Chapter 11 #2
When we arrive at the house, we enter through the main doors, and he leads me down a long hallway I haven’t yet traversed.
The walls here are adorned with tapestries and portraits of Joseph in various stages of his life.
In some of the paintings, he is smiling; in others, he is brooding.
In all of them, he is commanding. His eyes in every piece seem to be watching me, judging me, challenging me, asking me if I have what it takes to pass his tests, or if I will be a disappointment to him.
Finally, we stop before a set of heavy metal doors.
Gavin keys in a set of numbers on a pad, then scans his iris.
The safe opens slowly, and I step into a vault that feels like a cathedral.
The room is vast with tall ceilings. I can tell instantly that the temperature and the humidity are perfectly controlled.
As I look around in awe, the reinforced steel ceilings start rolling away, leaving a glass ceiling.
The whole place becomes suffused with sunlight.
Gavin leads me towards an alcove. The paintings are mounted carefully in their own frames, and all in protective wooden supports.
Some are still covered with a thin layer of breathable sheeting.
I recognize the smell and rejoice in it.
Varnish, dry canvas, and something ancient… the scent of history preserved.
I stop at the first painting and lift the cloth covering.
It catches my breath. Wow! A Vermeer! Oh wow!
I remember this painting. An anonymous bidder bought it in 2015 at an auction in Amsterdam.
My father was the buyer. The light falls across the delicate, flawless brushwork.
I know that rich colors are hidden behind the aged brown glazes.
My fingers itch to remove the centuries-old glaze, to reveal the hidden brilliance beneath it, to bring the painting back to life.
Gavin stands silently behind me, his presence unobtrusive, but I know he is watching my reaction like a hawk. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer commentary. He simply watches me as I take in each uncovered work, as though the paintings themselves will speak and demand my respect and attention.
I wander slowly from one masterpiece to the next.
Murillo, Titian, Rembrandt. Each canvas is literally priceless.
Each brush stroke is a challenge, a responsibility, an absolute privilege.
To bring these masterpieces back to their original luster and magnificence.
I know I can do it. My pulse quickens and my heart pounds in my chest. This is what I’ve trained for, what I’ve dreamed about. This right here is my idea of heaven.
The inheritance, the restorations, could all be mine, if not for the crazy stipulation about the heir. I don’t want to have a baby with just anyone to appease a dead man I’ve never even met. I could never do that.
And then it hits me; maybe … maybe there’s a way to play this game without losing myself.
Maybe I can take on living here in the mansion for the year and complete the restorations, see the paintings come alive again, and just choose to fail the other part.
I won’t get my inheritance, but this has never been about money for me.
And at least I’ll have lived a year like no other.
Sure, I feel bad for Axel if it means he won’t get his share, but it’s not like I made the rules, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let the thought of me suffering sway him into doing anything he doesn’t want to do.
The thought of Axel reminds me of something, and I glance at Gavin over my shoulder.
“Has Axel agreed to the terms?” I ask.
Gavin nods.
“I see.”
So, the ball is well and truly in my court then.
A year living the dream and then go back to my old life, or just leave now.
My fingers brush feather light across the Vermeer again, lingering on the glazes, on the subtle light, on the secret life of the painting beneath the layers of time.
I close my eyes and inhale. In that delicious moment suspended in time, I make my decision. I breathe out and turn to face Gavin,
“Yes,” I whisper, almost to myself. “I’ll do it.”
Gavin clears his throat softly. “Sorry, Miss Button, what was that?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll undertake the restoration work, and I’ll fulfill the stipulations of the will.”
Gavin tries to keep his expression neutral, but the small smile he gives me seems approving. “Very well. I will arrange everything for you to begin immediately.”
I take one last long look at the Vermeer, letting the light from the perfectly set bulbs fall across the face of the old woman on the screen.
Her eyes seem to glitter. A thrill surges through me, a mix of fear, exhilaration, and anticipation.
This is madness. It’s chaos. But it’s also exactly the life I’ve always dreamed of in its purest, most artistic form.
For now, I decide I will step into this new-old world. And I will see what it can give me, one painting and one discovery at a time.
My lips curve as I smile at the wrinkled woman. You will be splendid again.