Fifty-eight
Thirty minutes later, Cam slammed the door of Packard’s office, leaving Packard, Anastasia, Dunevin, Ball, and Mrs. Fitcher behind her.
Jeanne stopped the game she was playing on her phone and jumped to her feet. “What can I do to help?”
“It depends. Do you still have that business card for the ‘We Hit Old Biddies’ firm?”
Jeanne nodded toward the door. “What happened in there?”
“Oh, the usual. Even though there’s no signature and no record of it in Lely’s documents—er, the real Lely, I mean, the Lely who painted in 1673—the composition, theme, and color choice point to authenticity.
In that case, especially with a situation as sensitive as this, experts usually take a generally positive-but-not-yet-definitive point of view.
However, Mrs. Fitcher happened to overhear the museum’s leading expert on Restoration-era art say it’s a fake.
Since then, Anastasia’s done everything she can to backpedal, and when Mrs. Fitcher has pushed her, she went mum—”
“Anastasia?”
“She’s really trying to cover for me, bless her heart. It’s hard for me to believe it myself.”
“Hard for you to believe? Traveling through time? That’s hard to believe. Anastasia being kind? That’s impossible.”
“Yeah, so Anastasia’s stayed mum and Ball won’t let anyone, including Packard, who’s getting really nervous, look at it.”
“Now what?”
“Who knows? Either way, I’m still going to be out of a job tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to leave me with the chain-mail Czarina, are you?”
“She’ll change. You’ll see.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“In your office. At least he was fifteen minutes age.”
Cam flew to her office. The disputed Lely painting was tucked behind her door, but Peter was nowhere to be seen. She trotted down the hall.
“Are you looking for the hottie with Johnny Depp eyes?” a college student on the catering crew asked.
“I, um…maybe.”
“Old?” she said, realized her mistake, and flushed. “Older than you, I mean.”
“That’s the one.”
“He told me to tell you he’s with Ada.”
Cam laughed. “Thanks.”
When she stepped into the gallery, Peter was not, in fact, with Ada. He was eyeing a small painting in the corner, next to a couple both looking at their BlackBerrys.
Cam watched him for a moment, the line of his back, the tilt of his head as he considered the work before him, the gleam of light in his hair.
Could she remember all that? Could she lock it up in a place where the memory would sit, unmuddied by events, longing or grief, for her to unwrap like a cherished holiday ornament to fill her heart when it was empty?
As if he felt her presence, his shoulders relaxed and he turned. He beamed as she approached, and the other couple drifted off absently, still working their keyboards.
“Ah, true love,” she said as Peter watched their egress.
“I have observed practices that have raised a considerable number of questions for me regarding relationships.”
“You and me both. It’s a religious thing.”
“In truth?”
“Cult of the Self-Absorbed. Every member’s a one-person church. So, what are you looking at?”
He stepped aside to let her see.
“Ah, the Bonnard.” It was one of the many paintings Pierre Bonnard had done of his wife.
In a bathroom as luminescent and richly colored as a Matisse, Pierre’s wife, Marte, lay peaceful and still in her shimmering bath.
“He always painted her at the same age, no matter how old she’d gotten.
It was as if he wanted her frozen in time.
” She thought of the gorgeous portrait Peter had done of her, just a few rooms away, and put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “I thank you for my painting.”
“Which part?” he asked, smiling. “Painting it or giving it away?”
“Both. How did you think to go to Ball?”
“It wasn’t difficult. Collectors place an enormous amount of importance on what others think of their paintings.
I suspected he’d be open to a timely trade.
And he was. He’s a decent cove. A damned fine eye as well.
The only problem was your car. I’m afraid the window is, well, shall we say, a trifle out of sorts—which will, perhaps, be more of a problem than I’d originally anticipated, given the incipient snow. ”
Cam glanced out the window and saw the steady downfall of white. “Oh, fuck—Oops.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“But on that topic, here is a question. Could it possibly be considered within the bounds of acceptable behavior here to describe oneself as a fornicator?”
She frowned for a moment, and then it hit her. Ball. She threw her head back and laughed. “Well, only if your parents were as well, I suppose.”
“Ball did mention something to that effect. I could barely summon a reply. When it comes down to it, I suppose all of our parents were, but to state it so unashamedly… ’Tis quite shocking, and yet he seemed to be so proud.”
“It is a mark of distinction—especially where he comes from.”
“I am amazed.”
“Oh, Peter, the painting you did is beautiful. I could see that, even while I was telling Mertons to shove it up his, er, storage facility. Is that really how you see me?”
He tucked a rogue curl behind her ear. “Aye.”
“Do you think you’ll have time to paint one of you? I should like to have something to remember you by.”
The pained look in his eyes sent an ache through her heart.
“I have never been much of a self-portraitist,” he said, “but for you, milady, aye.”
“Thank you.”
He brought her close and kissed her forehead.
“The painting stands, I hope,” he said. “As authentic, I mean.” She stiffened automatically and he stepped back and looked in her eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know yet. They haven’t decided. It’s sitting in my office.”
“Haven’t decided?” His face darkened. “Do they doubt my word? I am portraitist to the king, you know.”
“Credentials that sadly must remain unspoken—much as the carnal status of Ball and his parents should have been.”
“What is the objection?” he demanded. “’Tis an exquisite piece.”
“It is. But the odds of finding an undiscovered Lely after more than three hundred years are practically nil, and there’s not enough yet to tip the balance in the favor of authenticity. Besides, Ball’s so mad he hasn’t let anyone look at it.”
Peter harrumphed. “Philistines.”
“But the good news is, Anastasia is doing everything she can to help. Between you and me, she told me she knows the painting’s not real.
” Then, in answer to the look of insult in his eye, she added, “It’s not old and real.
But she said because you did it for me, she won’t say anything.
Oh, Peter, this is going to sound silly, but in some ways, that’s the best part of all. ”
Peter squeezed her waist. “I’m glad.”
Forlorn, Cam gazed down at the ballet flat peeking out from her skirt. Her friend, Seph, told her pink shoes always lighten one’s spirit, but Cam did not feel uplifted. “Peter, what do you know of the O’Janpa Convention?”
His arm fell away. “Where did you hear that?”
“Mertons.”
“Hell.”
“Can they really take you away?”
“Aye—well, no. It would be a battle.” The lines around his eyes deepened. “I’d prefer to go on my own.”
“And you have to go?”
“What I do here impacts you.”
“Of course it impacts me.”
“No, Cam. I-I—” He cast his eyes downward. “I’ve already hurt you. You may have lost your job because of me, and…and there may be even more I’ve cost you that you don’t see.”
“No, Peter, no. When two people love one another, every choice they make affects what comes next. But that doesn’t mean the choices shouldn’t be made. That’s life. If your being here, in the future, means my life has to change, that’s a change I choose freely.”
“Cam—”
“Peter, no—”
“Cam, listen to me. I’ve cost you a marriage…and a child.”
“A child?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You and Jacket were to have a child. That child is gone. Simply by the fact of my being here. Mertons showed me the calculations. It’s true.
And I—I with a wife and child who cannot even have the comfort of a name in their final resting place—I have no right to interfere.
Cam, I knew what perfect happiness was once. I won’t take it from you.”
“You fool.” She wanted to shove him and hug him at the same time.
“That mythical future baby is gone because that baby wasn’t meant to be.
Was it because of you? Yes. Was it because of me?
Yes. Was it because of Jacket? Yes. Don’t you see?
Everything we do in this crazy beaker of ooze sends ripples in every direction—left, right, forward, backward.
So what if your being here took away a child?
Did you happen to ask if staying would bring me another one? ”
“Cam…”
“Fight them. We’ll do it together.”
She heard an odd rushing noise and wheeled around. Mertons was brushing snow off his coat. He had a sort-of telescope in his hand and a look of confusion on his face. “Ah,” he said, spotting them. “There you are at last.”
Mertons wore an odd, unreadable look, and she dreaded what he was going to say. Peter shifted, growing taller and broader. She couldn’t help but notice Mertons avoided her eyes.
“My negotiations have been successful.”
“What negotiations?” Peter asked.
“You didn’t tell him?” Mertons said to Cam.
Peter’s gaze cut to her. “Didn’t tell me what?”
Mertons made a show of placing the scope in his pocket.
She swallowed. “I wanted you to have a painter’s life.”
The look of confusion on Peter’s face grew. He looked to Mertons and back. “What, Cam? What did you do?”
“I promised to show them how I travel.”
“So they can shut it down?”
“Yes.”
“And in return,” Mertons said to Peter, “you will be given a painter’s life. Money, time, recognition. You’ll have it all.”
Cam looked at Peter. She could see the effect this offer had on him.
“No,” Peter said. “I’d rather stay. Even if it’s only for a short time.”
Merton’s face purpled. “Are you insane? Do you know what you’d be giving up?”
“Aye, I think I do.” Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed.
“No, Peter,” Mertons said. “You don’t. I haven’t just negotiated any painter’s life. I’ve negotiated your painter’s life. You will be allowed to return to Ursula.”
Peter inhaled. After a moment that seemed like forever to Cam, he said, “I have no wish to return to her knowing what will happen. You might as well tie me to a rock and let an eagle feast on my entrails.”
“You won’t know.”
“What?”
“I said, you won’t know. The Guild has agreed to let you return to your former life insentient of your future or hers. Peter, think of it. You will fall in love with her again. You will paint her again. You’ll have more than a decade to live over.”
Peter’s posture changed. The lines around his eyes grew softer. “And she’ll die, still the same?”
“We can’t change that,” Mertons said sadly. “You know the limitations. But, Peter, listen. I have gotten special permission for a variance. It wasn’t easy, and I had the team triangulating the calculations for the last hour to support it. I have gotten permission to allow you to marry her.”
“Oh.” It came out like a faint puff of wind, and Cam felt her world break in two.
“Your name,” Mertons said happily. “She’ll have your name. And so will your son.”
Peter blinked, dizzy with the treasure that had just been laid at his feet. “I-I—”
“But you must come tonight.”
“Tonight!” Cam cried. She felt as if she’d spent the evening having chunks of her happiness hacked away with a butcher knife. “No, please.”
Mertons looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Miss Stratford. The Guild insists. The whole affair’s been an embarrassment to them. They want it to end. Peter, you’ll be back in your studio by morning.”
Peter was lost in a world he’d let slip through his fingers. Cam watched him work the emerald signet ring, savoring his first taste of a life free from guilt and pain, a parched man handed water.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Peter, you must,” she said.
He licked his lips, staring far into the snowy night. She touched his hand. He looked surprised, and she directed him to open it. When he did, she pulled a hairpin from her hair and placed it there. “Just think of me every once in a while. That will be all I need.”
“Campbell, I…”
“You know what you must choose. For her. For your son.”
Cam heard a clatter behind her and turned. It was Jeanne, running toward them, looking panicked. “You look different when you’re smiling,” she said to Mertons, and to Cam: “C’mon, Packard wants to see you.”
“Not now.”
“It’s important.”
Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed it. “Self-confidence, remember. Go. I’ll wait.”
Cam could barely breathe. “You will?”
“Yes.” His dark eyes affirmed the promise. “I swear it.”
“Peter,” Mertons warned.
But Cam didn’t have to run. Packard strode in, mouth tight. “I need you to convince Ball to let us look at it.”
“Sure,” Cam said. “Where is he?”
“The boardroom.”
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Packard said. “Our curator was overheard saying it was a fake and that you did it. I don’t believe you did it, but I’m in a tough spot, with my key expert having once disputed it.”
Peter made a low growl. “I think you will find proof enough when you examine it.”
* * *
Mertons looked at his watch. “We can’t stay long. A quarter hour at most.”
Peter, awash in a raging sea of emotion, said, “We’ll stay.
” He gazed at the Bonnard. He knew exactly why Bonnard had done it.
He thought of Ursula and his son and what it means to love someone.
He thought of that ring, back on Cam’s finger after she’d removed it this afternoon and placed it in her pocket.
He thought of his own ring and the many years it had represented a burden he couldn’t unshoulder.
He even thought of Rick and Ilsa. How long he stood there he didn’t know. He knew what he had to do.
“Where did they say they were?”
Mertons looked at his watch. “Peter, you don’t have time.”
“To hell with you and your requirements. I’m saying good-bye.” Peter ran.