Page 69 of Dahlias, Sapphires, and Cool Autumn Dusk
Finally, we reached our destination. Murial tapped on the door, hand on her hip.
“Do you just refer to your father as a drunk and buffoon all the time?” Jeremy asked then lifted an eyebrow. “If I said that about mine, I might get punched.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t trifle with Kit Lent, either. Everyone knows not to mess with him.” Davis rolled his eyes. “Most people know not to even ask, but pretty Alatheia doesn’t know the story. My granny dubbed him that, by the way. Pretty much whatever Granny says is what goes.”
They’re so strange.I didn’t have any grandmothers myself. My maternal ones died, and my mother always said my paternal ones croaked, too. Jeremy had a wonderful granny, even if his mother’s parents sounded like they left something to be desired. Despite that, I knew he wouldn’t publicly call them names.
The door swung open and a man with red hair stared at us before finally smiling. “Murial, Davis, these are your friends?”
She smiled at him warmly. “Yes, this is Alatheia Winder and Jeremy Lent.”
Friends?Stretching it, but okay.I didn’t want to get on her bad side, that was it.
Regardless, it seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t introduce himself, but we followed him inside. For a place as well laid out as the Met, the room seemed like a lesson in austere chaos. The people who worked there had cluttered the wide space with various art pieces, easels, and lamps casting light, while the walls were lined with shelves holding art reference books. Several magnifying glasses and microscopes were scattered across the tables, and the air smelled faintly of oil paint and varnish. Experts in lab coats didn’t acknowledge our presence or evenlook up from their work when we entered, too focused on their work perhaps.
In that room, masterpieces could either be validated or debunked, the fate of each canvas hanging in the balance.
“How often do they do this?” I whispered to Murial because it seemed appropriate.
She answered me in her full blast voice, which seemed oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room. “I don’t know. Uncle Taylor? How often do they do this?”
“Once a month or more, I would think. Not only the Holocaust pieces—although there are at least ten thousand of them still missing, maybe more. I don’t claim to be an expert, but there are all sorts of ownership claims.” He shook his head. “I don’t have a specific number, so I admit, I fabricated that one. I don’t want to distract them.” Uncle Taylor’s gaze fell on me, and he squinted a bit. “You remind me of someone. I can’t put my finger on it. Have we met?”
I didn’t remember him, but anything was possible. “Have you spent much time in Chicago or San Francisco?”
Jeremy touched the small of my back, the warmth strangely comforting. He said, “I’m sure you haven’t met her. When would you have met a teenage girl?”
Taylor narrowed his gaze again but then went back to his consideration of the painting. I had to admit, I was really interested in their process, since it wasn’t something I either expected to see nor was it something I thought many got to see in their lifetimes. Jeremy, having delivered that little jab at Taylor, turned his attention to the exam as well. Davis seemed bored, scrolling on his phone. Murial, though, seemed equally rapt.
“What painting is it, or do you know? Or who it might be, if it’s not a fake?” I asked her.
Murial smiled. “Iknewyou would like this. It could be a painting by Maurycy Gottlieb. Are you familiar with his work?”
I’d never heard the name that I remembered. “My art knowledge may be limited. You seem to know a lot more art history than me. I’m sorry I’m so..ignorant about this stuff.”
Her slow, perfect grin rewarded me for my honesty. “You are the first person to come to my house and know it was a Rembrandt on sight. I’ll update your knowledge about important things, Alatheia. Don’t you worry about that.”
Oh boy.I realized she officially considered me her project.
I took a deep breath. “Thank you?”
In a storytelling voice, Murial continued. “Maurycy Gottlieb was very popular in Jewish, particularly Polish Jewish, homes right before World War Two. If this is real, my uncle will lose potentially eight hundred thousand dollars in sales, because it technically needs to be returned to the rightful owner. If it’s not real, he’s out anyway. Still, if it’s real, at least he gets to have some good PR when he turns it over.”
She sparkled as she spoke. Murial, for whatever reason, lived for the art. “He knows he’s lost money either way, but he wants to make up for it in publicity, if he can. Everything and everyone has worth, if you can find it, because everyone wants something.” She side-eyed me. “What do you want, Alatheia?”
I pinched my lips closed. No way I would answer that.Not to her.
Jeremy touched my hand, reminding me he was there, even if he couldn’t hold my hand. I still sensed him, a warmth next to me, as if I glowed brighter due to his proximity.
The curator, a tall man with a groomed beard, held a magnifying glass up to the artwork to squint through the lens. He set the glass down then nodded, not saying a word. Beside him, a female researcher with short black hair carefully adjusted the light shining down on the painting. She spoke into her phone, and I thought she took notes about what she saw.
“They have really interesting jobs,” I whispered to Jeremy.
“They do.”
In the end,they had some more testing to do, but they were pretty sure it was real.
We all exited the room together, with Taylor dashing by us to talk to his publicist. Murial smiled brightly at me. “I knew you would like that.”
