Restrike (9 page)

When the last guest had departed, and Jonathan and Dinah had disappeared upstairs, Bethany and Zeke walked the few blocks to Sabor, a Cuban restaurant where Bethany said they’d be able to get a good meal without a long wait.

“I’m told the empanadas are the best appetizer here, but I’m havin’ the
frituras
—they’re all vegetable,” she said.

“Are you a vegetarian?” Zeke didn’t know many vegetarians, and those he knew disapproved if anyone else ordered meat. He didn’t want to offend her.

“No, but I grew up in the South, and we were poor, so I’m used to not eatin’ much meat. Meat was more like a condiment than a course.”

“Uh—aren’t you Indian? I mean isn’t your family from India?” Zeke asked.

Bethany laughed. “Oh, no! I reckon the census classifies me as African American, but my family is a mixture of everything. We’re not black, at least not to look at. We have Native American blood, white blood, and goodness knows what else.”

“How’d you happen to come to work for Dinah?”

“My family’s from the same part of North Carolina as the Greenes, and the head of our family, Aunt Mary Louise, was great friends with Dinah and Coleman’s grandmother. We played together as children, went to the same school.”

“But most of the time you don’t talk the same way they do—and sometimes, like now, you sound like the BBC. What gives?”

She emphasized her crisp accent, “Oh, I can talk either way. I change according to what I’m talking about, or to whom I’m speaking. I had a teacher who told me everyone should be able to speak standard educated English and Southern dialect. I use Southern dialect. When I talk to my family and friends, and sometimes in New York—it’s a conversational stimulant. People always ask where I’m from, and before you know it, we’re friends—and they’re buyin’ a print.”

He laughed.

The food arrived and between bites he drew her out on her background. They ate sea bass in a garlicky green sauce, and a delicious coconut dessert. Bethany told him she studied commercial art at Eastern Carolina University, and after graduation worked for a printing company in Charlotte, but she’d been bored and decided to come to New York. She’d fallen in love with the New York art scene and had been with an East Village gallery when Dinah had offered her a fabulous deal to work with her.

“At least, it would be a fabulous deal if the gallery were in the right location, which it isn’t, and if it had decent sales, which it doesn’t. As it is, it’s a disaster—I’m goin’ to have to get another job, or starve,” she said.

She scraped the last of her dessert from her plate and sat back with a contented sigh. Zeke smiled. She wouldn’t starve tonight. He liked watching her eat. She was so full of—what? Gusto, that was it. Her enthusiasm was infectious.

He asked why Dinah didn’t move the gallery to a better location. He was sure he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Bethany said.

“Jonathan writes the checks, and Jonathan doesn’t want her to move—it’s as simple as that. I think he’s afraid if she’s successful, she might leave him. God knows, I would, he’s so bossy.”

“If she moved to a better location, you’re pretty sure she could make a go of it? And you’d stay with her?”

“Oh, yes. I’d rather do that than anything I can think of. If Dinah will just stiffen her backbone a little, it might happen. I’m keepin’ my fingers crossed, ’cause it’s not in her blood to let a man walk all over her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her grandmother was a Slocumb, and the Slocumb women are famous in the South. Seems like there’s a Slocumb heroine in every war. There’s a statue of one of them near where we live. Just as well those girls are strong—by the time they came along, the family had nothin’. They managed, but it was rough. Dinah knows how to work and to fight.”

“And Coleman?”

“Coleman doesn’t know the meanin’ of words like ‘surrender’ or ‘quit.’ She’s the toughest little thing you ever saw, and scared of no one and nothin’, includin’ the Devil himself. People say she met the Devil more than once, and the Devil ran away with his tail between his legs.”

“Have you met Heyward Bain?” Zeke said.

Bethany grinned. “I saw him tonight, but I haven’t met him. Why? Do you think he’s the Devil?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t like him, but I think Coleman’s got a thing for him. They make a good-looking couple. He even reminds me of her—I guess it’s because they’re both so small. Do most women find short men attractive?”

Bethany laughed. “I can’t answer for most women. But
I
do—some men, anyway. Alan Ladd. Paul Newman. Humphrey Bogart. Steve McQueen. Tom Cruise. Heyward Bain is handsomer than any of them, except maybe Newman.”

She looked at her watch. “Oh, drat. It’s late. I’ve got to try to get some sleep.”

He signaled for the check. “What do you mean, ‘try’?”

“I’m a terrible sleeper, and since I’ve been worryin’ about my job, it’s been worse. I hardly ever sleep through the night.”

“May I take you home?” Maybe if Bethany couldn’t sleep, she’d like some company.

“You can walk me home. It’s only a few blocks. But you can’t come up. I’m exhausted.”

But she let Zeke hold her hand, and when they said good night on the sidewalk outside her building, she kissed him back.

Dinah sat at her dressing table brushing her hair, while Jonathan, the tic in his cheek worse than she’d ever seen it, paced the bedroom and harangued her about Heyward Bain.

“Are you going to have lunch with Bain?” he asked again.

“
Yes
, Jonathan, for the fifth time.”

“Doesn’t it matter to you that I don’t want you to see that man?”

Dinah turned and faced him. “Jonathan, ‘that man’ is an important customer. He just b-bought a bunch of p-prints from the gallery—the p-portfolio I offered the P-Print Museum. I d-didn’t tell you before, because I d-didn’t want to have another row. He’s a major f-figure in my f-field. ‘That man’ has asked me to have l-lunch in a p-public p-place. Why shouldn’t I g-go?”

“Isn’t the fact that I don’t want you to go reason enough?”

“Jonathan, I d-do everything you ask that’s reasonable, and a lot that isn’t. I d-didn’t promise to obey you when we g-got married. We t-took that phrase out of the ceremony—remember? And you must s-stop trying to tell me what to do about my b-business.” She kept her voice level, and forced herself to hold back tears.

Jonathan stalked out. She supposed he’d sleep in the guest bedroom, as he’d done when he had a cold. She didn’t care. She was sick of arguing. But she felt guilty, she wasn’t sure her lunch with Bain
was
all business. She hated to admit it, but she found Bain attractive. She’d never have dreamed that only five months after her wedding she’d be having lunch with another man against Jonathan’s wishes.

Jonathan started in again about Bain as soon as Dinah got up Wednesday morning. When he paused to breathe, she told him she had to go to the gallery early, and went in to shower. When she came out, he’d left for work. She dressed and hurried downstairs to the gallery. Customers poured in all morning.

Around noon, when no one was in the gallery but Bethany, Dinah ran upstairs to get leftovers from the opening for a quick lunch, and took Baker for a walk.

When she returned to the gallery with the tray, she said to Bethany, “Sorry about this, these sandwiches don’t look too great. I didn’t want to take the time to fix anything—someone will probably come in any minute.”

“I’m so hungry I could eat anything that didn’t bite back,” Bethany said, gobbling a handful of tiny sandwiches with curled crusts. After she’d swallowed the last scrap, she said, “Dinah, why don’t you quit arguin’ with Jonathan and just move the gallery? You can fight about it forever, but he’s winnin’ because you’re still here.”

Dinah stared at Bethany. “You know, you’re absolutely right. Coleman doesn’t argue with him, she ignores him, and does whatever she was going to do. I should learn from her.”

“Yes, but don’t just stop arguin’—act! Where would you rather be—Midtown or Chelsea?”

“Chelsea’s hot, but I’d rather be in Midtown. Other areas come and go, but there’ll always be galleries in Midtown—and I don’t want to have to move again,” Dinah said.

“Last night I heard there’s good space available in 20 West Fifty-Seventh Street. What do you think?”

“Oh, Bethany, that would be grand, I love that building. But what about the space here?”

“You can rent it—lots of small businesses would like it,” Bethany said.

“But Jonathan won’t like people being here on weekends—”

“Well, he can afford to leave it empty—he doesn’t need the money. But it’s not your problem, is it?”

“I guess not, but what about the cost of Fifty-Seventh Street? He won’t pay for it.”

“No, and you shouldn’t let him. Didn’t Miss Ida ever tell you, ‘He who pays the piper, calls the tune?’ If you want Jonathan to stop tellin’ you what to do, don’t take his money.”

The gallery bell sounded, and Bethany pushed the buzzer to let two customers in. Dinah brushed away the crumbs, thinking about West Fifty-Seventh Street. Bethany was right. She would look at the space, and if she liked it, and could come up with the money, she’d take it. She’d had enough.

Bethany had arranged to meet Zeke at O’Malley’s on Perry Street for supper after the gallery closed. He was at a table near the fire, reading the
New York Times
. His face lit up when he saw her.

They sipped beer and ate peanuts from the big barrel in the middle of the room while they waited for their hamburgers. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and a huge marmalade cat slept on a pillow near the fire. The room smelled of fried onions, beer, and wood smoke.

Bethany, as usual, was starving. When the burgers came she wolfed hers and ate a great pile of french fries. When she’d finished, she took a deep breath and let it out. The tension she’d felt all day while dealing with customers was draining away. “I nearly canceled, I was so tired after the openin’ last night and workin’ today, but I’m glad I came,” she said.

Zeke smiled at her. “Me, too.”

Bethany tossed a peanut shell at the cat. It opened a drowsy yellow eye and went back to sleep.

She’d heard a lot about Zeke from Dinah. She’d said he was unavailable because he’d been in love with Coleman since college. Maybe he
had
been, but she knew the signs. He was definitely interested in Bethany. She’d test him. “You’ve known Dinah and Coleman since college? You used to date Coleman?”

Zeke shook his head. “Oh, I took her out a few times. Nothing serious, just friends.”

Bethany smiled. If that’s the way he saw it, so much the better.

“What kind of a day did you have?” Zeke wanted to know.

“Busy. We sold a lot of the Rist prints, and some other stock, too. And, guess what? Dinah’s goin’ to look at a space on Fifty-Seventh Street. If she likes it, and can get the money, she’s said she’ll move, no matter what Jonathan says.”

“Wow! That’s big news. And I think it’s the right thing to do. As for the money—maybe I can help.”

“Really? It could get expensive. The space has been advertised, so we know the rent, and it’s pretty steep. Dinah and I worked on some numbers—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can handle it,” Zeke said.

She stared at him. “You can make a commitment just like that, without even knowin’ the cost?”

Zeke laughed. “Yes, ma’am. Only child, only grandchild. Lucky financially, but not so lucky in other ways. Neither my career nor my love life has gone too well.”

Bethany smiled. “That could change.”

Coleman knew that her interest in Heyward Bain had distracted her from what was most important to her:
Art-Smart.
She had a long list of things she should have done, some of them way overdue. She wasn’t on top of the Print Museum story, and she hadn’t confronted Chick.

She looked at Dolly, who was staring at her expectantly. “Dolly, I’m going to start a new chapter today—work, work, work. I’ll forget all about Bain, I promise.”

Coleman poked her head in Chick’s office door, a Starbucks venti in her hand and Dolly at her heels. “Good morning! Have you got a minute?”

Chick looked up from his keyboard. “Hey, Coleman! Come in. I’m trying to clear my desk and calendar of everything else, so I can concentrate on the Print Museum story.”

She sat down opposite him and opened her notebook. “How about catching me up on what you’ve learned?”

“Sure. It looks like La Grange not only was the seller of
Skating Girl
and
The Midget
, but also the four Dürers and Rembrandt’s
Sleeping Kitten.
”

“I hadn’t heard about the Dürers or the Rembrandt, but I’m not surprised,” Coleman said.

Chick, frowning, leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “I can’t understand how La Grange could have owned those prints. Where did he get the money? Why would any legitimate collector sell them to him? Why wouldn’t the collector sell ’em at auction, or through an established dealer? Why were the Dürers and the Rembrandt auctioned in cities other than New York or London? And in second- or third-tier auction houses? They’d have done a lot better at one of the majors in a big auction city. Last: in every case the underbidder has been on the telephone. That’s suspicious in itself.”

Coleman, making notes, didn’t look up. “I think so, too. Have you checked the lists that curators and dealers suggested for the Print Museum? To see who recommended those particular prints?”

Chick nodded. “Yep,
Sleeping Kitten
and
The Midget
were only on Simon Fanshawe-Davies’s list. They’re so rare no one else thought they could be bought. The Dürer prints were on several lists along with other Dürers—the print experts didn’t agree about which ones Bain should own. The four he acquired aren’t that rare, but they’re in perfect condition, and getting the four together was unusual. They must have been in a collection somewhere, but no one knows where.”

Coleman tapped her pencil on the desk. “Are there any other prints on Simon’s list, and nowhere else? Prints Bain hasn’t bought yet?”

Chick nodded again. “Two more Rembrandts,
Seashells
and
Winter Landscape.
Nobody thinks he’ll find those—they’re even rarer than
Kitten.
But no one’s betting against Fanshawe-Davies. He’s been amazingly successful at getting things for Bain.”

Coleman leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, her head in her hands. “What do you think is going on?”

Chick offered her his bowl of mints, and when she shook her head, took one himself. “Jimmy must have been fronting for someone, maybe several people, but we don’t know who or why. The lack of provenance for all those prints suggests some kind of illegal source, or sources, but nobody knows where they came from. I’m thinking the bidding was rigged; I think the telephone bidder was pushing up prices, probably in collusion with Simon.”

“I agree. We have to try to find out everything we can about La Grange, including his death. We can’t go to press with all these loose ends hanging, and if we don’t tie ’em up, it looks like nobody will. But I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with this part of the story—La Grange’s death was pretty ugly, and definitely not the kind of article you signed up to do when you joined
ArtSmart.
”

Chick’s freckled cheeks turned pink. “Oh, I want to do the whole thing. It’s potentially big.”

“Okay, it’s yours. Keep me posted, will you?”

Coleman trusted Chick. She knew it wasn’t rational—the evidence was against him—but her instincts kept telling her he was okay. And Chick’s bulldog tenacity and his deep digging were exactly what were needed for the story.

Of course, if Chick
was
the leak, she might end up reading everything he discovered in the
Artful Californian.
It was a chance she was prepared to take. Coleman stood up and started to leave Chick’s office, but she paused near the door and turned back to face him. She’d try again.

“Is there anything else?” Chick asked, his head cocked.

“You’ve seemed—I don’t know—troubled in the past few months, not yourself. Is everything okay?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Yes, fine. Certainly nothing wrong about the job. I’d tell you if I had a work problem, I promise.”

Coleman returned to her office, and Dolly jumped into her lap. Coleman stroked her, thinking about what Chick had said. “Nothing wrong about the
job
?” Could he and David have personal problems? Or did he have another job offer, and didn’t want to tell her until it was settled? It was possible.

When she’d first met Chick, he was writing for
Architectural Digest.
She’d thought he was wasted describing rooms he’d seen only in photographs, rooms by the same old decorators, the same contemporary art on the walls of the modern New York and California apartments, the same tacky details in the traditional houses. Imagine painting walls or woodwork to match a color in a featured work of art. Yuck. She’d even seen an entire room painted the bubblegum hue of a squirrel’s genitalia in the painting by an Audubon wannabe over the mantle. Sick-making. Maybe someday she’d buy a decorating magazine and show everyone how it should be done. Yeah, and she’d wake up tomorrow looking like J.Lo.

Chick had taken to
ArtSmart
like a cat to cream, and his writing had improved remarkably. She still thought he was her friend no matter how bad it looked, but today he’d hinted he had a problem, and he wouldn’t tell her about it. He was usually so open. In fact, he talked so much, it was hard to believe he could live a double life. Of course, as a gay man who had never told his family the nature of his relationship with his partner, he was doing just that. Oh, God, what a nuisance this leak was. It made her suspect everyone.

Michael’s was packed, and many of the customers were celebrities, but Dinah wasn’t interested in the crowd. Even distracted as she was by her personal problems, and anxious about her lunch with Bain, she couldn’t resist pausing to look at the prints that decorated the walls. They were by famous contemporary artists, including Jasper Johns, Frank Stella, and David Hockney. She promised herself she’d come in some day and seriously study them.

Bain stood up and held her chair for her. “Do you know this restaurant? Some people think the Cobb salad is the best in New York. Have you tried it? No? Then you must—how about a glass of white wine?” Dinah nodded, and Bain gave their orders to the hovering waiter. “I’m so glad you could join me today. I have two topics I want to talk to you about. The first is business. Why aren’t you in a big gallery in a better location, with a much larger selection of prints?”

Dinah started to reply, but Bain continued. “I’ve read your articles on Jackson Pollock’s and Lee Krasner’s prints—brilliant. And your pieces on young printmakers—artists I don’t know, but would like to—are really good. You should be handling more artists.”

The waiter brought her wine and his iced tea. Dinah wanted to sip her wine—maybe it would relax her—but she didn’t dare delay replying, given his tendency to override her. “Thank you, I’d like to, but—” she began, but he cut her off before she could complete the sentence.

“If it’s money, I’ll lend you whatever you need at current interest rates, with a bank as intermediary. As soon as the initial collection at the Print Museum is set up, I plan to give up an active role there, so it wouldn’t be a conflict for me to back a gallery. What do you say?”

Dinah leaped in. “Well, it’s a little . . . complicated. You see, Jonathan, my husband—he’s my backer and—” Bain interrupted again. She wished he’d let her finish her sentences.

“He’s a little short of capital? That’s easy to fix. If you’d rather I deal directly with him, I’ll call him.”

Dinah winced. Jonathan would be furious if he knew Heyward Bain thought he needed money. “Oh, no, nothing like that! No, it’s just he thinks I ought to stay small—”

“But wouldn’t it help if I talked to him?
I’m
confident you’re capable of handling a much bigger gallery.”

Oh, God, Bain mustn’t talk to Jonathan, things were bad enough already. But she might need Bain’s backing, even though she didn’t like the idea of being indebted to another overbearing man. Could he be nervous, his tank-like qualities temporary? Or would it be frying-pan-to-fire if she took his money?

“Thank you, but I don’t think your talking to him would help. But I do plan to expand, and if Jonathan doesn’t want to finance my expansion, I’ll consider your offer. I appreciate your confidence in me.”

Bain smiled. “Just let me know. The other matter I wanted to talk about is, well, more delicate.”

Dinah braced herself. He was going to—what? Proposition her? Tell her he was in love with her?

Bain crumbled the roll on his bread plate. “It’s about Coleman.”

She looked up, startled. “Coleman?”

“I already know a great deal about her. How the two of you were brought up by your grandmother and your aunt. How you went to Miss Dabney’s and then Duke—how Coleman made your clothes and hers out of old clothes—”

This man was way out of line. She didn’t like being reminded of her poverty. “How in the name of goodness can you know that?”

Before Bain could reply, the waiter brought their food. Dinah tasted her Cobb salad and put her fork down. It might as well have been shredded cardboard.

Bain had reduced his roll to stuffing mix. He looked up from the mess he was making and his cheeks flushed. He must have read Dinah’s expression, or noticed she wasn’t eating. “I haven’t been spying on you and Coleman. It’s—well, I have my ways.”

Dinah considered him. Who was this man? His prying was unmannerly; he was a strange person. But something about him was familiar. “Sometimes you sound almost Southern. It’s not your accent—more the words you use: ‘I have my ways.’ Are you from the South?”

“I probably pick it up from you. Anyway, I know a lot about Coleman. When she first arrived at Duke, I understand she dated a lot but then she stopped dating, except for a few old friends. Did something happen?”

Dinah stiffened. Worse and worse. How dare he pry into their intimate affairs? His discussing their homemade clothes was bad enough, but this was beyond impertinent. “I think you know it did. I don’t know how you could possibly know, but if you do, you don’t need me to tell you.”

“Dinah, I’ve heard the story, but I need to know how it affected Coleman.”

Dinah now knew he wasn’t attracted to her, and in a way, she was relieved. It certainly made her life less complicated. He
was
interested in Coleman, and that made sense. Coleman was single, and she was the most attractive woman Dinah knew. “Are you in love with Coleman?”

He blushed, and shook his head. “I can’t talk about how I feel about Coleman—it’s impossible to explain, at least right now. But I promise you I wouldn’t ask these questions if it weren’t important.”

Dinah frowned. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you ask her?”

“I can’t. Please tell me. I swear my interest isn’t frivolous.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that. How do you know as much as you do?”

“I heard the story indirectly from one of the boys who was there.”

“I’m surprised you know that sort of person. Why do you need to know more?”

Bain leaned forward. “I told you. I need to know what it did to Coleman. Do you think it’s because of what happened that night that she’s never married?”

Dinah shook her head. “No, I really don’t. She quit dating in college because she decided most of the boys weren’t worth her time. But she was around some awful people before she came to Slocumb Corners. She’d stopped trusting men by the time she was five years old. With good reason. And we grew up in an all-woman household. She hardly knew any men after she came to Slocumb Corners—nothing happened to change her mind about men.

“It was different for me. I never met men, good or bad, so I dreamed about storybook men—I wanted a Prince Charming or a Mr. Darcy to come and rescue me. Anyway, I think Maxwell Arnold and his buddies only confirmed what Coleman already knew: there are some terrible people in the world.”

Bain frowned. “You think she got over it? That—that episode didn’t—I don’t know—prevent her committing? Ruin her life?”

Dinah shook her head. “I don’t think Coleman will ever marry. Not because of anything that happened at Duke, but because she has other priorities. She made up her mind a long time ago to dance to music only she can hear. Did she get over that little episode? Oh, yes. Coleman is the most resilient person I’ve ever met. She had to be, living through what she did. Some people are damaged by terrible childhood experiences, others are strengthened. Coleman is
very
strong.”

“You keep mentioning the years before she came to live with your grandmother. What can you tell me about her life then?”

“Oh, if you want to know about that, Coleman will have to tell you. And lots of luck. She never talks about it.”

They seemed to have nothing more to say, and neither of them wanted dessert or coffee. When they rose to leave, Dinah looked at her barely touched salad, and around the bright room, full of exciting art and people enjoying themselves. Some contrast with
her
lunch.

Oh well, it had been interesting. It would be even more interesting to tell Coleman about it, especially Bain’s curiosity about her.

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you not to tell Coleman what we talked about,” Bain said, as if he’d read her mind.

Dinah shook her head. “No, you can’t.” She’d tell Coleman everything as soon as they had some private time. But she wouldn’t confess that she’d thought Bain was attracted to her. She felt like a fool, and it would be too humiliating to tell anybody, even Coleman. He
must
be in love with Coleman. Why didn’t he ask her out?