courtyard, topped with a glass roof.
“Over the course of her life, Isabella Stewart Gardner traveled the world and befriended artists, musicians, and writers, amassing a collection and creative network rivaling any other in the United States at that time,” Emmet Lewis says wistfully as he tours me and Max around the grounds. Emmet was a guest of Max’s parents the night I crashed their dinner, and I was immediately fond of him, his friendly smile, and immaculate tweed suit. He is also the director of the Gardner Museum. “But her favorite place by far was the Palazzo Barbaro in Venice, where she would stay. And you see its influence here today.” He waves a hand at the intricate architecture.
“Thank you for letting us visit after hours, Mr. Lewis,” I say. “This is a dream come true.”
“How could I resist?” Emmet exclaims. “I love young people taking interest in the arts. And when Max called and said you had a school project you needed to take care of right away, I was happy to help.” He gives Max a pat on the shoulder. “Now, I’ve given all of security a heads-up. If you need anything from me, I’ll be on the fourth floor handling some last-minute emails. I had them turn Isabella’s private spa into my office.” He bends over and whispers in my ear, “Sometimes I like to read in her clawfoot tub!” With that, Emmet winks and heads off up the staircase.
“I kind of love him,” I say, watching his tweed-covered body disappear at the top of the stairs. Then I turn to Max. “And I can’t believe you arranged all this.”
Max shrugs bashfully. “I know how you feel about museums,” he says. “It’s the perfect place to reenact our dream at the Met.”
We’ve just arrived in a room on the second floor, as gorgeous and ornate as the last, but with one major difference. On one of the lavishly papered walls, lining either side of a fireplace, are two large gold frames that appear to be framing nothing at all.
“This seems like an odd choice,” I say, pointing at the empty frames. It’s more something I’d expect to find in Sophie’s parents’ apartment, alongside a giant sculpture of a hamburger.
But Max looks thrilled. “These must be left over from the heist. In the nineties, a bunch of guys posing as police officers showed up to the gates of the museum after hours, saying they were responding to an emergency call from inside, and a guard broke protocol and let them in. The next morning the guard who was supposed to relieve the two from the night before found them duct-taped together in the basement . . . and a bunch of priceless works were missing.”
“Did they ever catch them?” I ask.
“The Boston Globe occasionally posts a rumor or two . . . something spotted in a small gallery in Europe or in a private collection at a residence, but nothing official has ever turned up.”
We make our way back downstairs and come to a small sitting room on the first floor. It’s covered in sunny yellow wallpaper and paintings of portraits and landscapes, guarded by a very large Eastern European man wearing an earpiece and a blazer, who doesn’t acknowledge us in the slightest.
“This is where the work I’m looking for should be,” Max says, scanning the walls. “There.”
I follow his gaze to a canvas in the far corner of the room by the window, a painting that is at first glance not at all what I expected. It’s smaller than the others and painted in various shades of gray. Not the bright turquoise tutus and deep pink backdrops of Degas’s ballerinas, or Monet’s colorful lilies. But as I move closer, I see the gray is peppered with small flecks of fiery orange, as though appearing through a mist. NOCTURNE, JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER, the plaque reads. Somehow calming and slightly mysterious, it’s one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen. Forget Petermann’s surrealist works. As I stare into Nocturne’s depths, all I can think is that this is what a manifestation of a dream really looks like. I see why Max chose it, and I love him even more for doing so.
“Are you ready?” I turn to Max, and find him already gazing at me with a funny, almost wary expression, like we are thinking the same thing.
All I can manage in response is a nod. I can’t believe we are doing this.
“Let me just change,” Max says. “I’ll be right back.”
I remove my wool coat and place it under a carved wooden table in the corner that probably cost more than our car, revealing a long, plum-colored ball gown I found in my grandmother’s closet. It’s not exactly Beyoncé material, but it does bring out my complexion. Then I open to the entry about the Met dream and scan its pages as though running lines one last time before going onstage.
I hear a noise and turn back, finding Max standing by in the doorway, looking terrified. And also completely perfect in an elegant tux.
“You look . . . beautiful,” he admits.
“Then what’s wrong?” I ask.