Grace Takes Off (4 page)

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

“Maybe,” I piped up, “you could show me around the villa, Irena. That could give Bennett
and your father a chance to talk in private. Perhaps he would be more open to discussing
your brother if he felt safe?”

She gave a sad smile. “I will suggest it to him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he
refuses. He has made plans for your visit here, and my father is rather set in his
ways. Deviation will be met with scorn. But if his strength holds out and he’s still
alert after dinner, then you and I”—her eyes lit up—“will find our own fun. As you
can imagine, I have very little opportunity for girl talk among all these men.”

Spending my last night in Italy with a relative stranger didn’t appeal to me, but
if it gave Bennett the opportunity to talk with his old friend . . . “That would be
great,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

THE DOOR BEHIND US OPENED, SIGNALING
Nico’s return and preventing further discussion of Gerard. Bennett and I turned to
see our host framed by the doorway and accompanied by Angelo and Gianfranco, who eased
past their boss to stand attentively outside.

“Bennett,” Nico called, beckoning with one gnarled hand as he held tightly to his
walker with the other, “I have something of interest to show you.” Almost as an afterthought,
he added, “You girls may come, too.”

Nico shuffled in place, turning his back to us as Gianfranco swooped in to tidy up
our table. With an apologetic smile, he reached for our wineglasses, piling them and
our untouched snacks onto a tray.

I thought I heard Bennett chuckle. “Looks like you have no choice.”

“Come, come,” Nico said as we crossed the threshold. Indoors, we were greeted by a
dark-haired, mustachioed man. His prayerful hands tapped a quick rhythm close to his
lips, and his glinting, deep-set eyes were harsh, conflicting with his obsequious
smile. I disliked him on sight.

Behind me, Irena unsuccessfully muffled a groan. “I didn’t realize you were visiting
today, Cesare,” she said as she came around me to embrace the short man, kissing him
on both cheeks.

“So pleasant to see you again, my dear.” Cesare’s heavily accented English was luxurious
and soft, in stark contrast to his firm grasp of Irena’s upper arms.

With effort, she shook him off. “What a wonderful surprise.”

Unfazed, his eyes glittered. “But I was certain your father told you I would be here
to meet with his lovely guests.” Before she could respond, he said, “No matter. You
must have simply forgotten.” He turned his attention to us and continued smoothly,
“And you must be the venerable Bennett Marshfield.” He gave a brisk bow. “I am honored.
Cesare Sartori, at your service.”

After Bennett introduced me, Cesare took my hand in his warm, pudgy one, and explained
his presence. “My services have been engaged for this special evening.” He bowed again
and I realized who he reminded me of. The guy was a doppelgänger for the actor David
Suchet, who so elegantly depicted Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot on TV—except Cesare
was much oilier.

From the back of the room, Angelo pulled out a wheelchair and helped Nico get settled
into it, adjusting the older man’s positioning and locking in place the metal footrests.

Through it all, Cesare kept talking. “I am the proprietor of a happily successful
auction house not far from the Ponte Vecchio. From time to time, I am fortunate to
acquire priceless items on behalf of Signor Pezzati. Most of what you will encounter
here this evening has come from my acquisitions. Because my esteemed client no longer
possesses the mobility, nor the vision, to do so, he has asked me for, and it will
be my humble privilege to provide, commentary on some of the incomparable treasures
you will see this evening.”

As Cesare went on, Irena pulled Angelo off to the side to whisper in angry Italian,
while Nico tried to get a word in edgewise, wagging a finger at them both from his
low vantage point in the wheelchair. I wouldn’t have been able to understand what
they were saying even if I could make out the words, but none of them looked particularly
happy. Cesare appeared unruffled by their lively discussion, expounding—with excessive
animation—on how he dealt with only the most respected clients and vendors and how
his name was accepted like gold throughout all of Tuscany.

I suspected he would continue with the self-admiration all night if Nico hadn’t interrupted
him, bellowing, “Just get on with it, man, before we sprout roots and are stuck here
forever.”

Cesare’s mustache twitched ever so slightly. “Follow me.” He clasped his fingers together
in front of his chest and, with an odd forward-tilting posture, led us deeper into
the massive home.

We returned to the dark room Bennett and I had passed through earlier. Marco had evidently
been apprised of our impending arrival, because the draperies had been thrown open
and sunshine filtered between dust motes that danced in its rays, bringing the cluttered,
treasure-strewn room into sharp focus.

Cesare made his way first to the coat of arms hanging over the massive stone fireplace.
He pointed upward, telling us the story of the origins of the Pezzati family and how
experts from his “happily successful” auction establishment had been able to trace
the lineage and reclaim heirlooms that had been lost or stolen over the centuries.

Next, Cesare talked about the tapestries that had been recovered, then more about
how he’d overseen the authentication of each one and how his team of experts was among
the most respected in the world. I stifled a yawn. At Marshfield, we had hundreds
of tapestries and our own team of experts that we relied on to verify provenance,
but I did my best to pay attention to the man. One never knew when there was a tidbit
to be learned. Bennett was to my left, Nico to my right. Behind him was Angelo, ready
to wheel his master to our next stop. Near Angelo, Irena noisily shifted her weight
and let loose with impatient sighs timed, it seemed, to coincide with whenever Cesare
took a breath.

The man was a font of information and his eyes grew wide and his brows expressive
as he talked about the history of each piece he’d brought to Villa Pezzati. “This,
as you can tell, is the signor’s private room, the one where he keeps all family items.
He will want me to show you his more expansive collection. Please, come along.”

Clasping his fingers in front of his chest as before, Cesare again ducked his head
and moved rapidly to an adjacent room. He held open a heavy wooden door, allowing
us to pass into the area first, and the moment I did so, I felt a change in the temperature
and humidity. “Oh,” I said, my hand flying to cover my gasp of delight and surprise
when I caught my first glimpse of the walls.

The size of a basketball court, this room had been added on to the old fortress, much
the same way the porch leading to the terrazzo had been. Instead of a comfortable,
modern room meant for relaxation, however, this addition clearly served one purpose.

Like the foyer, the room glowed. Strategically placed spotlights threw joyful explosions
of illumination across the expanse. Ceiling-high windows, screened so as to prevent
the sun’s rays from falling directly upon any artwork, brightened the marble floor.
The two-story walls were a comforting cappuccino brown, and four cushy, orange sofas
lined the room’s center. Two sofas faced north, two south. This was a gallery meant
for long, lingering visits, for hours of art appreciation.

And what appreciation! I glanced over to Bennett, who was watching me with a bemused
expression. I wanted to rush over to the Monet on the far right, but just then a Sophie
Gengembre Anderson nymph caught my eye. I started, stopped, and tried to remember
to breathe. There was so much to take in at once.

“You’ve far exceeded my expectations,” Bennett said to Nico, who grinned up at his
friend with unabashed glee.

“You like it, then?” Nico asked.

Bennett’s answer was to stroll along the left wall, upon which hung a large John Singer
Sargent masterpiece—an oil painting bringing all the pain and preparation of war to
vivid, oversized life. “Where in heaven’s name did you unearth this?” he asked, arms
spread in conspicuous delight. “I’ve wanted this one for my collection, but I hadn’t
heard of it coming on the market for decades.”

Nico curled and twisted his hand over his head, the way a magician might. But instead
of producing a snowy dove, he pointed to Cesare. “There is my secret. Cesare brings
beauty into my life. If it were not for this man’s able assistance, my old villa would
be nothing but a barren prison. With his help, it has become a museum—much like your
Marshfield,” he added with a wink up at Bennett, “where I can collect treasures and
enjoy them during my last few years here on earth.”

“Father, you mustn’t talk like that,” Irena chided. “You promised me you’d stay here,
with me, for a very long time.” She waited for him to look at her. “Remember?”

A look of understanding passed between them. He reached for her slim hand with his
weathered one, and they gripped tight for a long moment. “Don’t worry, child, I have
no plans to escape this mortal coil. Not yet.”

Bennett stood about ten feet beyond the Sargent painting, next to a waist-high, sleek
metal pedestal upon which a bronze cast sculpture stared out from beneath its Plexiglas
container. With his hands spread, almost as though he intended to embrace the clear
box, Bennett grinned. “You still have it. After all these years?”

“Of course,” Nico said, wiggling two fingers behind him. Angelo wheeled him forward.
The rest of us followed in their wake until we surrounded the piece of art. I wasn’t
positive, but I would have guessed that this small masterpiece was a Picasso. I glanced
to Bennett, who read my mind. He nodded.

“Wow,” I said, coming around to get a closer look.

“Nico purchased this—oh, how long has it been?” Bennett asked.

“Too long,” Nico answered with a snort. “We were but young boys.”

Bennett seemed delighted to tell the story. “We were just out of school and hadn’t
found our footing in the business world yet,” he said. “There was this wonderful gallery
in Paris, right off the Champs- Élysées.” To Nico: “You and I spent too much time
there.”

“We spent too much time in the bar across the street, you mean.” Nico sat forward
now, eager to be part of the telling.

High spots in Bennett’s cheeks flushed pink, though he didn’t seem displeased. “Thank
goodness there’s no law against being young and foolish.”

Cesare gave an appreciative chuckle. Irena giggled. Angelo, not understanding, stared
straight ahead.

To me, Nico said, “Your boss could have been quite the ladies’ man. The women found
him handsome, charming, and excruciatingly polite.” He shrugged. “For an American.”

Bennett was shaking his head. “I had Sally back home, waiting for me.”

Nico shook a finger. “You weren’t married yet.”

“We were engaged.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “She would never have found out.”

Bennett sent his friend a warning look. “We were talking about the gallery.”

“Which we visited almost daily.”

“And one afternoon,” Bennett said, his eyes taking on a dreamy cast, “there it was.
On display—in the back of the shop, mind you—next to a few trinkets that had been
gathering dust over the months we’d wandered through.” Snapping out of his reverie,
he said, “But you got to it first.”

“That I did,” Nico agreed.

“To my eternal chagrin.”

Nico picked up the tale. “I purchased the skull immediately, using every franc I had
on me, and even begging a few off of my good friend here. We knew there was a chance
I’d been had, but there was an equal chance that the gallery’s proprietor hadn’t recognized
the artist.”

Bennett took a deep breath, staring off into some middle distance, as if the past
was displayed there as clearly as if the events had taken place yesterday. “We raced
to a reputable auction house”—at that he nodded acknowledgment to Cesare—“one that
may very well, in its day, have been as respected as yours is, and we allowed their
experts to take a look.”

Nico grinned at Bennett. “And to think that on the trek to the auction house we were
playing with it.”

Bennett stretched out an arm, cupping his hand. “Alas, poor Yorick!”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“We did,” they said in unison.

I was aghast. “With an original Picasso?”

Bennett’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Only on the way to the auction house. At that
point, we still weren’t sure if we’d picked up something valuable or a piece of junk.”

Cesare had moved closer to the group, his dark gaze bouncing between the two men as
they bantered. From the auctioneer’s antsy body language, I got the impression that
he wanted to join in the joviality but didn’t quite know how.

Next to her dad, Irena smiled, keeping a protective hand on his shoulder because,
caught up in the moment, Nico seemed ready to leap out of his chair. “Do you remember
the look on the proprietor’s face?”

Their laughter floated in the high gallery around us, filling the airy space with
cheer and comfort. Bennett turned to me. “That’s when we knew,” he said. “The auction
master called in one of his associates immediately and we were treated with the utmost
respect. We discovered that Picasso had created this during the war, and even though
bronze casting was forbidden at that time, a faction in the French Resistance kept
the artist supplied.”

Silence settled on us with strange immediacy, but the wistful looks on both men’s
faces made it a good moment rather than an awkward one. Eventually, Bennett turned
to the Plexiglas container, resting his fingertips on the box’s top edge. “Good memories,”
he said.

Nico inched forward in his seat. “You may take it out if you like.”