"What drew you to painting?" she asked.
"The magic of it." He took a sip from his glass. "How do you take a stick with hairs on it, rub it in colored dirt, wipe it on a piece of cloth wrapped around some wood—and make something that didn't exist before?" Dante looked away as if embarrassed, turning his face to the sun. "You're lucky to have such beautiful weather for your visit."
"Could you tell right away that I was a tourist?" Even though she wasn't dressed in black, Claire had secretly hoped she fit in.
"No real New Yorker would put up with a guided tour from a stranger who accosted her in front of a painting. But you had such a look of wonder on your face that I thought you would enjoy it."
"I did enjoy it, very much. In fact," Claire took a deep breath, "I had a special reason for wanting to know more. I came to New York because I inherited a painting, and I wanted to find out more about it. Someone at Avery's told me it was a Vermeer imitation, a"—she searched for the word Troy had used—"a pastiche. In those paintings you just showed me I saw a lot of the same things it has: a white pitcher with a brass top, an Oriental carpet—even a chair with those lions' heads on the top."
Dante straightened up. "Really? So where is it now? Locked up in the safe at your hotel?"
"Actually, it's right here. In my backpack." She patted her lap. Dante's eyes opened wider, but at least he didn't curl his lip the way the receptionist at Avery's had. "Would you like to look at it?"
When he nodded, Claire unzipped the backpack and undid the bubble wrap. After having spent the last hour scrutinizing real Vermeers, Claire was surprised to find that her own painting had lost none of its power over her. The woman still intrigued her, with her parted lips, calm gaze and mysterious letter.
"May I?" She wondered if she saw a quiver in his outstretched hands as he gently lifted it close to his face. He was quiet for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was reverential, pitched so low that Claire wondered if it were meant only for his own ears. "We have an oil painting, about fifteen by fourteen inches." He slipped the magnifying lens from his pocket again and began to examine the surface, inch by inch, exactly as Troy had two hours before. "The support is a plain-weave linen. The frame seems of a more recent period. The paint surface is slightly abraded. Very free brushwork." He lifted his eyes to her. "My God, where did you get this? And why do you think it's a forgery?"
Dante listened intently as she quickly summarized for him Aunt Cady's death, the suitcase with its Nazi memorabilia, and what Troy had told her about the painting.
"What reason did this guy at Avery's have for telling you it was a forgery?"
Claire tried to remember what had made him so sure. "He said that's what he does for a living, evaluate things. He said it was awkwardly painted and lifeless." At this, Dante shook his head but didn't interrupt. "And he said it was a compilation of every Vermeer cliche. That's why he called it a pastiche."
"But there's a lot of repetition in Vermeer. He was poor, so he used the same objects over and over again. I don't know that I would call this a pastiche. But on the other hand, I don't know that I would call it a Vermeer, either. That's a big leap to take simply because everyone has Vermeer on their mind these days. Let's forget what that guy told you, and assume for a moment that it didn't begin life as a fake. To me, it looks genuine, even old enough to be an Old Master, that is, a painting before 1800. Not a lot of painting was going on then. The way she's dressed, the things in the room, make me think the painter was Dutch."
"So it could be a Vermeer." Claire realized she was holding her breath.
Dante traced a finger an inch above the surface of the painting. "I'm leaning in a different direction than your friend at Avery's. The jacket, the white pitcher, this chair with the lions' heads, the carpet—it could be a Vermeer. But there are literally hundreds of genre paintings—paintings of the upper middle class's daily life—with one or more of those elements. Just off the top of my head, I can think of Jan Steen, Nicolaes Maes, Pieter de Hoogh, Gabriel Metsu. There were probably half a dozen other Dutch painters who were painting at the same time. It was the fashion to paint peaceful interior scenes with one or more figures. And not only that, painters all borrowed subject matter from each another. Instead of Vermeer, or a person forging Vermeer, the person who painted this might have simply been influenced by Vermeer."
Claire was impressed. "You know a lot." She felt more at ease now that his focus had been transferred from her to the painting.
"I told you I majored in art history. Plus, it interests me." He turned his attention back to the painting. "You have to remember that the loose jacket and those chairs reflect a certain period in history. They aren't unique to Vermeer. To her"—he pointed at the young woman—"her jacket isn't a costume, it's only a jacket. Everyone owns a chair like the one she has, or has the same white pitcher. And everyone she knows has a Turkish carpet—on the floor certainly, but maybe hanging as a wall decoration or used as a tablecloth. The more I think about it, the more likely it is that this is a painting by one of Vermeer's contemporaries, which would make it worth a few thousand dollars, instead of fifteen or twenty million."
"Million?" echoed Claire. The word came out with more emphasis than she had intended.
"Million. Of course, that's only a guess. No one's sold a Vermeer on the open market for decades. But there's only the slightest chance this is a Vermeer, even though it might not be a forgery. That guy at Avery's may be right, but he should have done more research. I'll tell you what—I'll research the archives here, look at every known seventeenth-century Dutch painting. Then I can tell you what this probably is—and what it probably isn't. But in order to really do that, I need to be able to examine it very carefully." Dante's fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the frame. "I suppose there's no chance you'd let me borrow it for a day or two? I'd take good care of it."
Uneasiness lapped at Claire. Who was this man, anyway? She had met him only an hour ago and now he was trying to walk off with something that made him stammer. She reached out and took the painting from him. "No, sorry, I don't think so. I wouldn't feel right parting with her."
"If I were in your place I would say the same thing. Can I take a few pictures of her, then? I have a camera downstairs."
While Dante went down to the coat check to retrieve his camera, Claire thought about the two men she had met that morning. Holding the painting, she walked over to look over the city once more, but this time she didn't see what was in front of her. Who was telling the truth? Troy, with his story that it was a forgery, or Dante, with his story that it was probably old but not very valuable? Was each of them telling her what they believed—or was one of them lying?
If Dante were right, that meant Troy was wrong. Could Troy have deliberately lied to her when he told her the painting was a pastiche?
Claire thought back to Avery's viewing room, where they had sat knee to knee and he had told her the painting was an imitation Vermeer. Was that why he been so insistent that he could help her out by selling the painting for a nominal amount? Avery's didn't seem the kind of place where people cared about small sums of money. Maybe the buyer Troy had had in mind was himself—with the thought that he could turn right around and sell the painting for a fantastic sum.
Just then she saw Dante step out on the wooden deck. His face tightened with anxiety until he spotted her. "For a minute I thought you had disappeared." He laid the painting on a bench, then quickly snapped a dozen photos. "If you tell me where you're staying, I'll give you a call and let you know what I find out."
"I'm at the Farthingale until Sunday morning."
AMYSTREE
Chapter 17After Claire had turned down Dante's request to keep her painting, he hadn't even stayed long enough for her to buy him another glass of wine. Instead, as soon as he finished taking photographs of the painting, he had abruptly asked her what time it was, and then said he was expected someplace else.
Claire chanced a bus back to her hotel, fi
guring she couldn't get too lost if she could see out the windows and watch the street signs. When she'd asked the driver if the bus went as far as 42nd Street, he mutely gestured at the coin drop. When she repeated the question, he repeated his silent gesture, which she took to mean yes. It was like having a conversation with the Ghost of Christmas Past. There weren't many people on the bus, so she put her bag on an outside seat and then leaned her head against the window. Exhaustion slipped over her like a soft quilt.
Back in her hotel room, Claire ate a chocolate PowerBar and then curled up on the bed. In her dream, the woman in her painting turned to Claire, opened her mouth and began to explain everything in a low melodious voice. Claire strained to make out the words, until she finally realized the woman was speaking Dutch.
She woke to the ringing of the phone. For a long moment, she was confused by the flowered blue polyester coverlet, by the stone buildings pressing up against her window, by the single shaft of slanting light that pierced the room. Finally, she managed to locate the phone on a small table by the bed.
She fumbled the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"
"Is this Claire Montrose?" A man's voice.
"Uh-huh."
"This is Troy. Troy Nowell from Avery's. I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?"
Claire sat up, pushed her hair off her face. "If you wanted to talk to me about the painting, I haven't changed my mind about selling it." Especially not after talking to Dante.
Troy laughed. "You come right to the point, don't you? No, I don't want to talk to you about the painting. At least, that's not all I want to talk about. I also want to talk to you about you. I've been thinking about you all afternoon. I've never met anyone quite like you before."
A flush began at her throat. Maybe he was telling the truth. Or maybe he was just trying to find another way to convince her to let him buy her painting for next to nothing. But would it hurt if she let him buy her dinner, let herself live an entirely different life for one evening?
"Try being from Oregon. This whole city is full of things I've never met the likes of. But if you promise not to pester me to sell you the painting, Til go to dinner with you." Clothes, she thought. She had no clothes to wear to such an excursion. What in the world was she going to wear?
They arranged to meet in the hotel lobby at eight-thirty the next evening. In Portland, most of the restaurants would be emptying out at such an hour, but Claire knew that in New York people dined fashionably late.
After she put down the phone, Claire hurried over to the closet where she had hung up the things from her suitcase. Two pairs of jeans, a pair of leggings, an ivory fisherman's sweater hand-knit by Charlie. The nearest thing she had to a dress was a nightgown. She had a momentary vision of Troy in his Armani and herself in her flannel, then shook her head. This was one emergency that clearly called for the use of a credit card.
She took out her little map again. Charlie had told her about a discount place called Filene's, with one store near Wall Street and another uptown—not far, in fact, from the Met. She decided to take advantage of her newfound familiarity with the bus system to take one to Filene's. If she had time afterward, she would walk over to the American Museum of Natural History, which Charlie had said was not to be missed.
Before she left, though, Claire had to do something about the painting. She no longer felt comfortable with it in her backpack, not in the jostling crowds of people, not leaning back against a bus seat. She didn't want to leave it out in the open, but then again, where could she hide it? Claire looked around the room. There were few choices, all of them obvious, and most of them unsuited to a fragile painting. Slipping it between the mattress and box spring, for example, was definitely out. She could tape it in its bubble Wrapping to the underside of a dresser drawer, the favorite hiding place of a thousand movies, but she didn't have any tape. The closet contained only a few hangers. The TV was bolted to a black metal stand. She stepped into the bathroom, but there were no possibilities there, either. It was all white ceramic without even a cupboard or medicine chest. She turned back to survey the room again, her glance falling on the table and chair that sat beside the window. The chair was upholstered in blue vinyl. She tipped it on its side. The base was covered with dusty netting, held in places by tacks. Claire went to get her Swiss Army knife from her backpack.
Filene's was crowded with bargain hunters, many of them, to judge by their accents, native New Yorkers. On the lower level, Claire finally found what she was looking for, outfits she would never have an opportunity to wear in Portland. The racks were crammed with satin, velvet and silk garments, many of them bugle-beaded or sequined. The colors were head-turning—black, scarlet, neon green, shocking pink, silver lame—and the styles ran the gamut— from palazzo pants to see-through minidresses.
Claire fingered through the overstuffed rack, occasionally picking up an item that had slipped to the floor. Her confidence was beginning to plummet. Troy had instructed her to wear something "nice," but what did that mean? She was clearly out of her element. She didn't have the right personality to carry off any of these outfits, let alone make intelligent conversation with Troy. And what would she talk about? The latest obscene license plate request she had turned down? Dante had found her stories funny, but she couldn't imagine having the same conversation with the more patrician Troy.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
Claire looked up. The speaker was what she had already realized was a rarity in Filene's: a salesclerk. A young black woman with a name tag that read "deShauna," she had a hundred tiny braids framing her high cheekbones
"I need something to wear to dinner. I'm visiting here, and someone I met asked me out to dinner tomorrow night. I have a feeling it's someplace pretty nice. The only trouble is that I didn't pack anything more fancy than Levi's."
"Do you know what restaurant?"
"Cri du Coeur." Claire said the French words in a careful imitation ofTroy's flawless-sounding accent.
"Cri du Coeur?" DeShauna stepped back and gave Claire an appraising look. "Girl, you must run in better circles than I do. I've read about that place in People. You have to be somebody special just to get in the door."
"That's just the trouble. Even if I was at home, the dressiest thing I have is an awful bridesmaid's dress that was supposed to be seafoam green but turned out to be the color of Comet cleanser."
"Come on back to the dressing room. We'll see what we can do."
First deShauna brought Claire an outfit that consisted of a black vinyl jacket, black satin hot pants and a black bustier. Dutifully, she climbed into it, although she knew it was a mistake. The price tag, though, was the real shocker—$299, marked down from $1,700.
"I don't think this is really me," she said to deShauna when she returned to check on her progress. "I look like a hooker."
"But an expensive hooker," the young woman said, and Claire had to laugh.
Next deShauna brought Claire a floor-length black knit dress. On the hanger it looked conservative enough, but when she pulled it over her head she found it had diamond-shaped cutouts that began at the navel and gradually got bigger as they approached the neckline. They both agreed that the dress had definitely been designed for a woman with implants. "Which I see a lot of, believe me. When they're seventy-five and lying in their coffin, those old tits will still be standing straight up."
The next outfit that deShauna handed through the door was a floor-length satin dress. At first Claire thought it was cream- colored, but then she realized it was the same color as the flesh of a peach. It had a sweetheart-shaped bodice, with shoulders and sleeves of sheer netting. The sleeves were so close-fitting that she had to hold her fingers together while she slipped her hands through. She had a flash of Marilyn Monroe being sewn into her dress before she went on stage to breathe her way through "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to Jack Kennedy.
After she had pulled the dress down over her hips, Claire stepped back to fac
e the mirror. From a dozen darts that nipped in the waist, the dress flowed down over the curves of her hips and legs and then widened just enough to allow for walking. The subtle peach color complemented the red-gold of her hair. Looking at her own reflection, Claire felt beautiful, sexy and voluptuous—not words she normally associated with herself. She felt like Cinderella.
Her fairy godmother, played by deShauna, tapped on the door, then pushed it open. "Mmm-mmm-mmm. Don't you look nice." She became professional, plucking at the shoulders to straighten the seams, buttoning a tiny back button Claire had overlooked, "That netting is sexy without looking too obvious."
"Without looking too obvious?" Claire echoed. "To successfully wear this dress I'm going to have to completely forget about underwear."
"All you need is a strapless bra and a pair of those pantyhose with the built-in panty. That's not much of a sacrifice for looking gorgeous."
Claire hesitated. The dress was gorgeous—but who was she kidding? This wasn't the kind of dress someone like her could wear. Its real owner was meant to be a movie star straight out of the glossy pages of a magazine. "I'm from Portland, Oregon, and nobody there wears dresses like this."
"But, honey, you're not in Portland." She saw Claire hesitating and playfully pushed her shoulder. "And if you don't wear a dress like this to Cri du Coeur, they probably won't even let you in."
After parting with $149 for the dress (marked down from $899), plus another $30 for some strappy shoes, $7 for pantyhose, and $16 for something called a strapless demi-bra that basically put her breasts on a shelf, Claire left Filene's with her backpack and her arms filled with packages. The day was slowly changing into dusk. She looked at her watch. She had a little more than an hour and a half if she wanted to see the American Museum of Natural History. This was, of course, not nearly enough to see what Fodor's said was a million and a half square feet of exhibits. Her time in New York was slipping through her fingers like water. Tomorrow she planned to explore the tip of Manhattan, take the boat to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. There were a million places she had yet to see. Who knew if she would ever be in uptown Manhattan again? She began to walk a little faster.