Kate admired MK’s ingenuity, or maybe it was her dumb luck. But she sighed at the knowledge that Ed never would trust MK to make the trip. She was supposed to be on track to make history, or at least a couple of days’ worth of news, for stepping into a position no woman had ever achieved. But she was now reduced to the drudgery of looking for bits and pieces. And for what? Finding that someone once bought the painting would prove nothing except that someone once bought the painting.
Some deals are pushed ahead by timing, others by their own internal passion. This one was beginning to feel like a lesson in how to be forced against both her will and her better judgment to chase a bad idea down a blind alley.
TWELVE
Kate called a car and was home by six. Mack wanted hot dogs. Kate agreed, so long as he had a bit of a salad. Peter was lighting the grill when Sarah burst into the front door shouting at the top of her lungs.
“I’ve been asked to play a solo at graduation. How awesome is that? Dr. K went through the roof when I told him. We’re thinking of Brahms, maybe Mozart, something elegant and serious. What do you think? This is so cool.”
Kate wiped her hands on a small towel before taking Sarah in her arms. Peter rushed in from the patio. The three of them hugged and smiled and then hugged again.
“Wow. I can’t believe it. I am so lucky.” Sarah was usually so tightly wound about her music, so conscientious about her practicing that she seemed much older than twelve. It delighted Kate to see the child in Sarah come through so brightly. Sarah bubbled with a broad smile, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slapped Mack’s right hand when he rushed into the kitchen to join the celebration.
“Luck had nothing to do with it, Sarah. You’re graced with a remarkable amount of talent and you’ve worked incredibly hard to refine it.” Kate saw her own ambition spilling out of her daughter. “You earned the honor,” she said. “Stay focused on your music and your life will be filled with more moments like this.”
Peter suggested they all go out to dinner the following night to celebrate.
“Give me a couple of days. I have a flight to Switzerland tomorrow night. What do you kids want me to bring you back?”
“Holy cow, Mom. Not again.” This time it was Mack who spoke up. “Siena is going to think you’re a burglar one day and bite you.”
“I’m working on a deal that’s making me a bit crazy, guys, but it will be over soon. We’ll have that big dinner when I get back.”
“It all sounds pretty intense.” Sarah seemed concerned about Kate. Intense was a good word. Offensive might work. Demeaning also fit. The Majik deal felt like ever-contracting rubber bands. But Kate wanted to change the subject. She held up a hot dog roll as though it were a champagne glass. “To the one and only Sarah Brewster, cellist extraordinaire.” Peter applauded and then joined in the toast.
Sarah blushed. Mack bit into his before holding it aloft and said, “Here’s to my wiener of a sister” and then burst into giggles. Kate was relieved that for the rest of the meal, no one spoke of Switzerland, or Majik, or anything other than Sarah’s news.
When the table was cleared, Sarah rushed off to practice. Brahms. Kate knew Mack needed both some attention and some space, so she said he didn’t have to help clear the table and instead could shoot some baskets with Peter. When they were done, Peter asked Kate if she wanted to go uptown for ice cream.
The evening air still was moist from an afternoon shower. They held hands. Kate rubbed the inside of Peter’s elbow with her free hand. They talked about Sarah, whispered about the progress she was making, as though talking too loud would break the spell.
Peter finally said what he’d been holding in. “The paperwork is about ready for the loan on the Leger. Before I ask you to sign anything, though, we should talk about how I need to spend a small part of it.”
Kate’s first reaction was to say no to whatever he wanted to spend, to hoard every dime they could get their hands on.
“Cass and I each agreed to put three hundred into Ascalon as a loan to get us through the end of June. Payroll, rent, some taxes. Nothing more than that. A real loan, not equity.” By the time he finished speaking his voice was a whisper, as though he was telling secrets.
Kate had seen this before, the almost religious fervor of entrepreneurs convinced they needed just a bit more time or one more turn of the wheel for their fate to change.
“You won’t spend three thousand dollars to send Mack to camp, but you want to throw a hundred times that into Ascalon? Tell me why that makes sense.”
“Please, Kate. Lighten up. It isn’t just me. Cass feels the same way I do.”
“Cass has a lot more to fall back on than we do.” Not long after Ascalon went public, Peter’s partner married one of the Johnson girls of the Fidelity Johnsons. She inherited a hundred million dollars when she turned thirty.
“He’s under a pretty tough prenup, so this is his own money, but I don’t deny what you’re saying. But still, I can’t ask him to carry the whole load. I have twice as many shares as he does. Besides, I just can’t let what’s left of my team go without killing any hope of even the Chinese wanting us, let alone anyone topping them. That’s what this is all about.” He sounded more frightened than convinced.
Three hundred thousand dollars would buy Kate and Peter a good deal of time with their banks. Kate was determined to hold onto their home even if it meant exhausting both her savings and her pension. It wasn’t only for Mack’s sake. She and her mother moved twice after her father died, each time to a smaller and meaner place. Kate slept on the sofa from the time she was fourteen until she left for Penn on a scholarship. She clawed her way out of that life. She would not subject Sarah and Mack to anything remotely close to that.
“I’ve been working through a worst-case budget. Until Sarah came home tonight I was this close to pulling Sarah’s cello lessons out of it because it’s a thousand a month we need just to get by and you’re asking me to let three hundred thousand slip out of our hands like it was water. Tell me how I get comfortable with that idea.” It was a rhetorical question for which Kate expected no answer. “And Mack.”
Peter cut her off in mid-sentence. Peter’s voice showed how close Kate’s question had come to hitting a vital organ. “Didn’t you say we shouldn’t use the children as buffers? I know what I’m asking. I’ll always be able to get a job if Ascalon collapses entirely. I’ll stand on street corners with a squeegee and clean windshields for quarters if that’s what you want. I’ll sell one of my kidneys if I have to. Sarah will have her lessons as long as she wants them. Is that good enough for you, or do you want something in writing? I wish to God I could say the same thing about the house, but this money won’t be the difference whether we stay or go. The only way we can hold onto everything we have is if you get the top job at Drake and the money that comes with it. You know that as well as I do.” Kate took a step away from Peter as he continued talking. “Jesus, Kate, I feel as though we’re going through a divorce here, but I’m not the one leaving. Show some faith in me. That’s all I’m asking. I need to know you still believe in me.”
Kate stopped walking. She kissed Peter and then put her hand on his cheek. “You’re right.” And then she added, “My God, how much has changed since we bought the Leger.”
Peter whispered, “Don’t talk in the past tense, Kate. Whatever you do, don’t remind me of what we lost. I’ve let go of seventy-five percent of my people and I just can’t pull the plug on everyone else yet. Don’t ask me to do that. I’ll make good on the money. Please, Kate. Just this once.”
If she said no, the only thing Peter would hear was that Kate no longer believed in him. The effort to work through the residue of that message would be far greater than the task of having to climb over another three hundred thousand dollars as she worked her way out of the hole they were in.
“One condition, Peter. Promise me you’ll pay our bills with the rest of the loan. It’s important I hear that from you.”
THIRTEEN
A telephone call of introduction, an email saying only that she needed to trace the provenance of a painting that may have been sold by the gallery, and Kate had received an invitation to visit the Galerie Marc just off the Marketplatz in the old town of Basel in two days’ time. She stopped for a minute at the town hall, a red stucco piece of art in itself, hundreds of years old and decorated with medieval figures and a great wooden clock.
The façade of the two-story building housing the gallery once might have been bright yellow, but now was faded to a burnt tan. Two windows on the second floor were framed by dark green shutters. Clay flowerpots on the balcony and boxes on the windows and the railing were filled with red azaleas. The building opened to a small square. Kate hadn’t slept much on the plane. She splashed some water on her face at the airport.
A gentle tin bell announced her entrance. A small woman in a pale green dress greeted her with a smile and a
Grüss Gott.
Kate extended her hand and business card. “Hello. My name is Kate Brewster. I’m the woman who called and emailed about your records of sales of works by Gustave Courbet.”
“Ah, yes. Gustave Courbet. The revolutionary.” The woman took Kate’s hand in return. “Chloe Marc. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Brewster.” Chloe was in her mid-sixties. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun. Her voice was textured. She had the same small stature, the wrinkles around her eyes that Kate remembered in her mother.
“Please, let me show you where your boxes are located,” Chloe said.
Kate would have told her mother about the trip, maybe even asked her to throw some things in a bag and to come along. Her mother had always claimed she didn’t understand what Kate did all day long and yet always found the right thing to say, the right tone, a little touchstone of judgment. But looking at Chloe didn’t remind Kate of her mother as much as it reminded her how much she missed her.
Chloe took Kate’s elbow. “If I may ask, Miss Brewster, I presume you’re attempting to authenticate a painting that has a gap in its provenance, is that correct? Such a terrible thing, what those Germans did. I hope you are able to find what you are looking for.”
She showed Kate into a small office in the rear of the gallery. The walls were filled with textile art in a rainbow of colors. There was a white table in the middle of the room surrounded by four red chairs. Kate showed her a picture of the painting; Chloe said that as cameras didn’t exist at the time the painting was sold they had no copies in their records. She wished Kate well in her efforts.
After some time (an hour? more? Kate seemed to be sleepwalking through the morning), Kate felt her BlackBerry vibrate in her bag. It was a message from Leslie Elliot.
Kate: I just called your office and found out you’re in Europe. I feel awful I didn’t have time to get to this before you left, but this all came up so quickly and I was in Seattle until this morning. I went back through some old newspapers. Franklin’s father was a sergeant in Germany after the war. He was arrested for stealing some artifacts the Nazis had looted and the army was gathering up. I didn’t find any reference to a painting, but that could explain his reluctance to discuss its history. I’ll write this up in more detail so you’ll have it when you return. Have a safe trip.
Kate shook her head. She rubbed her eyes and read the message a second time to be certain she hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing. How ridiculous it was to be sitting here only to read this report. How absurd.
It wasn’t Leslie’s fault. She had other things to do and couldn’t have known Kate’s schedule. But the idea that Franklin’s father stole the painting meant it couldn’t possibly be used in the deal.
Kate needed to stretch her back. She’d been fighting the time change, but Leslie’s message made her whole body sink into itself. She walked into the main portion of the gallery. There were two large rooms, bleached white walls and oak floors worn to the color of charcoal. They were so sloped and uneven they must have been original to the building, the very floors Courbet himself might have walked on.
Both rooms were filled with Paul Klee watercolors, skeletal trees, leaves seen as if through an x-ray machine. A small sign read
L’art ne reproduit pas le visible; il rend visible.
Kate thought for a moment Klee was talking directly to her. Peter’s bullish determination to hold onto the Leger at whatever cost to Mack and Sarah exposed a blind selfishness she’d never seen in him. What Leslie learned about Franklin’s Courbet made it obvious—visible—Drake would have to look elsewhere to start getting back on its feet.
Kate felt her BlackBerry vibrate once again in her pocket. It was Leslie asking if Kate needed anything more. She responded with a simple
thank you
. There was no point saying anything more.
Chloe approached Kate with a cup of tea in her hand. “It will be raining shortly. The weather will keep the patrons away. If you’d enjoy the company, I’d be happy to help you.”
“Thank you. I really never thanked you enough for your generosity in seeing me. Especially on such short notice. I truly do appreciate your kindness.” She didn’t need to be at the airport for several hours. She might as well finish the job that brought her here. It would be impolite to Chloe to do otherwise.
Chloe waved her hand. “It was nothing. I rummaged through the basement and found some old boxes, that’s all. It’s the least I can do. Other families have had similar requests and I’m only too pleased to help. If I play even the tiniest role in reuniting a family with a painting that’s rightfully part of its heritage, I would feel I’d done a great service.”
Kate returned the boxes she had examined to the basement at Chloe’s direction, making room at the table where she had been working. Chloe brought another chair. Each woman sat in front of a box, each with a cup of tea. “These smells remind me of my grandfather. I still can smell his pipe smoke on the papers.” Chloe held a folder to her nose and closed her eyes, as if in a dream. “For what name am I searching?”