The Memory Painter

Bryan turned back, realizing they all assumed he was a scientist. “Oils. Excuse me.” He stood up and set off toward the house. Now that he knew it belonged to Conrad, he couldn’t contain his curiosity. He left everyone scratching their heads.

“Oils? That bioengineering?” Neil reached over to Steve’s plate and stole his shrimp brochette. “And what’s with the suit? Is retro back in?”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Like you would know. I think he’s hot.”

On the dance floor, Linz followed her father’s lead. She was used to dancing with him at functions.

“Nice speech.”

Conrad spun her around. “Does that mean, Dr. Jacobs, that I can start calling you Lindsey again in public?”

“Fine, I overreacted at the meeting.” Linz glanced back at the table. Bryan hadn’t lasted long. She watched him disappear inside and felt guilty for leaving him.

Conrad noticed him too. “Who’s the suit?”

“The artist I was telling you about.”

Conrad faltered with his next step. “You brought him here?”

Linz laughed at the astonishment on his face. “Watch your feet, twinkle toes. It’s just a date.”

*

Bryan wandered through the main hallway, his architectural eye taking in the curving colonnade and sweeping pavilion. Earlier, when they had come up the drive, he had been astounded to recognize a design Louis Le Vau had studied on paper hundreds of years ago.

The house clearly resembled one of the scrapped plans for the East Wing of the Louvre. Bryan remembered the debacle like it was yesterday. Le Vau had already remodeled most of the Louvre but had been unable to finish it after he had been fired by Jean-Baptiste Colbert, advisor to Louis XIV. A train of architects had stood in line to attempt to remodel the wing, including the most influential architect of the French Renaissance: Francois Mansart. An utter perfectionist, Mansart often tore down partially completed projects and began again. He had drawn up several brilliant plans for the wing, but Colbert had released him as well. Le Vau had seen the plans because he had remained on the Louvre’s building committee. Bryan would have recognized Mansart’s original design anywhere. He wondered how Conrad had gotten his hands on it.

Bryan passed under a Roman arch and ended up in a formal living room where several photographs were displayed on a Grecian table next to a grand piano. Most were of Linz. One photo showed her winning the World Junior Chess Championship. Bryan picked it up and smiled. Toward the back, he noticed a small photo of the entire family taken when Linz had been a baby. The woman holding her could only have been her mother. She and Linz shared the same beauty. Conrad and his wife must have met after Michael’s death—Bryan didn’t recognize her. Linz’s brother looked to be about two or three in the picture, his face oddly solemn. It was the only photo of her mother and brother in sight. Perhaps grief kept the others locked away.

He picked up another photo of Linz as a young girl. Dressed in a ballet costume, she stood on pointe, her other leg extended high in the air. Her face had a calm, focused look, as if striking such perfect balance came effortlessly to her. Bryan wasn’t surprised. Balance had always been one of her strongest attributes. It had been one of the first things he had noticed when he had met her this time—her carriage, her poise. There were other qualities that she also had unknowingly carried with her: the way she tilted her head slightly to the right when she was contemplating something, the unblinking focus of her eyes at times, and the way her thumb performed a circular pattern on the tip of her index finger when she was truly deep in thought.

Bryan looked around the room and noticed another door leading away from the living room. He glanced back to make sure no one was watching and entered.

On the other side was an enormous gallery housing an antique collection that would rival any museum’s. Bryan took a few steps inside and stopped.

Coming into this room had been a mistake. These were relics from his own memories. His eyes darted around in panic as the fingers of the past started to wrap themselves around his neck, choking him.

Before he could turn around and escape, he saw a tall glass case in the center of the room displaying a small item. He walked toward it in astonishment, his chest heavy, and he felt the room collapse as the weight of a vision propelled him to another time and place.



TWENTY-ONE

NORTHERN ATLANTIC OCEAN



986


The wind hid Odin’s breath—Bjarni knew only a god could have conjured such a storm. He dropped sail to slow his speed, but the gales continued to push him off course. The ocean waged its war against his ship for a second day until Bjarni began to believe it wasn’t Odin, but Hel herself from the Underworld, raising her hands within the waves in an attempt to capsize them. He would never reach Greenland.