Chapter 31
GINA
Professor Washington meets me at the door of his office.
“Welcome, Mrs. Ricci. So glad to see you.”
He gestures for me to enter his bright, comfortable-looking space.
“Come have a seat. Let’s get to know each other. Cute dog.”
Biscotti yips.
“Oh, and he knows that,” I say.
We both laugh as I take a seat on the sofa, admiring some sketches on the wall that look remotely familiar.
“I studied you and your art at UC Irvine one semester.”
“I’m honored.”
“You have quite a reputation,” I say. “I’m excited to be working with you.”
“Good. Now Mrs. Ricci—”
“Please call me Gina.”
“Gina, our Academy has a motto: no starving artists allowed. The educational board believes that students should graduate with real-world experience and earn a living even before leaving our institution. Tell me more about what you’re planning and how the Academy can help you.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m self-taught. Mostly by studying the great masters since visiting the National Portrait Gallery in London with my parents. But as you know, there hasn’t been much commercial need for caricature artists since the eighteenth century. And I would like to be gainfully employed.”
“I’m impressed. You persisted with your art, even knowing the lack of demand?”
I shrug. “Crazy, right? But I love the way I can look at a person, and with a few strokes of my pencil, reveal aspects of their personality they’ve tried to suppress.”
Professor Washington lets forth a hearty laugh. “Are you a witch or a psychic? I must know your secret.”
“Neither. I’ve just always had an ability to read people in that way.”
“You must draw my caricature, my dear,” he says. “Though I’ll be afraid to see what it might reveal.”
I laugh politely.
Professor Washington looks at me for a long moment.
“Since you admit there’s no current demand for caricatures, how do you intend to make a career of your art?”
I clear my throat. My gut tells me I should come out and tell him about using caricatures as the design focus for the restaurant Dante bought. But what if having a husband employ the student isn’t allowed?
“I’ll create the demand. I’ve always been lucky that way. When I was a kid, I earned extra money drawing people at a sidewalk stand I made for myself in the park. As a teen, I made pocket money with a small online business. Sometimes people would hire me for children’s parties, that kind of thing.”
“Mrs. Ricci—Gina,” he says, looking at me seriously. “With all due respect, that’s not what this Academy is about. I saw your talent at the Museum of the City of New York the other night with Silvio Ricci’s caricature. But I thought you had higher intentions for it than circus-style entertainment.”
“I do,” I assure him, realizing I’ll have to tell him about the restaurant.
“My husband’s brothers and I are working on a restaurant project. I’m responsible for the interior concept. The decor. The look. The vibe.”
“Good,” says Washington, smiling and nodding again. “Now we’re talking. What do you have in mind?”
I instantly relax as I realize my relationship with Dante isn’t a barrier.
Then I detail my idea of creating a caricature of chefs as a wall design, illustrating the fun and casual concept and cuisine for the restaurant.
“It will be a place where people can relax and have fun before or after visiting our family’s nightclub and casino,” I conclude. “But it will be classy. A bit upscale.”
When I stop speaking, my eyes anchored on Professor Washington, I brace myself for his laughter.
How ridiculous my idea must sound.
But he only smiles with genuine excitement. “What a fresh idea.”
“Fresh meaning good?”
“Yes, exactly. A new look at the iconic art form of yesteryear.”
“The only challenge is that I don’t know how to take the drawing from my sketch pad to the restaurant interior. I’ve only worked on a small scale.”
“Well, the good news is that you won’t have to climb ladders and sketch directly on a wall, as you might have done in Michelangelo’s day.”
“I was hoping that would be the case,” I say, and we both laugh.
Biscotti joins the laughter with his own yip.
I pick him up and cuddle him close. “So, what is the process? I’ll need to explain it to Dante’s brothers.”
“First, you’ll finish your sketch and await my approval. Then it’s a simple matter of choosing one of the better mural installers in town to bring your vision to the appropriate dimensions.”
“Good,” I say, trying to hide my relief. When I’m in front of Dante’s brothers, it’s important that I know what I’m saying.
“Do you have any preliminary sketches?”
“Yes,” I say, taking out my sketch pad and handing it to him. “I was thinking of a group of five chefs, each with a different expression. I want them to represent the collective idea of an old-school Italian, with exaggerated emotions on each face.”
“I’m not much of a foodie,” Professor Washington says, patting his considerable belly, “though you might think that to look at me. I never considered chefs in this way before. What kind of expressions would they have?”
“I worked in a restaurant as a teen, and we had all temperaments of chefs. But my memory is not important. I must strive to create the collective memory of the archetypal Italian chef.”
“I see,” he says, looking closely at my sketch.
My stomach tightens as I watch. I’m always nervous when people assess my work.
“Well. What do you think?” I finally ask.
“Your sketches are elementary, but the proportions are nice.”
“Good to go as is?”
“Not quite. It needs some fine tuning,” he says. “And you have five chefs here. That number will crowd your mural. Reduce the number to three.”
I take out my pad and make some notes.
“Is that all?”
Professor Washington takes a closer look at my caricature.
“Sharpen the expressions on the chefs’ faces. Each stroke of your pencil is important. Research restaurant wall murals. Remember that some details may not transfer from a small to larger size. When you’re ready bring in your next round of sketches, and I’ll approve them…or not.”
“Got it,” I say, relieved that I can face Dante and his brothers with confidence.
I stand to leave but turn back at the last moment. “Professor, I heard about the art competition and looked at the designs of other students. Would I be able to submit my caricature idea as well?”
“Of course. But timing is key. You won’t be able to submit your application until you have artwork ready. Artwork I approve. And you’ll need to submit it all before the deadline.”
“Then I better get started asap,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
As promised, when I exit Chelsea is waiting for me outside his door.
“Good meeting?” she asks, reaching over to ruffle Biscotti’s fur as he rests in my arms.
“Very good.”
“Would you like to see the new cafeteria before you go? It was just unveiled. Designed by an interior design student as his master’s project.”
“Sure.”
“It’s art deco in style,” Chelsea says as she leads me to it.
“The Academy built a new cafeteria based on a student’s design?”
“That’s the magic of the Academy,” she says.
As soon as Chelsea opens the doors to the empty cafeteria, Biscotti yips sharply. He’s probably smelled food.
“Shh,” I tell him, feeding him a biscuit I tucked into my purse. “We’ll have lunch later.”
“Let me give him some water,” Chelsea says, filling a wide-mouthed glass at the water station. She puts it on the floor and he quickly laps it up.
“Come, let’s take a seat,” Chelsea says, leading me to a nearby table. “What’s your form of art?”
“Caricature. What’s yours?”
“Watercolor.”
We chat about art for a few minutes. Then Chelsea looks at her watch and rises.
“Well, if Biscotti’s finished, I have another appointment,” she says, looking toward the empty water container. “Wait. Where is he?”
“Biscotti!” I call, panic rising. We search the cafeteria and the hallway, but it’s as if he’s vanished.
“Could a student have taken him?” I ask, trying to keep calm.
“Possibly. But not likely. Is he a curious dog?”
“Very curious. That’s why I usually keep him in a carrier. Otherwise he’ll wander off.”
“Wait. I think I know where he might be.”
I follow Chelsea toward the end of the corridor where the floor gives way to yellow caution tape. I peer down and see rough stone steps descending into absolute darkness.
“The catacombs,” Chelsea whispers. “Remember what I said earlier? Dogs are attracted to this place for some reason.”
I step closer, inhaling the damp, cool air from below. “Do you think he went down?”
She nods. “A good possibility. Just last month, another student’s dog was found down there.”
“But what could they be smelling?”
Chelsea shrugs. “Who knows? Old bones?”
What a creepy thought.
Chelsea leads me down the stairs. At the bottom, the tunnels are silent.
“Why are these connected to the Academy?”
“During Prohibition, bootleg liquor was stored down here, hidden away from federal agents.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
This is where it all could have started. Where Dante’s family built their empire.
“Biscotti,” I call. “Biscotti!”
Chelsea joins me in calling, and after a few minutes I hear the skittering of tiny paws. Then my puppy comes trotting toward me.
“Biscotti!” I scoop him up.
“Come on, you two,” Chelsea says. “I’ll escort you out of the Academy. I need to make sure you both get where you’re supposed to be going.”
After a short walk back to where Thomas parked, I thank Chelsea and wave goodbye.
Once we’re back in the limousine, I ask Thomas to drive me to my brand new office at the restaurant.
As soon as the car pulls into traffic, my phone rings. It’s Dante. My heart leaps as I answer.
“How was the school?” he asks.
“Fabulous. I’m so excited, Dante. I’ve seen the work of the other students. They’re very talented. I’m lucky to be here.”
“Drawing nude men?” Dante’s tone is calm, but sharper than usual.
“What?”
After all the excitement with Biscotti, it takes me a moment to figure out what he might be referring to.
“Oh. That. My guide Chelsea took me to a classroom where students were sketching a nude model. But how did you know that?”
“I have my ways,” he says.
A long silence follows. Was Dante spying on me? Was he following me? Did he hire someone else to report on my activities?
In the end, I figure he just made a logical guess. The Academy is an art school after all.
“Where are you headed now?” he asks, changing the subject.
“The office.”
“Good,” he says, his voice sounding more normal. “I’ll stop by later this afternoon. Until then.”
He’s disconnected before I can say goodbye. But no matter. It’s nearly noon, and I have a load of resumes to discuss with Lorenzo.