The Art Forger (22 page)

And so it went. I came into the city three times and stayed for two days each. It took more sessions than I estimated because Beatrice never had a full day free. I painted when she was available, slept at the Y. She was easy to have around, reading or quietly talking on her cell phone, but ever vigilant. I’d have guessed they paid her handsomely for this tedious duty, but it was clear she was way too rich to be persuaded by money. I never did find out why she did it.

The whole process was actually quite pleasant as long as I didn’t spend too much time thinking about what was behind it. I was out of Boston, away from the pressure of classes and the one-upmanship that’s the hallmark of highly ranked MFA programs. And Beatrice turned out to be an excellent companion: both watchful and respectful, saying little, but clearly communicating that she was impressed with my work. Karen had told me I didn’t have to make a copy of
4D,
just to paint something similar, another piece in the series. Which is what I did.

When I finished, Beatrice locked the painting in the studio and told me someone would be in touch. She thanked me for my graciousness, and I for hers. She smiled warmly at me for the first time since the project began and patted me on the shoulder. “Way to go, girl,” she said, and winked. Then she got into her waiting car and was driven away.

It was six long weeks before I heard the official verdict.

Twenty-six

I buy a queen-size mattress, box spring, footboard, and headboard. I haven’t had anything this official to sleep in since I was a little girl snuggled into my faux–French Provincial twin bed. For the first time in my life, I actually have money—the $5,000 bonus was a nice addition to my ill-gotten nest egg—and it just didn’t seem fair to ask Aiden to deal with a mattress on the floor.

The dark cloud has passed. No more nightmares of being smothered or chased or locked up. No Isaac, no Belle, and no Degas. And lots of Aiden.

Although the shortening angle of the fall sun and the decreasing hours of daylight usually make me cranky, this year, despite all evidence to the contrary, the world is so much brighter than it was during the summer. As I’d hoped, completing
Bath II
banished my demons.

I’m working furiously on my windows, at almost the same pace as
Bath II,
but this time I have thirteen paintings to contend with and must pace myself. If limiting painting time to no more than fourteen hours a day can be considered pacing. Obviously, there’s no time to trek to Back Bay, so if Aiden and I want to be together, it’s got to be at my place. He claims he doesn’t mind coming down to the studio, that he likes both the walk and the smell of turpentine. But I think it’s sex he’s after. And I’ve got no problem with that.

The man makes love even better than he kisses, and he can do things with his tongue that turn me inside out. I’ve had a number of short flings and one-night stands since Isaac, but it’s been over three years since I’ve had sex on anything close to a regular basis. And, man oh man, is it addictive. In some ways it’s fortunate that I’m working against a tough deadline; otherwise we’d never leave the new bed.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” I say, as we loll around in postcoital bliss. Actually it’s the second postcoital bliss of the afternoon, and I’m falling farther behind by the moment.

“I think March would be a wonderful time for your show.” Aiden’s tongue follows the contours of my ear. “Lots of time between paintings for a little fun,” he says. “Spring and renewal. It’s so appropriate.”

A shiver runs through me. For a moment I consider the possibility, even though I know there’s no way I can wait that long. I leap off the bed before he can convince me to stay. “You’re my dealer. You’re supposed to want what’s best for my career.”

“I’m also your lover.” Aiden sits up and puts his hands behind his head, watches me as I get dressed. “So I have to consider what’s best for your body.”

“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” I step into my work jeans, which are so stiff with paint they practically stand by themselves. “But you know what happens to girls who are all play and no work.”

“They’re not dull?” he asks.

“They’re not successful.”

Aiden throws his arms up in mock despair. “Mankind! Beware the overly ambitious woman. She’ll leave you cold and alone, your balls blue.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Beware the overly melodramatic man.”

He picks up the remote from the floor and aims it at the small television perched on a pile of old cookbooks I never use. “Just want to check the market close,” he says. “Then I’ll head back to the gallery.”

I’ve no interest in the market, having never owned a single stock, so I pick up my brush and inspect my current piece. It’s the
Pink Medium
I’ve been thinking about for months, and it’s coming out better than I expected. I’m thrilled at the radiance the phenol formaldehyde and oven have given to the many tones of pink. Greedily, I reach for my palette.

“Shit!” Aiden yells. “Claire. Shit. Shit!”

I whirl around.

“It’s
After the Bath.
Our
Bath.
” He jumps out of bed and stands, naked, in front of the television. “I think.”

I suddenly understand what the term “heart in your throat” means; it feels as if every major organ in my body has squeezed itself behind my larynx. Still clutching my brush, I join him.

“Assumed to be one of the unrecovered paintings stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the brazen 1990 Boston robbery that has stymied the world’s most renowned investigators,” intones the CNN newscaster.

And there it is, filling the screen. If that isn’t my
Bath II,
then someone did a hell of a forgery. Although it’s impossible to see the details on my tiny screen, structurally, the painting appears to be an exact replica of the one Aiden has in storage. My brush clamors to the floor. I take his hand.

“The painting was discovered last week during a security screening in San Francisco aboard a ship destined for New Delhi, India,” the newscaster continues. “If it proves to be Edgar Degas’
After the Bath
, it will be the first object recovered from the 1990 heist in which priceless masterpieces by the likes of Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, and Degas were stolen. The painting is currently en route to Boston for authentication. There is no word on any arrests made in the case, but the FBI has announced a full investigation. We will have updates for you as soon as we receive them.”

Aiden and I stare at each other, neither able to speak, the glazed shock in our eyes saying it all.

“I thought you said he was going to carry it with him?” I finally say.

Aiden pulls his pants on. “We don’t know that he didn’t. All they said was that it was caught during security screening. And we don’t even know if it’s my buyer.”

After the Bath.
A ship. Leaving from San Francisco. Going to India. Who else could it be?

“It’s important we sit tight,” he says. “Don’t panic. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll try to get some more information. Be back as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, as he grabs his jacket.

Aiden looks at me and blinks, almost as if he’s surprised to see me. Then his eyes soften, and he wraps me in his arms. “It’ll be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you. Or me.”

I let him hug me, wanting to believe what he’s saying, but all too aware that these promises aren’t his to make. Or to keep.

W
HILE I WAIT
for Aiden to return, I try to work, but for the moment, my powers of concentration abandon me. Afraid I’m going to make some fatal error that will put me even farther behind or burn down the entire building, I force myself to stop. I keep the television on, but it’s just a repetition of the same information. Even the shot of the painting is the same. I do some Internet surfing, but the only thing I learn is that the TSA discovered the painting almost a week ago and didn’t authorize the release of the information until today. Which means they probably know a lot more than they’re telling.

I put on an extra pair of socks and a sweatshirt, but I can’t get warm. I add a down vest and wool gloves with the top of the fingers cut off. But my bones seem to be emanating cold from their marrow. I want to jack up the heat, but the forced hot air has erratic effects on paint that isn’t completely dry. So I walk in circles, hoping movement will help.

It’s dark when Aiden returns. I throw myself into his arms, seeking both warmth and protection. As he’s just come in from the cool night air and doesn’t have any magical defensive powers, I’m disappointed on all counts.

He sits on the couch and presses a finger to the bridge of his nose. “They arrested Patel.”

“Who?”

“Ashok Patel. The buyer.”

“So it’s my painting?”

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“Right, right,” I say, as I run through the implications. “You said you’ve worked with him before. So he knows you. Your name, what you look like.”

“Yes and no.”

“Which?”

“He knows me as the owner of Markel G. Been a client for years. But he’s got no idea I was involved in this sale. As I told you before, I went through a number of middlemen.”

“So they know who you are.”

“It’s a levels thing, again. I’m covered, and because I’ve never done anything like this before, it’s unlikely I’ll come up on anyone’s radar screen.”

This doesn’t sound as convincing as Aiden is trying to make it appear, but there are more pressing issues at the moment. “How’d they find him?”

“I don’t know for sure, but my brokers gave him explicit instructions to take the canvas off the frame and carry it with him. I assumed he’d do what he was told.”

“But he didn’t.”

Aiden slides over and puts his arm around me. “Patel doesn’t know where the painting came from, who he was dealing with or, obviously, that it isn’t real. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to tie it to me.”

“The FBI or the TSA or whoever, they could get things out of him. Work up through your layers.”

“That stuff’s a lot less effective than it looks on TV.”

“But they’re going to be all over the whole Gardner theft thing again. Where the paintings are, who’s got them. They could connect it to you from that end. ”

“I’m saved by both my own ignorance and others’ ignorance of me.” He cups my chin. “The important thing is that no one can connect any of this to you. I’m the only one who knows you’re involved, and,” he kisses me lightly, “my lips are sealed.”

“But what about you?”

“I brought you a high-quality copy and paid you eight-thousand dollars to make a copy from it. That’s all you know. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“Is it really that simple?”

He flashes a quick grin. “I sure as hell hope so.”

The grin throws me off balance, and I again find myself thinking about how little I know about him.

“Guess the good news is that I don’t have to worry about how to get the original back to the Gardner anymore,” he says. “Or at least not for a while.”

I bite my lower lip. Of course, there is no original, or at least no original he can give back. Aiden, too, knows little about me. “What if they figure out it’s a forgery?” I ask. “Or, maybe worse, what if they don’t?”

Aiden takes my hands. “Claire, you’re going to make yourself, and me, crazy with all these questions. There’s no point in getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s take one thing at a time. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Assume the best until you know the worst.’ ”

“Right,” I tell him, although I know I’m incapable of that kind of control. “Whatever Grandma Markel says.”

Aiden slaps his thighs and stands. “Want to order out for pizza?”

When the pizza arrives, neither of us eats much. We play with our slices and pretend to be engrossed in reruns of
Seinfeld
and
Taxi.
We even laugh now and then.

“Are we whistling a happy tune?” I ask Aiden after a particularly boisterous bout of amusement.

He shrugs. “If it works . . .”

We turn in early, and for the first night since Aiden made me macaroni and cheese, we don’t make love.

Twenty-seven

Above the fold, on the front page of the
Boston Globe,
is a photograph taken from the Gardner Museum archives of
After the Bath,
the one that had hung in the Short Gallery for almost a hundred years, the one stolen in the heist. Only Aiden and I know that this isn’t the painting recovered on a dock in San Francisco. Only I know it wasn’t painted by Edgar Degas.

STOLEN GARDNER MASTERPIECE FOUND?
asks the large-font headline. It’s the lead story on almost every news site on the Internet. The
Today
show, too.