Page 24

FIFTEEN

Maxine called ahead to schedule an appointment.

When I arrived, the owner was waiting for me.

He didn’t ask about my tastes, just assumed he knew from the furniture I’d ordered.

Granted, there are a few pieces I bought from him that I like, but the triptych isn’t one of them.

I’m usually strong in my opinions, have no problem saying no, but I was bored with the whole interior design thing—as I learned to call it because apparently “decorator” is considered a derogatory term—and needed something between the living room windows.

Now, as I look at it through the open French doors, I like it even less than I did then.

A mishmash of paint, sand, aluminum foil, and odd-shaped pieces of plastic stuck randomly on the three canvases—or at least that’s the way it appears to me.

It’s no Party —that’s for sure. I think about putting it back in the guest room, but staring at a blank wall would probably be worse.

How could I have sent her away? What had I been so afraid of?

My overtired and nearsighted eyes playing tricks after a long day?

It was foolish and unnecessary. Randi Wiley, the curator at the Columbia, told me they would need at least three weeks’ notice before Party could be sent back to me—on my own dime, of course. Fair enough.

It’s Saturday, and normally I’d be in the office catching up on all the things I never got to during the week.

But a frigid rain is pounding outside, and the dark clouds are so low they seem to touch the rooftops across the street.

As intrepid as I am, a born-and-raised New Englander, I’m not going out in that shit.

My father, who grew up in northern Maine, would affectionally call me a wimp, and although this does niggle a bit, I’m still not going out in that shit.

I’m slogging through the edits to a pharmacovigilance report on an adverse drug reaction we just discovered when an email comes in from my cousin.

From: Damien Manet, Director of the édouard Manet Foundation

To: Tamara Rubin

Cc: Jonathan Stein, Counsel to the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany

Re: Party on the Seine

Date: 15 November

You have not sent your attorney’s contact information, as I requested, and this is unacceptable.

Party on the Seine is fragile and must be maintained in a controlled environment, which your home is not.

In an unsecured place such as yours, there are also the additional threats of theft, an act of God, or an act of man, such as arson or a burst pipe.

Therefore, the painting is in grave danger, and I am offering, once again, to relieve you of this burden.

Again, we will be happy to transport Party on the Seine to Paris at our expense.

I am sure you are aware that an édouard Manet retrospective is to be held at the Louvre this coming summer. It will be a career-spanning show, never before accomplished. The Foundation and the museum have spent three years amassing 87 works of art for the exhibition.

Party on the Seine will be the 88th and, more than likely, the centerpiece of the show.

As it was believed that the painting was destroyed during World War II, the recovery of this lost masterpiece is a world-shaking event, and the retrospective will command a wide audience of art lovers from around the globe, who deserve to enjoy its return.

Especially as this is the first time it will be displayed in almost a hundred years.

In order to authenticate, ascertain damage, clean, and restore Party on the Seine to its original state, it must be delivered to the Louvre no later than 1 January.

If you or your attorney has not contacted me by 17 November, further legal actions will be taken to ensure its safety and secure transport.

I have to admit that Damien has a point about the controlled environment and that Party does deserve to be seen by art lovers, but his arrogance is so off-putting that it makes it difficult to see through it.

I refuse to be intimidated by his blustering, and I have to chuckle at his concern with all the dangers that could befall her in my apartment when she’s actually safe at the Columbia Museum.

I think about phoning Wyatt Butler, who I officially hired a couple of days ago.

He did give me his cell number and told me not to hesitate to get in touch with him at any time, but as annoying as the email is, it doesn’t warrant a weekend call.

So I return to my pharmacovigilance report, which is almost as annoying as Damien Manet.

WYATT CALLS ME at the office Monday afternoon. “Just spoke with your famous cousin Damien.”

“He’s famous?”

Wyatt laughs. “In his own mind.”

“As much of a pompous jerk on the phone as he is in his emails?”

“Even more so.”

“Sorry about putting you through that.”

“The vast majority of my job is dealing with pompous jerks, so no need to apologize.”

“Some days, I feel the same way.”

“Want to run away to Bimini with me? Heard there aren’t any jerks there.”

“Wish I could.” Who wouldn’t want to run off to Bimini with a guy who looks like Wyatt Butler? A much younger guy, to boot.

A long dramatic sigh. “Me too.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t call to invite me to the Bahamas,” I say. “What else did he tell you?”

“Not all that much. After a rather lengthy speech about how busy he is and how important his foundation is, he handed me off to a lawyer. The foundation’s lawyer, he informed me, as if I would be impressed that the foundation has an in-house attorney.”

“And what did the in-house attorney have to say?”

“That the Nazis stole many of édouard Manet’s works, and that the foundation has been ‘extremely successful’ at getting them back.”

“Back to the owners?”

“Mostly to the foundation, I take it. She—Delphine Some-Unpronounceable-French-Last-Name—proudly rattled off a number of paintings they’d ‘recovered.’ None I’d heard of, but art history doesn’t figure prominently in law school curriculum.”

“Not much in business school either.”

“Her point was to make sure I understood they were planning to use the same strategy in their suit for Party on the Seine .”

“Was this extremely successful strategy used against people the Claims Conference had determined were the rightful heirs?”

“I asked that same question, and she equivocated, saying that this is a unique situation because it’s Damien Manet who’s claiming ownership.”

“So she won’t be using the same strategy.”

“Which I pointed out to her. Her response was that because of édouard’s will, this will be far easier to litigate than the others.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

Wyatt hesitates. “Our case rests on proving the painting belonged to the Bernheims, which hopefully we’ll be able to do.”

“Did Damien or the lawyer say anything about an email he sent on Saturday?”

“Manet sent you another email?”

I text it over. “Is this just posturing, or do you think there’s anything here?”

A long pause as he reads it. “I’m guessing if there was any meat, the lawyer would have mentioned it to me. So for now, let’s assume this is Damien’s style, and that there will probably be more of this type of nonsense coming at us.”

“He can’t make me enter Party into the retrospective, can he?”

“No, he can’t. The painting is yours unless proven otherwise. We can’t get distracted by these frivolous claims, which may be part of his tactics. Although that’s probably giving him too much credit.”

“Did you talk to your investigator?”

“Yes, and she, unlike us, knows a lot about art and is excited about doing the digging. Name’s Nova Shepard, and she’s raring to go.”

“That’s encouraging at least.”

“I don’t think you should be as pessimistic as you sound. The Claims Conference does good work, so that part is pretty unassailable. And Nova does good work too. If there’s proof to be found, she’ll find it.”

“That’s a big if.”

“Is there something you haven’t told me that’s fueling this negativity? Is there more here than I know about?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I guess I’m just worried.”

“Sure you are. There’s a hell of a lot of money at stake here.”

“It’s not just about the money…”

“Look, Tamara, I can see that Party on the Seine means a lot to you. That you have a connection to the painting that goes beyond what it’s worth.

It’s the work of a famous ancestor of yours, handed down through generations.

Then stolen from your family by the worst people of the twentieth century. I get it.”

“Thanks.” It’s a nice speech, except it sounds a bit pat, and he’s far from appreciating the true depth of my attachment. But what is the true depth of my attachment? Beats the hell out of me.

“I’d like to have Nova look into a few of those foundation cases Delphine was bragging about,” Wyatt says.

“See what they might tell us about their attack plan. Also to start digging up information on how the Bernheims came to own the painting. Is it okay if I put her in for ten hours? Might be all she needs. Could even be less.”

I know I should ask her hourly rate, but I don’t. If Nova is psyched to tackle the case, I’d be nuts to restrict her. And if she finds something, well, it could be the key to a gold mine. “Sure. I’d like to wrap this up as soon as possible.”

“Got it. But I have one more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you be interested in having dinner with me Friday night?”

“Is that kosher?”

“It’s not not-kosher. No superior versus inferior relationship. Nothing adversarial either. What do you say?”

I reflect on Simon’s temper and Nick’s deceit, on how I’ve sworn off serious relationships. But given Wyatt Butler’s looks and the age difference between us, there’s no chance of anything serious developing. “I say let’s do it.”

WHEN WYATT TELLS me he also lives in the South End, I suggest one of my faves, Metropolis, a small and homey place on Tremont, with excellent food and a laid-back atmosphere.

It’s also not so loud that you can’t hear the person across the table from you—excessive noise being an unfortunate attribute of a growing number of Boston’s restaurants.

He admits he’s never been there, and I suspect it’s because he likes the pricier and noisier spots. I figure he’ll just have to adapt.

He’s ten minutes late, which, as far as I’m concerned is a bad move on a first date.

But as soon as he walks in—his movie-star self—I’m inclined to forgive him.

Everyone in the room turns to watch him cross to my table, both the men and the women, wondering, I presume, if he’s a real movie star.

I have an embarrassing flash of pride that he’s my date.

I check myself. I’m not a sixteen-year-old with a crush, I’m a thirty-nine-year-old veteran of too many relationships to count, most of which had bad endings.

And I like to be the one who calls the shots.

“Beauty is as beauty does” was one of my mother’s well-worn clichés.

Unfortunately, in this situation it looks like beauty does whatever it wants.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says as he sits down. “Rotten behavior for a first date. Got a call I had to deal with as I was walking out of the office.” He leans toward me and touches my hand. “Will you forgive me and consider a second date despite my rude tardiness?”

“I think we should see how this one works out before I commit.” I give him a stern look.

“Tough lady.”

“Always.”

He looks at me askance. “Always?”

“Most of the time.”

We both laugh. I’ve never dated a man this much younger than I am, and although this should give me pause, it excites me instead. Exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble with men in the past.

A waiter comes over to take our drink order. “Dirty martini,” Wyatt says. “Grey Goose. Up, with a few cheese-stuffed olives.”

“Sorry, sir, only wine and beer.”

A flash of a frown, then he turns to me and smiles. “Red or white?”

“How about a nice cab?”

“Now tell me,” he says after he’s ordered and handed the list back to the waiter. “Who are you?”

“Does that opening always work?”

“Pretty much.” He pulls a sheepish face. “But I really do want to know.”

“Tell me who you are first.”

“I’m Wyatt Abbott Davenport Butler, a moniker that sounds more prestigious than it is.

My lineage does go way back—not to any Manets, though—but disaster after disaster, brought on mostly by my ancestors’ stupidity, destroyed our part of the family’s fortune generations ago.

The names are all that’s left, and they’ve been passed down in lieu of status and money.

Grew up dirt-poor in northern New Hampshire.

No one gave a shit if my middle names were Davenport and Abbott. ”

“Did you?”

He looks puzzled for a moment. “Give a shit about my name?”

I nod.

“You are a tough lady.” His eyes sparkle in amusement. “Sorry I questioned it. And now that I think about it, maybe I did. At least a little.”

“Is that what motivated you to leave all that dirt behind?”

He bursts out laughing. Then he takes my hand and presses his lips against my pulse spot.

I think about ditching the bottle of wine, ditching dinner, taking him back to my place, and ripping his clothes off. But I control myself. “That doesn’t answer my question,” I say as calmly as I can.

We make it through the meal without offending any of the other diners, I think. But we can’t keep our hands off each other. A shoulder, an arm, a cheek. When he presses his warm hand on my thigh, I almost orgasm then and there. “Let’s get the check,” I say, my voice husky.

We rush out into the cold air, which does nothing to cool us down, and just about run to my building. Then I do rip his clothes off. And he rips off mine. We make love two times before we finally fall into exhausted sleep. Maybe I should consider switching to younger men on a permanent basis.