Fifty-six
Cam scanned the heads as she descended. Ball should be obvious. Apart from having that rich man’s luminescent glow, he was generally a head taller than anyone else in the room.
She noted that the curtained Van Dyck painting had been removed and wondered if Lamont Packard had done the dirty work for her. Then she remembered they’d decided just before the gala to unveil it in the gallery upstairs, not in the space being used for cocktails.
She didn’t spot Ball, and, more important, didn’t see Peter, either.
Crap.
Anastasia was in a tête-à-tête with Jacket—of course—though when Jacket lifted his eyes and spotted Cam, he gave her a gentle smile.
Wow, this evening’s going to be more fun than my prom, when Billy Schuler spilled cherry brandy down the front of my dress, my date left early with Sue Rodriguez, the cheerleader-ho from the theater company, and Anastasia told everyone she could find that she used to think the reason I’d decided on Barnard was because I was a closet lesbian but had rejected that theory on the grounds that I really wasn’t interesting enough.
She reached the next-to-last stair and sighed. No Ball, no Peter. That could only mean they were upstairs—well, Ball at least—and she reversed direction.
“I don’t recall the invitation saying ‘bra optional.’ Bit of a mustard problem?”
Cam didn’t need to turn to recognize Jeanne’s voice, or her sense of humor.
“Yes, I’ve taken to eating in my underwear. Saves on dry cleaning.” She continued up the stairs.
“I’m sure the guy at the café loves it,” said Jeanne, who followed, drink in hand. “Remind me to recommend you to my friend at Hot Dog Quarterly. They’re always looking for the next centerfold. That is, unless you’re limiting yourself to art world porn at the moment.”
Cam swung around. “You saw the paintings? How?”
“Same way I saw my review, the bill from your mechanic, and the present state of your investment portfolio. The notes from Ball were on your desk. By the way, I’d stay away from Pfizer. That pipeline’s looking iffy. Did you sleep with him?”
“My mechanic? Nah, it was just a headlight. I wrote him a check.”
“Funny,” Jeanne said. “You know who I mean. Mr. MC Hammer pants.”
“Yes, but not like you probably think.”
“You have some pretty funny ideas about how I spend my time.”
“I’m not getting the directorship. Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I believe your sister is practically handing out flyers. I’m sorry.” She gave Cam a hug. “It sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Think of the upside. At least you won’t be seeing Anastasia every day. I’m going to be reporting to The Devil Wears Chain Mail.”
They had reached the top of the stairs, and Cam turned right for the first gallery. “It gets worse.”
“Worse than Sri Lankan chai with organic lilac honey at precisely nine thirty and bamboo paper notepads with her name in Kanji?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“It wasn’t that the board didn’t pick me. I resigned. Had to. The Van Dyck’s a fake.”
“What?!”
“And there’s more.”
“Jesus.”
“Peter has to leave.”
“So go back to visit him. You know,” Jeanne added in a whisper, “. I mean, it looks like you’ll have the time.”
“Can’t. They’re taking my mode of transport away. And anyway, he’s going back to a new life. It’s a long story, but he was only in 1673 for an assignment. He’s really supposed to be in the Afterlife, waiting to be assigned a new life. Oh, Jeanne, I’m afraid I love him.”
Jeanne stopped so fast some of her drink sloshed over the rim of the glass. “Love? Oh, Cam. You really love him?”
“I must. Otherwise I’d kill him.”
“Have you thought about refusing? Holding him hostage? Packing yourself in his luggage?”
Cam shook her head. “No. He’s in the running for a good next life, and if I interfere—” She made a raspberry sound.
“Jeez, this is harder than I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Well, don’t give up. There’s always a way.”
“Not this time.” Cam sensed a fat tear quivering in her vision and hurriedly wiped it away. “And now I have to find Ball and tell him his two-point-one-million-dollar gift is worth about as much as a really nice Van Gogh poster.”
“Man, this is not your day.”
“Have you seen him?” Cam looked past Jeanne’s head, down the hall.
“Ball?”
“Either of them. Ball or Peter.”
“Peter’s here?”
Cam nodded. “Guest of Ball’s.”
“Well, Ball was in the east gallery, like, five minutes ago.”
“East gallery, then. Wish me luck.”
“Here’s my vodka tonic. I think that’ll work better.”
* * *
Cam navigated the buzzing patrons. Everyone looked so happy and carefree in their finery.
Ball wasn’t in the first gallery or the second.
By the third, the crowds had thinned, and at the fourth, the one that held her favorite selections from the “Behold: Love Through the Eyes of the Artist” exhibit, she was one of only three or four people.
Morose, she walked the length of the space, peering into the adjacent rooms, but found herself slowing as the paintings exerted their usual influence over her.
Two Alex Katz works, both adoringly painted portraits of his wife, Ada.
In the first, she’s a young mother with striking dark hair and gentle eyes, and her mouth is hidden behind the head of her young son, whom she’s kissing.
In the second, she’s older. Her gray-streaked hair is draped over her shoulders, and those gentle dark eyes are edged with lines.
Katz had painted Ada dozens and dozens of times in his career, each time with unmistakable affection.
“Lovely,” a voice said.
It was Peter, smiling. He looked magnificent, and Cam wanted to throw her arms around him, but found herself unexpectedly shy. She contented herself with catching a corner of his sleeve.
“It’s Ada.”
“I see that,” he said, tilting his head toward the painting’s title card. “Is that her as well?”
“Yes, both. The artist, her husband, Alex Katz, painted her over and over.”
“One woman, two ages, and he still sees the same thing when he looks at her. The effect upon the viewer is unchanged. That’s remarkable.”
“We have one of yours, you know.”
“Do you?”
She pulled him into the British paintings room, one gallery over. She knew he would ask her about the Van Dyck shortly, but for one cherished moment she wanted to forget everything.
“You may recognize the woman,” she said.
“As one recognizes an oncoming storm at sea.” Peter’s face lit in a grin. “It’s my old friend, the Duchess of Portsmouth. Yet I see no telltale marks of newsprint upon her nose.”
“Snout, I think you mean. It’s not one of your best.”
“How you flatter. I don’t suppose your opinion is in any way colored by your opinion of the subject?”
“Hello, I’m an art expert. Where my opinions come from is nobody’s damn business.”
“I see nothing’s changed in three hundred years. I want to talk with you about the Van Dyck.”
She let go of his sleeve.
“Cam.” He pulled her around so she was looking at him. “I’m responsible for the letter your master received.”
As a child, she’d once had the wind knocked completely out of her when she fell from a tree.
She’d been lucky nothing worse had happened.
Nonetheless, she remembered being shocked by the violence of it.
Peter’s confession gave her the same sense of having been throttled to her core.
“I wondered if that’s what happened,” she said, finding her breath. “And you mailed it to Packard?”
“No. No, no, no. Though I can certainly understand why you would think me capable of it. I met with Van Dyck in the Afterlife and had him write it. I brought it with me to stop you, and then realized even I couldn’t stoop to such villainy.
Oh, Cam, but I was fool enough to carry it in my sketchbook, and it was stolen. ”
“By whom?”
“I-I don’t know.”
But he did know. And she knew with whom he’d met and who would be capable of such an act. “My sister.”
“Cam…”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad it wasn’t you.”
“It does matter, Cam, it does,” he said. “And I think I can help.”
“Peter, there’s no help for it.” She hated to add to his burden by telling him about her resignation, but she refused to be untruthful.
“I’m going to take some time off. I think I’m going to concentrate on my writing.
The people here are great, but I need to work on the book—well, whatever the book turns out to be. ”
Peter raised his brow.
“I’m dropping the Lely book.”
“Campbell—”
“Hey, you know how shy I am. I mean, look at Wednesday Afternoons, right? There’s no way I’m writing any book about a man that would eventually have to get to that scene of me on that chaise.”
His mouth rose at her jest, but his eyes remained clouded. “You know as well as I do you can alter any fact you please. Why are you doing this? Please don’t say it’s for me. I should like to think you could tell the story in such a way that Ursula—”
“Oh, Peter, stop. I am not going to profit from your dead lover. It makes me sick to think I was ever planning to. I’m sorry.
The people we lose leave something sacred behind.
I see that now. A person shouldn’t be allowed to rummage through the past like it’s a chest of toys put there for her pleasure. ”
“Or the future,” he said sadly. He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. “Thank you. I think…I think I could bear it for me, but not for her.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Campbell, I should like to ask you a favor. I told you I did a terrible thing by not marrying her. Would you be willing to go to London, to St. Paul’s in Covent Garden, and see to her headstone and that of my son?
I don’t know if the rules have changed in the last three centuries, but if there’s a way you could arrange to have my name put on their stones, I would appreciate it.
I did love her as a husband would. It is not the same as marrying, but it would mean so much to me. ”
“Of course, Peter. I give you my word.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”