To Corinne he said, “They’re optimistic, I believe. They’re full of life. I’ve edited them with a contemporary eye, but the subject is twenty-five, thirty years ago. The—” He faltered, and Fiona was reminded, uncannily, of Christopher Plummer in The Sound of Music, choking up onstage in front of those Nazis, trying to sing about his homeland. He said, “You should interview Fiona while she’s here. You can interview me anytime. But her brother and those other boys, they’re—” and he stopped, blinked rapidly, waved a hand in front of his face. He went into the kitchen, called from behind the counter, “Who’d like apple tart?”
“He wanted to tell you,” Serge said to Fiona.
She said, “There’s, what, footage? There’s footage?”
“No, is not footage, is art.”
“Okay.” But Fiona felt her pulse in her cheeks. She’d come here to find Claire, but a recovered minute with Nico, with Nico and Terrence, with— That was something. Wasn’t that a rescue, too, of some kind? She said, “I want to see it.”
Corinne laughed. “So does the world! More than a week, we have to wait. And you too.”
It was nearly ten o’clock, and Fiona resigned herself to the fact that Arnaud had been serious about not calling till morning.
Richard served the tart with vanilla ice cream, and the five of them carried their little plates out to the balcony railing and ate standing up, looking down at the barricaded street.
1985, 1986
The university and gallery would be closed through the New Year, but both Yale and Bill Lindsey were eager to take advantage of the Sharps being in town for the holidays. Allen Sharp was on the gallery’s board of advisers and, after the Briggs themselves, Allen and his wife, Esmé, were the gallery’s biggest donors. Lovely, down-to-earth people who’d rather have dinner at Bill’s than be wined and dined at Le Perroquet. Yale had known them since his days at the Art Institute, where they were always keen to sponsor a party or an educational event, and he suspected they’d put in a good word for him when he applied at the Brigg. They’d insisted on Charlie’s presence tonight, and so on December 30, the temperature hovering around zero, Yale and Charlie stood on the doorstep of Bill’s house in Evanston with a bottle of merlot, ten minutes early. They’d walked here from the El. Charlie said, “Let’s just circle the block again,” but Charlie was the one with a warmer coat, thick gloves. Yale vetoed the trek, and they rang the bell.
Dolly Lindsey—Yale had met her once before, briefly—opened the door as if she’d been in a great, frantic hurry to get there, and yet the room behind her was immaculate, and the smell of tomato sauce filled the house. She’d been ready for hours. Dolly was short and plump, her hair in tight curls. If Yale was right about Bill being in the closet, then he’d chosen his wife predictably: plain, but put together; sweet enough that she likely forgave a lot. Yale hadn’t mentioned his suspicions to Charlie. The last thing he needed was for Charlie to worry about a workplace affair.
Dolly said, “Get in out of that weather!” And then, as if she were delivering a line in the school play, she said, “And this must be your friend Charlie. Such a pleasure.”
Charlie wasn’t thrilled to be there—he felt he was neglecting work tonight, and he was worried about Terrence, who’d been admitted to Masonic with a sinus infection—but you’d never know it. “Shall we take our shoes off?” he said. “Your floors are so beautiful, I don’t want to track slush in.”
“Oh, they’ve seen worse,” Dolly said. She was smiling, blushing. Charlie had already won her over, in two sentences. It helped that his accent contained a top hat and monocle.
Yale found himself planted on the couch next to Charlie with a “glass of vino,” as Bill called it, watching Bill pick out records. Everything was still decorated for Christmas, candles and angels and sprigs of holly.
Dolly said, “I hope you like veal parmesan.” Charlie didn’t eat mammals, and they both had issues with veal, but they nodded, said it sounded delicious.
Charlie said, “If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m never leaving your house.”
This sent Dolly back into a deep blush, a high-pitched giggle that would have been irritating if it weren’t so genuine. She said to Yale, “I understand it’s an exciting time at the gallery!”
“We’re having fun at least.” Even before the holiday break, the whole situation had been on ice: no further news from Nora, no angry calls from Cecily. And the surer Yale had become of the paintings’ authenticity—the more he and Bill stared at the photos, the more Bill ran into his office with some new bit of detective work, the evidence that yes, Foujita had used that exact shade of green, look at this!—the more it hit him that it wasn’t just Cecily and her egomaniacal donor he was up against, but Nora’s family, a family that might easily block the transaction, might lock her in the house or intercept her mail.
“Well, it all sounds wonderful.”
Bill had put on a Miles Davis album, and now he awkwardly bobbed his head to it. He sat in the big yellow chair across from Yale.
He said, “Roman will be here soon.” Roman was one of the two PhD candidates who’d be starting as paid interns after the New Year thanks to Mellon Foundation grants. Yale hadn’t met him yet, but Bill had been Roman’s master’s thesis adviser a couple of years ago, back when Bill’s position was academic. Roman would be working with Bill again this coming quarter as a curatorial assistant; the other intern, a woman named Sarah, would work with Yale. “He phoned to say he had no running water, had to dash over to shower at the gym. The life of the grad student, no? I don’t miss it. Charlie, did you do graduate work?”
“Not a day of it,” Charlie said, and didn’t add that he’d dropped out of university. The best Yale could reconstruct was that Charlie had stopped classes but just hung out for three years on and around the campus of King’s College, galvanizing people and leading protests and being, generally, the crown prince of gay students. Charlie wasn’t likely to explain this all to Bill, and Yale was relieved when he excused himself to help Dolly in the kitchen. Charlie was no cook, but he was fantastic at grabbing up a pot to scrub.
Yale said, “I think we simply have to drive up to Door County again. You and me this time. You can talk to her, and I’ll talk to the lawyer.” He steadied his overfilled glass; the red wine had almost splashed onto the arm of the cream sofa. “It’s not like she won’t be home. It’s not like she’ll be having a party.”
“So just show up unannounced?”
“She’s ninety. We don’t have time to wait.”
Bill sighed, looked around the room as if someone might be hiding in the corner, eavesdropping. “I want to make sure you understand what you’re getting into,” he said.