Page 77

FIFTY-FIVE

L ast night, I set my alarm for six, well aware jet lag would try to keep me in bed. I did have to fight against the gravity of my oh-so-comfortable mattress, but the trial is in a week, and the need to get Party authenticated overrides all else.

I make a strong pot of coffee and look up how AI art authentication works.

Apparently, while human authenticators consider connoisseurship based on the discerning eye of experts and prolific paper trails, AI is more of a forensic investigation, good at pinpointing irregularities and anachronisms. Its focus is on the composition of the painting itself, running a myriad of minuscule comparisons between the primary work and the oeuvre of the artist in question.

In this case, of the two artists in question. No preliminary documentation required.

I find websites for a half dozen companies doing this type of work, and the nerd in me gets immediately sucked in.

These neural networks have been trained on databases of authenticated work—as well as forgeries—and can race through hundreds of thousands of pieces of data in seconds.

Comparing and contrasting brushstrokes, color palette, composition, pigments, binders, canvases, hidden layers, underdrawings—and so much more—in far less time than it would take to list them.

They can also detect signs of tampering, alteration, and overpainting, all of which will be crucial to settling the question of attribution to either Berthe or édouard.

Two of the companies are in the Boston area, and I send them photos along with my information, stressing that I’ll be able to bring Party on the Seine to them as soon as they can take her, and that time is an issue. It’s too early to call their offices, but at nine I will.

I text Wyatt to set up dinner tonight, and then pick a restaurant we haven’t been to together.

No history is best. Even though we never promised to be exclusive—or even discussed it—Jonathan will be back tomorrow, and I want to get this over with before he comes home.

It occurs to me that this could be a stupid move, that ditching a guy who holds Party ’s future in his hands is pure folly and I should wait until after the trial.

But I don’t want to wait, and I know Wyatt well enough to believe that however upset he might be, he’s not going to turn his back on the case.

He may not be the man for me, but I appreciate how seriously he’s committed to his work.

Wyatt and I have had fun, but what I feel for Jonathan is qualitatively different.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but somehow I don’t think I am.

Either way, I can’t be with Wyatt anymore, not when I want someone else this much.

I have no desire to hurt him, and dread the coming evening.

He’s a decent guy, but it’s time. Breaking up is always harder on the breakee than it is on the breaker, but it’s no picnic for either.

My looming anxiety is dispelled when I speak with Naomi Land, the lead analyst and co-owner of AuthentAI, one of the local companies I contacted earlier.

They’re a small start-up in Kendall Square in Cambridge, just a couple of miles away, and the price is steep.

But when she tells me she can fit Party in sometime this week, I jump on it. Again, what credit cards are for.

I call Jonathan, but he doesn’t answer, so I text him the news. I’ll tell Wyatt tonight.

I GET TO the restaurant early and order a martini, an unusual drink for me, but I’m hoping the hard liquor will buttress me for what’s to come.

I’m not sure how Wyatt is going to respond, but given his jealous streak, he might get extremely angry—especially when he finds out it’s Jonathan.

On the other hand, his lawyerly training should allow him to keep his cool.

He comes in and pulls me up for a kiss, holds me close, too close for a public place, too close for me. “I missed you,” he murmurs into my hair.

I step away quickly and sit. “Well, I’m back,” I say self-consciously. “And I have some excellent news.”

“Always up for excellent news.” He waves for the waiter. “Is it champagne news, or should I go with my usual?”

“Usual is good.” Then I launch into the AuthentAI story. “They may have a slot for her as soon as tomorrow. The next day at the latest. And Naomi said the process usually takes no more than two or three days—so we should get the report back before the trial.”

“Well done, very well done. Now if that diary is telling the truth, and if the authentication comes through in our favor, we might be able to close Damien down.”

I frown. If. If. Might. “Why would Aimée lie in her own diary?”

“I’m not saying she did, but how can we know?”

“I know.”

“You okay?” Wyatt cocks his head. “You seem kind of edgy, not as happy as I’d expect.”

“I am happy. On cloud nine.” I don’t think I’ve ever used that phrase before, and heat rises up my neck at the falseness of it. “But, uh, there’s something else we need to discuss.”

Unaware of my discomfort, he grins. “You? You want to discuss something besides your painting?” He reaches under the table and runs his hand up the inside of my thigh. “Something like this?”

I shift away from him. “It’s just that, that while I was away, I was thinking—”

“About me, I hope.”

“No. Well, actually, yes.” I take a gulp of my martini, but the straight vodka is too harsh for me, and I start to cough.

“Slow down there, girl.” Wyatt leans over and gently rubs my back. “So you were thinking about me when you were in Paris…”

I down half a glass of water, and the coughing subsides. “Yes, but I was thinking about this before that. Now and then, I guess. Since we’ve been dating.”

“So you’re saying you’ve been thinking about me since we started dating?” He drops his chin to his fist in a gesture like The Thinker , those incredible green eyes sparkling. “Okay, now that you’ve come clean, I will too. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Wyatt, listen to me. This, this is hard enough, so please just let me say what I have to say.”

He sits back in his chair, the sparkle replaced by wariness.

“I think, I think that we should take a break.”

“A break?” he repeats, but it’s clear he understands exactly what I’m saying.

Except what I said was wrong. “Not just a break, I think, well, I think we should stop dating.”

He looks from my flushed face to the now-empty martini glass. “Jonathan Stein.”

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

“I fucking knew it. Knew it from the day I saw the two of you sitting so cozy on your couch and he claimed to be visiting that damn painting.”

“It wasn’t like that. We were just friends then.”

He glares at me. “You didn’t look like just friends.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” I try to explain. “It’s not only that. It’s other things too. We, you and I—”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, but I also wonder if I might be in the process of falling. Something I’ve never thought about while I’ve been with Wyatt. Anytime he nudged toward anything close to love or permanence, I’ve backed away.

“And you know you’re not in love with me.”

I don’t want to respond, but I have no choice. “I’m sorry Wyatt, really sorry, but I’m not.”

“And you don’t think that could ever change?” His voice cracks.

I look at him pleadingly.

“So this is it.” He stands and throws two twenties on the table. “I’d hoped for a different ending, but if that’s how you feel, I’m not going to plead with you.”

“We’ve had a great time together, and I care about—”

“It’s okay, Tamara. I’m a big boy. No need for platitudes.”

“They’re not—”

“I want you to know I’m still your lawyer, and that I intend to do everything I can to win your case. Send me the authentication report when you get it, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Thank you. I appreciate—”

He turns and walks out the door before I can say anything more.

JONATHAN’S PLANE ARRIVES late the next night, and in the morning we make plans for him to come over at dinnertime to write up the translation.

He figures that, as only six pages are directly related to the case, it will take less than an hour, and offers to pick up dinner.

I wonder how much translating and eating we’ll actually do, and blood pumps in my ears.

The trial is five days away, and although Naomi thought she’d be able to take Party today, now it looks like tomorrow at the earliest. And Jonathan will be here soon.

My nerves are on high alert, jangling at the least bit of noise, squeezing my stomach, messing with my head. I take a long shower, shave my legs.

He walks in with a large bag of Thai food, then glances into the living room, sees Party is still there, and shakes his head.

While he may not have movie-star looks, he’s quite a handsome guy, and being close to him drives warmth through my body.

When he puts the bag on the counter, I step in for a hug.

He wraps his arms around me, and I press tight to him. He laughs and says, “Good to see you too.”

We stand like that for a long time. Then he loosens his grip and asks in a teasing voice, “How hungry are you? Should I do the translation before dinner or after?”

Our eyes meet, and the kiss is inevitable. The relief of it is piercing, as is the pent-up desire. My knees buckle, and we laugh when he grabs me so I don’t fall. We’re still laughing as we wrap our arms around each other and go into the bedroom.

I lie down on the bed, and he takes a step back, devouring me with his gaze.

I raise my arms to pull him to me, but instead he takes my forefinger and places it in his mouth.

This is so surprising, so stunningly sexy, that I gasp.

He smiles and bends toward me, begins to unbutton my shirt, running his tongue leisurely downward as each button pops open.

When the shirt drops to the bed, he unzips my jeans and buries his face there.

His breath is warm, and I strain toward it, then peel my pants off so he can get even closer.

I cry out as an orgasm floods through me.

Jonathan pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of his golden skin and his muscular body stuns me. He’s so beautiful. I reach for him, delirious to touch him, to feel him against me, to merge. And when we do, he begins slowly, bringing me to another orgasm before we explode together.

He gathers me to him. “I’m glad that’s over,” he says. “The waiting part, I mean.”

“Me too.”

“But your wait wasn’t nearly as long as mine.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve wanted this since that first day I saw you. When you were all pissed off at me because you were convinced I was scamming you. Can’t resist a fiery woman.”

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Naomi calls. If I can get the painting to her in the next few hours, she’ll be able to start the analysis this afternoon.

Jonathan and I have been up most of the night, talking for hours, making love another time before falling into exhausted sleep. But both of us are wide-awake now.

Jonathan rushes to UPS for packing materials, and I reserve a U-Haul.

Then I text Chris, one of the concierges, who’s become a friend.

As we’d worked out earlier, he contacts a guy on the loading dock, and I’m cleared to bring my box down the service elevator when it’s ready and put it in the truck from there—without Alyce or anyone else knowing.

I pick up the truck, Jonathan and I load Party inside it, and we drive to Cambridge.

Naomi meets us at the entrance to her building and directs us to the back, where two twentysomethings in jeans and T-shirts—probably analysts on her team—wait to carry Party inside.

I touch the box before turning her over to them, reminding myself that this is a good separation, one that will hopefully keep us together.