The Art Forger (26 page)

When I emerged, he resettled the silk that formed the single shoulder, and the gown fell about my hips in the most delicious way. I don’t think I have ever felt so beautiful, which as we all know, I am not. He had me lie on the sofa, arching my body this way and that, tilting my head and then turning it so he could only see a sliver of profile. All this time, the softness of the silk caressed every inch of my body and aroused such a tingle that I felt it deep inside the core of me.

It was difficult to hold the poses he required, but when I complained, he didn’t acknowledge it. His charcoal flew across his sketchbook and his eyes were focused on every detail of me, without, I suspect, seeing “me” at all.

Finally, he allowed me to stretch. This felt so loose and warm and wonderful that I began to form poses of my own without even knowing I was doing so. Edgar continued to draw and later praised me as “a natural.”

I shall tell you here that it was pure and chaste from beginning to end. An artist and his model, rather than a man and a woman. Although, I must confess, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as much of a woman as I did that afternoon.

So my darling, Amelia, I must end here and dress for dinner. It will only be two months, eight short weeks, until we are together again. I cannot tell you how I long for the moment I am finally able to hold my sweet Fanny and smile into her beautiful, tiny face (you see, I already know she is beautiful!) as well as rest my weary eyes on you and Jackie and your handsome Sumner. We shall also be able to talk in womanly confidence and share things I dare not put to paper.

I am your loving,

Aunt Belle

Thirty-one

The next day, Rik texts me to meet him for a drink anywhere but Jake’s. We agree to go to Clery’s, where our privacy will be guaranteed by the enthusiastic throngs of on-the-make, young professionals creating way more noise than necessary to prove to each other that they’re having fun.

It’s an unseasonably warm night, and when I arrive I see that Rik has snagged us a couple of chairs near a half-wall open to the street; still, it’s impossibly loud. He’s already ordered two beers, which sit on the tiny table. I squeeze as close to him as I can and scream into his ear. “Good thing it’s just us. Three people couldn’t have a conversation in here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Markel G at the fundraiser? I didn’t hear about it until after you left,” he yells back. “I want to hear every last delicious detail.”

“There wasn’t time,” I shout, and explain my turn of luck.

His face is suffused with pleasure as he takes it in. “Oh, Bear,” he roars, and grabs me into a hug. “This is the best news ever!” When he pulls away, his eyes are damp.

I look down at the table and blink back my own tears.

“Long time coming,” he says, patting my arm. “It’s your party. Cry if you want to.”

I wipe my eyes with a napkin and laugh.

“And Markel?” he yells in my ear.

I swear him to secrecy and admit to the affair. “Nobody knows.”

He crosses his arm and searches my face. “This all started at that first studio visit that you said nothing happened at?”

“Not really.” I take a gulp of beer. “But I guess, thinking back, that’s when it first came up.”

“And is that when Markel’s best attribute first came up, too?”

I punch his arm. “Stop it. You’re the—”

“You’re blushing!” he screams. “You naughty, naughty girl.”

“No, no,” I say, flustered. “Not then. It wasn’t until much—”

Rik bursts out laughing and holds up his hands. “No explanations needed.”

“That part didn’t begin until after he offered the show.”

Rik grins.

“I didn’t have sex with him to get Markel G,” I insist. But I did forge for him.

He sobers. “You into him?”

I nod.

“He to you?”

“Think so.”

Rik whistles. “Well, good for you.” He raises his beer mug. “About fucking time.”

I touch my mug to his.

“Jesus,” Rik says. “I go away for a few weeks and the whole world changes.”

“Let’s hear about your trip.”

We finish our beers and order another round as he describes traveling around Paris, talking with curators, archivists, librarians, art historians, and museum directors.

“Can I go with you next time?”

“All you need is to come up with the airfare and—” He stops and his eyes widen. “You’re going to be able to travel. Do anything you want. Shit, girl, after your show you’re going to be rich. And famous.”

I hold up my hands. “Rich is fine, but I can do without the famous.”

He studies my face, then reaches over and takes my hand. “Being famous as a great pretender is very different from being famous as a great painter.”

I look down at my chipped fingernails. What about being famous as a great painter because you’re a great pretender?

“Claire, look at me,” he orders.

I raise my eyes.

“This time, you’ll be known as an accomplished artist. Appreciated for what you created with your talent. With Isaac, it was about his celebrity, something created by the media for their own ends. An image, a name, nothing that had anything to do with you.”

“You’re the best,” I say, and mean it.

“Well, it’s good you think that as I’ve got nada for you from Paris.”

“Nothing on Belle and Degas?”

“A complete zero.”

“Does that make any sense to you?”

“They traveled in the same world. Knew the same people. Even had close friends in common. She bought a number of his works . . . No, not really.”

I shrug. “Different times. No instant communication. Two ships.”

“Remember I told you that, before she died, Belle burned all her letters and asked her friends and family to do the same? Maybe that’s where all the secrets are.”

“Don’t rebels usually like their exploits known?”

“Belle never fit into any mold.”

“I talked to Sandra Stoneham.”

“Was she any help?”

“Not much,” I say. “And I don’t think she’s awful at all. She was really nice, showed me her artwork. Although she didn’t seem particularly pleased with your museum.”

“To say the least,” Rik grumbles, then brightens. “Guess what I have for you?”

“A present from Paris?”

“No. I mean, yes, I bought you a present in Paris, but this is better.” He pauses to build the suspense. “I nabbed an extra ticket to the reinstallation, and it’s yours.”

“Reinstallation?” I repeat, stalling for time.

“
After the Bath.
It’s going to be
the
event of the season. Aside from your opening, of course. The museum’s going all out. The Boston Pops, the international press, literary lights, artists, a caterer to the stars . . . Very la-di-da.”

“Aiden’s going. He tried to get another ticket but couldn’t.” I’d been half relieved, unsure if I was ready to stand in front of yet another of my paintings hanging in a great museum but attributed to someone else.

“Do we have to call him Aiden now?” Rik asks, with a pseudofrown.

I punch his arm again.

“It’s the Saturday night of Thanksgiving weekend,” he says.

“That’s only two weeks before my show.”

“It’s just one evening, Claire.”

“I’ll be wreckage.”

“Perfect time to mix with influential art lovers,” he cajoles. “Couldn’t ask for a better PR op.”

“You sound like Aiden.”

“Not taking no. After the ceremony there’s going to be a megaelegant black-tie dinner.” He grins. “You’ll need a stunning new dress to hobnob with the rich and famous. And if you’re too wasted from working, Aiden and I will be your front men and broadcast the news of your imminent opening.”

I remind myself that this time won’t be like MoMA. This painting isn’t mine like
4D
was. It’s Degas’. He composed it, painted it. Sort of.

“It’ll be great fun . . .”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it. Thanks.” This time Aiden will be there to help me if there are any tough moments, to stand beside me so I’m not the only one who knows the truth.

Rik leans in very close. “It’s possible by then we’ll know more of the story.”

“What story?”

“Hello? Claire?
After the Bath,
the painting we’ve been talking about for the last ten minutes?”

“Sorry.”

Rik heaves a great sigh. “By the reinstallation, we should have more information about what really happened to it. Maybe even some of the other paintings.”

I suck in my breath.

“Rumor has it that Patel is considering an FBI offer of immunity.”

“He’s going to rat?” I gasp.

Rik laughs. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yeah, and who knows how much he knows?”

A
IDEN IS UNMOVED
by my news. “Patel’s got nothing to give the FBI.”

“That’s not what Rik said.”

“Rik’s getting his information second- and thirdhand.”

“His sources have been pretty right-on so far.”

“Not this time.”

I called Aiden as soon as I left Clery’s and went right to his house, although I should have gone home to my windows. We’re in his kitchen, and he’s making grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, which I’m thinking are going to be about as close to my two-American-cheese-singles-on-white-bread as his macaroni and cheese was to my Kraft special.

He slides his creation onto my plate: multiple cheeses with cherry tomatoes and fresh basil oozing out of slabs of homemade, multigrain bread. It looks and smells brilliant. He puts knives and forks on the table as the sandwiches are way too thick and gooey to eat with our hands. I push mine around with the fork. My stomach is squeezed shut.

He sits down across from me and takes a bite of his. “If you don’t eat, you’re never going to have the stamina to finish those windows.”

“Patel can’t be an idiot,” I say. “He’s got to know how it’s going to be for him.”

“Got himself caught. Can’t be all that bright.”

“Even worse.”

“Tell me what you think of the basil.” Aiden points his knife at my sandwich. “It’s a new variety. Not sure I like it.” He takes another bite. “A little too bitter.”

“We’ve got to have a plan.”

“Okay,” he says amicably. “Let’s plan.”

“You’re the one who knows about this stuff.”

He stands. “Want wine?”

“Beer.”

He opens a Sam and hands it to me, pours himself some wine from an open bottle of Cabernet, sits down, and resumes eating his sandwich.

“What do I do if you get arrested?”

“Chantal and Kristi will handle the show.”

“I’m not talking about the show, and you know it. How can you be so laid-back about this?”

He puts down his sandwich and looks at me with a patient expression. “Just tell them you don’t know anything about it,” he says, with annoying calm. “Artists aren’t responsible for their dealers’ actions.”

“How long do you think it’s going to take them to figure out that I’m a professional Degas forger?”

“We discussed this before. I brought you a high-quality copy and paid you to paint a high-quality copy from it, which I told you I was going to sell as a reproduction.” He raises his knife and fork triumphantly. “Even better, our story matches Patel’s exactly.”

“But you didn’t bring me a high-quality copy, did you?” I watch him closely.

“No one can prove what you believed,” he says. “Or what I told you.”

I notice he didn’t answer my question.

“I’m not going to get arrested.” He takes my hand. “I promise.”

I just look at him.

He lets go and leans back in his chair. “Claire, I know you’re under a lot of pressure with the show and all—”

“It’s not about the show. It’s about you. Going to prison.”

“This isn’t helping.”

“And ignoring it is?”

“Freaking out’s no better.”

“It’s better than digging your head in the sand.” I want to shake him out of his complacency. Shake him until he acknowledges the danger.

“Even if Patel tried to turn evidence, he has no idea I’m involved. He’s only got a flunky to give them. And that guy knows even less than he does. It’ll prove worthless to the FBI. There’s no deal to be made.” Aiden’s tone is assured, his equanimity perhaps a bit too sound. I’m thinking he knows something I don’t. Or he believes he knows something I don’t.