“I have something to show you, and I don’t have much time,” I said breathlessly.
“Come in. Come in. Be warm.” Abbas gestured across the room to the fire crackling in a large stone hearth between two enormous windows at the rear.
I stamped the snow from my boots, pulled off my soaking wet gloves and tried to get my bearings. Easily twice the size of the studio in New York, this looked more like a gallery. There were polished concrete floors and soaring ceilings with snow-covered skylights. A zebra-skin chaise and an Eames black leather couch furnished the sitting area near the fireplace. Picture windows on either side provided views of the snowy woods and inlet. Hugh’s self-portraits were on view everywhere. They hung on the walls, leaned against them and rested on the furniture. It felt like an egomaniac’s shrine.
One of the paintings stood out among the others. It sat on an easel in the center of the studio, probably for evaluation by Abbas. A painting of Hugh as a satyr.
He had a smirk on his goatlike face, and a naked erection—exaggerated, by far. Seeing it gave me the willies. I turned away quickly.
“Hugh gave this to me as a birthday gift,” I said, opening Grace’s coat and removing the plastic bag from my waistband. My hands were still frozen and clumsy. The book slipped out of the bag and fell to the floor. I picked it up gingerly and offered it to Abbas. “I want you to sell it for me. As quickly as you can.”
He didn’t take it. He merely stared at Carrie Fisher’s picture, confused.
“A comic book from Star Wars?”
“No. Much more.”
I carried the book to Hugh’s drawing table. The same custom-made drawing table he’d used in the city. He’d kept his antique Japanese screen, too. It stood at the rear of the studio, blocking off a recessed area—probably hiding his messes. I was almost nostalgic.
“It was a kind of joke for Hugh. Once in a while he’d use these cheap notebooks to sketch out his series, mostly in charcoal and colored crayon or pencil,” I explained, placing the book on the table. “I’ll bump your commission by ten percent if you can sell it fast. Do you think you can?”
Abbas pursed his lips, studying me for a moment. Then he came to my side and opened the book. He examined the first drawing: my younger self sprawled naked on rumpled sheets, one hand cupping my breast, one arm thrown across my eyes. Hugh lay sleeping facedown on my left. The viewer was meant to linger on my body, soft and voluptuous like one of Pissarro’s nudes. The title, Loving Nora, was scrawled at the bottom. Abbas leafed through the rest of the nude portraits, fascinated. His expert’s eyes were doing that greedy, calculating thing. I blushed as they feasted on me.
“He never showed me this,” he said, shaking his head.
“According to my research, the book is worth almost half a million,” I said. “Now that he’s dead.”
Abbas glanced up with what appeared to be a disapproving look.
“Maybe,” he murmured, and perused the pages again. He finally set the book down. “Why are you offering me such a good deal?”
“I know you’re busy. It’s an incentive to make this a priority. I need to sell right now.”
“Why? You waited all this time, but now you rush, rush, rush? What is going on?”
I glanced at the door anxiously. He was asking too many questions. I’d have to try to engage his competitive instincts.
“Listen, if you don’t want to do this, I’ll take it to one of the auction houses.”
“Ah, yes, the auction houses,” he said, ruefully. “Those temples of art.” Abbas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “I think something is wrong. I think you are in trouble.”
“My aunt is sick, Abbas. Her care is expensive.”
“Ah. I am sorry to hear.”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
Abbas paused for a moment, and then tapped the book. “If you can prove you own this.”
“What does that mean?”
“I need a bill of sale.”
“I told you, the book was a gift.”
“Was it listed in divorce settlement?”
“No. Hugh gave it to me years before we divorced. For my birthday. It wasn’t part of the settlement.”
“You have a witness? Someone who saw Hugh give it to you? They will swear to this on paper?”
“A witness? No. He left it under my pillow, you know, in bed. What’s the problem?”
Abbas frowned.
“I have seen this many times when an artist divorces. The wives steal. They wait. They try to sell the work years later without getting caught.”
“Abbas. You know me.” I was stunned. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d steal this. I swear it’s mine.”
“I’m not calling you a thief, dear girl. But you must prove this is not part of Hugh’s estate. His lawyers will be watching on a sale of this size.”
“Wait. I have a letter. A letter Hugh wrote. He says he gave it to me.”
“Let me see it.”
“I don’t have it on me—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement out a window close to the front door. A dark figure hunched against the wind and snow was heading for the studio.
“Shit.” I looked around wildly. “Tobias is coming. Please don’t tell him I’m here.”
“Why not?”
I turned and ran toward the Japanese screen.
“What is going on, Nora? Tell me!”
“Later. Please.”
I ducked behind the screen, nearly banging my hip on a utility table strewn with mountains of papers, books, rags and paint tubes. Crouching between a cloth-covered easel and a work sink, I tried to catch my breath as the door opened and the cold wind blew in.
“Mr. Masout,” Tobias said, stomping off snow and closing the door. “How are things coming along?”
Silence. Abbas wasn’t answering. I held my breath. Oh God. He was going to give me away. Finally, I heard one of the men clear his throat.
“I am almost finished,” Abbas said. “Another hour, I think.”
I began breathing again. But my nose had started to tickle. It must be all those chemicals: the cans of paint thinner, turpentine and spray varnish reeking on the shelves behind me. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t sneeze.
“I thought I’d be able to stay until you were done, but I’ve got to go back to the inn. Ruth called. I’m afraid our niece is not doing well. Not well at all.”
“That poor child,” Abbas said. “My heart breaks.”
“She’s in a terrible state. She’s been crying all afternoon. The loss is overwhelming. I know it must be very emotional for you, too. Looking at these paintings, today of all days. Let me thank you again for staying to help, especially in this weather.”
“If it will help Callie, I’m glad to do it.”
“It surely will.”
I heard footsteps tread further into the room.
“My God. When did Hugh begin painting pornography?”
“What?”
“The beast with the erection.”
“That is art, Mr. Walker.”
“Really. What is this particular piece of ‘art’ worth?”
“About one point two.”
“Million?”
“Yes.”
“And the rest?”
“My estimate is not completed, but including unsold work at the gallery . . . it could be thirty-five million, I think. Maybe more.”