Flirting With Forever (44 page)

More laughter.

“She’s a very persuasive lady. The Carnegie’s damned lucky to have her. Oops. Can I say
damned
, Lamont?”

Cam’s head whipped around. Packard was in the back

—smiling!

“You can say anything you damned wel please,”

Packard cal ed. “Just keep those paintings coming.”

The room fil ed with applause.

“Wel , now,” Bal said. “I guess there’s no delaying it.

That two-point-one’s gotta go at some point.”

He grabbed the silk cord. Cam closed her eyes.

There was a hush in the room. The hush of awe and something more. Surprise? Then a gasp. Cam slitted an eye.

“Now, I know you were expecting a Van Dyck.” Bal

“Now, I know you were expecting a Van Dyck.” Bal stood not in front of the disputed Van Dyck, but the painting of Cam Mertons had brought to her loft. “I started thinking

’bout it, though, and I thought,
pfft,
Van Dycks are a dime a dozen. They’re yesterday’s news. What this museum needs is a painting a damned sight prettier—there, I said it again

—than the one old Anthony did. This one’s a Peter Lely, folks, the royal portraitist to Charles the Second, and see if you don’t think the same thing I do: He musta known one of Campbel Stratford’s distant relatives.”

The room was stone silent. Cam was terrified. It was so apparently not a Lely, wel , not a seventeenth-century Lely, not with her on the front of it. Then, in a random spot in the room, a person started clapping. Then half a dozen other guests began clapping as wel , and then the room fil ed with thunderous applause.

A pair of strong arms slid around her waist, and Peter whispered into her ear, “I thought this might help.”

She turned and flung her arms around him. “Thank you.”

Packard strode up to shake Bal ’s hand. He hopped on the stage.

“This museum has always been able to count on Woodson Bal ,” Packard said. “And today is no exception.

Woodson has informed me that in addition to this gorgeous Lely, he wil also be putting a fantastic new work on view here soon. Massive in scope, revolutionary in vision, this is a piece you’l be hearing more about in the news on Monday. It’s exciting. It’s never been seen by the viewing public. It represents a stunning new discovery by the art world. And you, ladies and gentlemen—and board members,” he added significantly, “wil be the first people to experience
Wednesday Afternoons
.”

Cam looked at Peter.

“Er, a bit of a negotiation to make the Van Dyck switch possible,” Peter whispered. “Hope you don’t mind. At least your debut wil be on home ground.”

The guests were stil applauding. Packard had the room in the palm of his hand.

“But for now, enjoy the Lely,” he said, “and before I send you back to your browsing, I want to say thank you once again to an arts patron who knows how to make a difference. Woodson Bal , everyone.”

The room exploded in a roof-lifting cheer.

A throng of guests surrounded Cam to congratulate her, and when she final y broke loose, Peter was gone. She fol owed the happy crowd down the hal , trying to spot him, but no matter how she strained her head, she couldn’t see him.

She felt a tug at her sleeve. “Peter,” she said and turned.

“Not Peter.”

It was Anastasia. She looked like she’d been crying.

Cam put a hand on her instinctively. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing. Listen, do you have a minute?”

Cam nodded and led her to a quiet hal next to the freight elevator. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you about the Peter Lely painting. I know it’s not real.”

Cam felt her stomach tighten. The game was over. If Anastasia, the museum’s European art curator, was going to chal enge it, the painting wouldn’t stand.

“I know it’s not real,” she said, “but I’m not going to say anything.”

Cam didn’t know what to say. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “But … ?”

“I know al about it. I know how you got it, and I know who did it.”

She couldn’t mean she knew about Peter and the Afterlife. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know Peter or Rusty or whatever your friend’s name is painted it.”

Cam breathed a sigh of relief. “Then why are you going to keep quiet?”

“I know you don’t think I have the best interests of this museum in mind most days, but I’d like to think that I’m a little better than that. If Bal wants to give the painting, and Packard wants to accept it, that’s good for the museum.

You heard the people out there. They love it.”

Cam blinked. What had come over her sister?

“And they should love it,” she went on. “It’s a damned fine painting. Exceptional, real y. Any museum in the world would accept it as a Lely. Hel , any museum in the world would accept it even though it’s not a Lely. The only trouble is, I know the sitter’s you.”

“Me?” The freight elevator
ding
-ed and both women moved a step farther away.

“It’s pretty obvious, Cam. Jacket saw it. I did, too. And that’s the real reason I’m going to keep quiet. You just don’t get that sort of feeling from an artist with any sitter. He loves you, Cam. You have a way with men I’l never have. Even Jacket loves you, and you just dumped him. That painting’s a good, pure thing, and Peter’s love is a good pure thing. I won’t be a part of ruining either one.”

“Thank you, Stacy.”

Anastasia threw her arms around her. “Which isn’t to say I’m not going to get the directorship, you know.”

Cam laughed and hugged tighter. “I know. Game on.”

Anastasia pul ed away. “There. Now it doesn’t matter that the paint looks too new. It doesn’t matter that the canvas has been stretched too careful y, or that the style is not quite right. No one wil ever know the painting is a fake.”

Cam froze. Mrs. Fitcher, the old biddy from the board, gazed at them, mouth agape, from the elevator.

Thirty minutes later, Cam slammed the door of Packard’s office, leaving Packard, Anastasia, Dunevin, Bal and Mrs.

Fitcher behind her.

Jeanne stopped the game she was playing on her phone and jumped to her feet. “What can I do to help?”

“It depends. Do you stil have that business card for the

‘We Hit Old Biddies’ firm?”

Jeanne nodded toward the door. “What happened in there?”

“Oh, the usual. Even though there’s no signature and no record of it in Lely’s documents—er, the real Lely, I mean, the Lely who painted in 1673—the composition, theme and color choice point to authenticity. In that case, especial y with a situation as sensitive as this, experts usual y take a general y positive-but-not-yet-definitive point of view.

However, Mrs. Fitcher happened to overhear the museum’s leading expert of Restoration-era art say it’s a fake. Since then, Anastasia’s done everything she can to backpedal, and when Mrs. Fitcher has pushed her, she went mum—”

“Anastasia?”

“She’s real y trying to cover for me, bless her heart. It’s hard for me to believe it myself.”

“Hard for you to believe? Traveling through time? That’s hard to believe. Anastasia being kind? That’s impossible.”

“Yeah, so Anastasia’s stayed mum and Bal won’t let anyone, including Packard, who’s getting real y nervous, look at it.”

“Now what?”

“Who knows? Either way, I’m stil going to be out of a job tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to leave me with the chain-mail Czarina, are you?”

“She’l change. You’l see.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Where’s Peter?”

“In your office. At least he was fifteen minutes age.”

Cam flew to her office. The disputed Lely painting was tucked behind her door, but Peter was nowhere to be seen.

She trotted down the hal .

“Are you looking for the hottie with Johnny Depp eyes?”

a col ege student on the catering crew asked.

“I, um … maybe.”

“Old?” she said, and realized her mistake and flushed.

“Older than you, I mean.”

“That’s the one.”

“He told me to tel you he’s with Ada.”

Cam laughed. “Thanks.”

When she stepped into the gal ery, Peter was not, in fact, with Ada. He was eyeing a smal painting in the corner, next to a couple both looking at their BlackBerrys.

Cam watched him for a moment, the line of his back, the tilt of his head as he considered the work before him, the luxurious gleam of light on his hair. Could she remember al that? Could she lock it up in a place where the memory would sit, unmuddied by events, longing or grief, for her to unwrap like a cherished holiday ornament to fil her heart when it was empty?

As if he felt her presence, his shoulders relaxed and he turned. He beamed as she approached, and the other couple drifted off absently, stil working their keyboards.

“Ah, true love,” she said as Peter watched their egress.

“I have observed practices which have raised a considerable number of questions for me.”

“You and me both. It’s a religious thing.”

“In truth?”

“Cult of the Self-absorbed. Every member’s a one-person church. So, what are you looking at?”

He stepped aside to let her see.

“Ah, the Bonnard.” It was one of the many paintings Pierre Bonnard had done of his wife. In a bathroom as luminescent and richly colored as a Matisse, Pierre’s wife, Marte, lay peaceful y stil in her shimmering bath. “He painted her always at the same age, no matter how old she’d gotten. It was as if he wanted her frozen in time.” She thought of the gorgeous portrait Peter had done of her, just a few rooms away, and put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “I thank you for my painting.”

“Which part?” he asked, smiling. “Painting it or giving it away?”

“Both. How did you think to go to Bal ?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Col ectors place an enormous amount of importance on what others think of their paintings. I suspected he’d be open to a timely trade. And he was.

He’s a decent cove. A damned fine eye as wel . The only problem was your car. I’m afraid the window is, wel , shal we say, a trifle out of sorts—which wil , perhaps, be more of a problem than I’d original y anticipated, given the incipient snow.”

Cam glanced out the window and saw the steady downfal of white. “Oh, fuck—Oops.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

“But on that topic, here is a question. Could it possibly be considered within the bounds of acceptable behavior here to describe oneself as a fornicator?”

She frowned for a moment, and then it hit her. Bal . She threw her head back and laughed. “Wel , only if your parents were as wel , I suppose.”

“Bal did mention something to that effect. I could barely summon a reply. When it comes down to it, I suppose al of our parents were, but to state it so unashamedly … ’Tis quite shocking, and yet he seemed to be so proud.”

“It is a mark of distinction—especial y where he comes from.”

“I am amazed.”

“Oh, Peter, the painting you did is beautiful. I could see that, even while I was tel ing Mertons to shove it up his, er, storage facility. Is that real y how you see me?”

He tucked a rogue curl behind her ear. “Aye.”

“Do you think you’l have time to paint one of you? I should like to have something to remember you by.”

The pained look in his eyes sent an ache through her heart.

“I have never been much of a self-portraitist,” he said,

“but for you, milady, aye.”

“Thank you.”

He brought her close and kissed her forehead. She loved the clean smel of his skin.

“It stands, I hope,” he said. “The painting, I mean.” She stiffened automatical y and he stepped back and looked in her eyes. “What?”