Chapter 4 Clouded Vision
Clouded Vision
Wednesday morning, Penelope received a notification that a visitor was waiting for her at the information center.
On her way, she’d chastised herself for hoping it might be Lucia—it had been a mistake not to name a specific date.
Now she had to contend with an anticipation she could neither justify nor want any part of.
When she drew closer and saw it was indeed Lucia, dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, her hair pulled back in a low knot, Penelope bit back a smile and greeted her with professional cordiality, ignoring the rapid thrum in her chest. Useless.
There was something casual yet composed about Lucia—unassuming, but impossible to overlook.
After the requisite paperwork, she led Lucia through the museum’s quieter corridors, past the curatorial offices and storage vaults.
Lucia’s gaze wandered, curious, noting every door they passed.
They reached the Conservation Lab, its bright lighting spilling through the open doorway.
“So, this is where all the magic happens?” Lucia asked.
Penelope followed Lucia’s gaze as it drifted over the room’s long worktables draped in clean white cloths, the high-powered magnifiers, the pigment and chemical kits arranged neatly along one counter, and the sleek, climate-controlled cabinets lining the back wall. A sharp, sterile tang hung in the air.
“Impressive,” Lucia murmured.
“Does it fulfill your expectations?” Penelope stepped toward one of the tables where the Bellini lay under soft lighting, ready for the next round of testing.
“And then some, yes.” Lucia’s smile lit up her entire face—her dark eyes seemed to glow and the dimples in her cheeks were…
No.
Penelope cleared her throat. “I’m glad it meets your approval.”
“So, what’s the next step for the paintings? Are you examining both at the same time?”
“I actually have the Alessi under the microscope and could show you a few potential issues I’ve found there first, if you want.”
“Yes, of course.”
Lucia followed Penelope to the workstation. Her energy seemed slightly wired, as if she were suppressing the urge to bounce with excitement.
It almost endeared her to Penelope, who redirected her focus to the work at hand: cataloging Lucia’s reaction to her discoveries.
“All right.” She flipped on the microscope and the attached monitor. After looking through the eyepiece to find the relevant section, she pulled back.
“This is on the screen, too? Like a live feed?”
“Yes. Now look at this here.” Penelope pointed at the upper portion of the image. “The top layers of paint don’t align with traditional underpainting techniques Alessi used.”
Lucia tilted her head.
“Alessi often laid down thin glazes before building texture. This section here, see how the pigment sits flat without optical depth?” She moved the cursor across the area. “That’s…unusual.”
“OK, and that means it’s not the real deal?”
“Not necessarily, but it’s a first strike.”
“And after three, it’s out?” Lucia asked.
“Something like that. But there’s also this.” She zoomed in on another section. “The crack patterns—see them?—they don’t follow natural aging.”
“Cracks?”
“Yes. Craquelure should follow the stress lines of the canvas and the direction it was stretched over time. This looks…introduced.”
“Strike two. It’s not looking good for my client.”
“No, it isn’t.” Penelope held her gaze.
Lucia seemed so open and guileless. Without her research, or even without Valentina in her ear, Penelope might never have suspected her of anything.
She hated the masks people wore, though, to be fair, she didn’t know anything yet, at least not with the degree of certainty that would satisfy her.
“Now, if we look at a digital comparison…” Penelope switched tabs, pulling up a confirmed Alessi. “Look at the drapery. Alessi’s linework was disciplined. The folds here,” she gestured to the screen, “are too loose, too expressive. Lovely, but not his style.”
“And the painting’s out.” Lucia leaned in without blinking. “To be honest, I didn’t have high hopes. It’s rare to find genuine new art.”
“I suppose. Still, your client may be disappointed. A piece like this, if real, would have generated a lot of interest.”
Lucia shrugged. “They have enough money. This was more about the art itself, I think.”
“I see.”
Lucia’s lips curved into a lazy half smile. “Do you?”
Her tone stirred something in Penelope, and for a second, she allowed herself to be drawn into this pull, before blinking rapidly. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
A beat of stillness passed amid the low hum of the electronics around them.
Lucia’s jeans and shirt were unremarkable, yet Penelope couldn’t stop noticing the way the cotton clung to her back, the low, coiled bun, the sharp line of her cheek. Too much detail. Too much attention. Dangerous.
Lucia was a threat wrapped in a question mark. And Penelope had never been good at resisting puzzles.
“That makes two of us,” Lucia almost whispered.
“Dr. Blackwell, may I have a word about… Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware you had a visitor,” Clara Montgomery said, folding her hands in front of her.
Penelope took a step back, straightening. When had they gotten so close?
“That’s fine. How may I help you, Dr. Montgomery?”
“Just come by my office later. I was on my way there and thought I’d stop by to see if you’re free. There’s no hurry.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.” Penelope straightened as she turned back to Lucia after Montgomery left. “Where were we?”
“Beats me,” Lucia said with a soft laugh. “The new director, right? You think you’re in trouble?”
Penelope furrowed her brows. “Why would I be in trouble?”
“You stiffened like you’d just been called to the principal’s office, and your boss reminds me a bit of a strict schoolmistress, but you tell me.”
“Do I strike you as someone who gets in trouble, Ms. Rossi?”
Lucia’s gaze pinned her in place. “No. You strike me as someone who could give others trouble.”
Penelope’s lips parted. She hoped the flush burning her neck wouldn’t travel to her face.
Lucia tilted her head slightly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “No worries, I like a bit of trouble myself. I probably shouldn’t keep you longer. I’m assuming you’ll do the same work with the Bellini?”
Penelope could only nod.
“Good, good. Keep me updated.” She smiled. “Good-bye, Dr. Blackwell. You’d better hurry to your principal.”
“She’s not—”
“I’m joking.”
“I see.”
Lucia stepped toward the door before she turned around. “About the coffee. Text me or give me a call when you’re free? I’m wide open for the next few days.”
At this point, Penelope must have lost the capacity to string together a coherent sentence since she could only stare after Lucia as she walked out of the lab and disappeared. What had just happened?
Penelope shook off her stupor and left the lab, still mulling her encounter with Lucia as she made her way to Montgomery’s office.
She had no time for personal entanglements.
Could she even trust her assessment of the woman, clouded as it was by this unnerving pull? How utterly inconvenient and annoying.
She knocked on Montgomery’s door.
“Come in.”
Penelope stepped inside. The office was as composed as its occupant: clean lines, a polished oak desk, not a single paper out of place. A faint citrus scent from a reed diffuser hung in the air. Light from a tall window flooded the room, cold and impersonal.
Montgomery glanced up from her monitor, removing her thin-framed glasses and setting them precisely beside a stack of neatly aligned folders.
“Dr. Blackwell.” She gestured to the chair opposite her.
Penelope sat. Her own desk was half this tidy, and the sight made something between admiration and irritation stir in her chest.
“Thank you for dropping by.” Montgomery folded her hands atop the desk. “I wanted to discuss an idea for the Luminary Ball. The board suggested a more…immersive theme.”
“Like a costume ball?”
Montgomery’s lips twitched slightly. “Perhaps. They’re worried the current setup might not draw enough of the audience we need.”
“I’m sure the more affluent art aficionados of Atlanta won’t miss the opportunity for such a festivity either way.”
“Let’s hope so.” Montgomery reached for her glasses again, polishing the lenses with a cloth as she spoke. “I sent you an email for review. You’re still more familiar with the Meridian and its guests.”
Penelope nodded, resisting the urge to check her watch. The gala already ate more hours than she could afford. “I’ll take a look.”
“That said…” Montgomery slid the glasses back on and studied her. “The Bellini piece. That’s an unusual find, and it didn’t come through our usual channels, correct?”
“Yes. A bit of luck.”
Montgomery regarded her for a beat, eyes unreadable behind the lenses. “How is the authentication looking so far?”
“Promising but not concluded.” She wouldn’t voice her suspicions. It might pass all their tests. After all, it was incredibly well-crafted. “The donor is willing to loan it to us.”
“That’s excellent. If it proves authentic, of course. And the source?”
“Innocuous so far. An art restorer-slash-consultant whose client discovered the piece at the estate of his late uncle.”
“Some board members are nervous,” Montgomery said. “There’s been quite a few questionable acquisitions going around lately. I’d like you to make sure none of that smoke blows our way with the Bellini—especially since it’s a loan.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing, Valentina Varnelli’s office sent something about renegotiating the Madonna loan.” Montgomery reached for her tablet, scrolling. “Nothing urgent, but review the correspondence, will you? I don’t want any surprises.”
Penelope’s left hand tightened into a fist. “Yes. Just forward it to me.”
“Good. Keep an eye on all this, Dr. Blackwell. Not everyone who smiles at you means well.”
Penelope stiffened. What was going on with people today? Montgomery couldn’t know about her extracurricular dealings, or her thoughts about Lucia. Still…
“I will. Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s it.” Montgomery’s smile returned, polite but practiced. “And do let me know about the ball. We don’t have much time left for significant changes.”
Penelope nodded, stood, and smoothed her skirt. “Of course.”
As she left, the door clicked shut behind her, and she exhaled slowly. Another mask, another performance. Professional cordiality was starting to feel like its own art form.