Twenty-five
The Afterlife, artists’ section
Mertons waved away the proffered ball politely and shaded his eyes from the sun.
He’d never been a fan of bocce. Too much rolling.
Not enough cracking. Give him cricket any day.
He even liked that odd American version.
And though he’d only seen it twice, long ago, the sound of the ball connecting with the hardwood had stayed with him.
“Thank you, no. I’m just here for a few minutes, though the espresso smells delicious. I’d love a cup of that if you have one to spare.”
“Certainly,” Rembrandt said, lifting the pot. “’Tis excellent today.”
“Where’s Peter?”
Rembrandt, who was waiting for Velazquez to align his shot, tilted his head toward the rise beyond the end of the path. “At the canvas. Always at the canvas.”
Even at this distance, Mertons could see Peter’s drawn face. “I take it he’s not glad to be back.”
“Glad?” Rembrandt shrugged. “’Tis not a word we use with Peter.”
“I have some news for him.”
“He will not be interested,” Rembrandt said.
“In this he will.” Mertons drew the journal from his suit coat pocket.
“It just arrived. I’ve only scanned the headline myself, but I suspect he’ll find it to his liking.
” He opened it and read. “‘The Girl with a Coral Earring Stripped to Canvas. Simon & Schuster announced yesterday the much-anticipated novel from Campbell Stratford, The Girl with a Coral Earring, a fictography of painter Anthony Van Dyck, has been scrapped due to narrative issues.’ Blah, blah, blah. He did it.”
Mertons had to smile. Special projects were rare, and not all ended well.
They were fraught with complications and a gamble on the best of days.
But despite his success in derailing the book, Mertons had been unable to find the hole in the fabric of time Stratford had used.
A shame, really, as it would have been quite a feather in his cap to have closed it.
According to Peter, Stratford disappeared after he had adjourned to the scullery to clean his brushes, though the look on Peter’s face while he said it had made Mertons wonder.
With a bow, Mertons left the journal on the table, picked up his cup, and broke away from the men. He wandered slowly up the fieldstone path cut into the lavender, to the top of the rise.
“How goes it, my friend?”
Peter stiffened, receiving the question almost like a blow. “Another day. They are the same.”
Mertons considered the pallid complexion and the eyes, stripped of their usual proud ferocity. “Your new life, the one you will be reborn into, is coming. The Executive Guild is working on it as we speak.”
“I—I would be grateful for it.”
“There is news that might please you.”
The sadness left his face for an instant. “They approved my request to return to 1673?”
“What? Oh, no, Peter. I’ve told you. It cannot be. Even for a day. I’m sorry. I know now how much it would mean to you to convince Charles to sign that writ.”
Peter had confessed his ulterior purpose to Mertons and begged to return for a day or two to convince the king, but the Guild had been adamant. Once the misinformation had been planted with the writer, there was to be no more interaction with the past.
Peter nodded. The sadness returned and he went back to his painting.
“There is something else, though,” Mertons said.
“Oh?”
“It was in the news this morning. Miss Stratford’s book has been canceled. Seems the narrative took a turn for the worse.”
If Mertons had expected a cheer or even a victorious “Aye!” he was disappointed. Peter’s only reaction was a brief half smile.
“I am glad for the sake of the Guild.” Peter reloaded his brush with paint.
“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course, we were not as lucky in discovering the writer’s source of travel.”
Peter grunted. Mertons knew the man’s heart had never been in the assignment.
“I, er, found out a bit more about her motives.”
“Did you?”
“It certainly doesn’t excuse it, of course, but it seems she is in line for a promotion at her place of business—a museum of art, actually—and publishing a book is apparently an important hurdle in achieving that goal.”
“Let us hope she finds contentment elsewhere.”
Mertons smiled. Dry wit was an improvement over dour moodiness.
“Uh, she may get the promotion yet.”
“How?”
“The variables weren’t robust enough for significance, but directionally she appears to be heading for it. It seems she has negotiated the gift of a rather expensive painting to the museum—a Van Dyck, oddly enough, a portrait of the Countess of Moreland—and that may carry the day.”
“So, despite everything, our writer profits?”
“But the book is stopped. That is the important thing. As I said, the Guild is quite grateful.”
Peter made no reply, and Mertons turned his attention to the portrait. He regarded the flowing, flame-colored hair, sparkling on a gold background, and pale-blue gown. There was a silver hair clip pinned to the top of the easel.
“Is that Ursula?”
Peter daubed speckles of green into the hair. “Sometimes. It is today.”
“I must apologize. The Guild gave me no indication of the circumstances regarding her death. If they had, I hope I would have handled the affair with more delicacy. I’m sorry. It must have been very hard for you to go back.”
Peter sighed, laid down his brush, and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mertons. You are most kind.”
Footsteps on the path made them turn. Rembrandt was half running, journal in hand.
Peter held up his palm. “Mertons told me the news. I am glad for Van Dyck’s sake.”
“No, Peter,” Rembrandt said. “There is more. At the bottom.” He slipped on his glasses and read, “‘The publisher will instead publish a different novel from Stratford, The Artist and the Angel of the Street, an intimate look into the steamy goings-on in the studio of Peter Lely, bad-boy portraitist to the court of Charles II, where no woman’s portrait was complete until she loosened her tongue, her gown, and her morals, and the love affair with a prostitute that drove Lely to heartbreak.’”