Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (4 page)

“Miss Olsen, you are very talented in what you do but not
experienced in all areas Mazzaro Brothers requires of a conservator in
Florence.”

“Then help me get the experience I need.”

“Help you?”  He rose from his chair shaking his head,
muttering in Italian.  Finally, he looked at her and said, “You sit next to one
of the best conservators in the world.  There is no one at Mazzaro’s better
than she is.  Other conservators would give their right arm for the chance to
sit at Francesca Caponi’s knee and learn, and yet you sit there, practically in
her lap, taking no advantage of the opportunity I have already given you. 

“My assistant, Sharon,” he jabbed his finger toward the
lobby where her desk was, “she knows what she does not know and makes it her business
to learn.  Someday, she will become a fine conservator.  She has a thirst for
knowledge that comes from within.  This I cannot help you with, Miss Olsen.”

Tess hauled herself up and breathed deeply, hoping to
steady her quaking insides.  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mazzaro.”

“Miss Olsen?” 

She turned around.  “Yes, sir?”

“You mind if I share an observation?  You are good…above
average at what you do.  And I know you are committed to your projects, but
this is work to you.  Not passion.  This Gianni sees.  You come from Chicago
with good credentials.  Now you are here and will leave with better credentials
after Florence.  Where will you go from there?  Passion is derived from the
work, not the place.  You understand?”

She didn’t return his paternal smile.  She simply nodded. 
“Thank you, Mr. Mazzaro.”

As Tess walked out of his office, Francesca breezed into
the lobby and extended her hands to the woman sitting in one of the guest
chairs.  The willowy blonde rose and grasped Francesca’s hands.  They exchanged
kisses on their cheeks in greeting.  Francesca lifted her overcoat’s collar and
held open the door for her guest.  She pulled loose the ribbon that always held
back her hair while she was working and allowed it to spill over her shoulders. 

“Arrivederci, Sharon.”

“Have a good lunch, Francesca.  Nice seeing you again,
Ingrid.  Bon appétit.”

Ingrid called over her shoulder, “Thank you, Sharon.  I’m
sure I’ll see you soon.”

Ingrid turned to Francesca with a smile and began speaking
in German while Francesca pressed her hand between Ingrid’s shoulder blades,
encouraging her to venture out into New York’s chilly fall air.  Tess caught a
glimpse of silver insignias on the blue blazer Ingrid wore beneath her blue
overcoat.  She guessed Ingrid was wearing a uniform when she saw silver brocade
peeking out of her coat sleeve, details Sharon could extract into a biography.

“That I will never understand,” Gianni said from behind
Tess.  She hadn’t noticed he’d followed her out of his office.  He frowned at
Francesca and Ingrid walking briskly down the sidewalk arm in arm, sharing a
flurry of words between them. 

“I think they make a nice-looking couple,” Sharon said.

“It is not natural.  An abomination, just like the pope
says.”  Gianni shook his head adamantly.  “And such a waste.  Both such
good-looking women.”

Sharon made a face at Tess but changed it quickly to a
tight-lipped smile when Gianni glared at her.

“If my wife calls about carpeting, tell her the green and
gold or the burgundy and tan are my choices, in no particular order.  Tell her
I will call her back if she cannot decide, but she does not need to hear from
me to place the order.  Whichever one she likes is the one I like.  Capiche? 
Okay?”

“Will you have your cell phone with you?”

“No calls!  No interruptions!”  Gianni jabbed his finger
in the air, punctuating his order, and headed toward the front door.  “I will
be at an important business lunch.”

Sharon waited until the front door closed behind him
before muttering, “Monkey business.”  From her desk, she looked up at Tess. 
“Now, you tell me: Francesca is off to have lunch with her girlfriend, and Mr.
Mazzaro is off to screw his girlfriend during lunch while his wife picks out
carpeting.  Which one is the abomination?”

Tess glanced over her shoulder at Gianni’s office, then
surveyed the lobby.  “You certainly have a view of the entire universe from
here.”

“Yeah, I feel sort of omnipotent.  I’ve never seen Mr.
Mazzaro’s girlfriend, but I bet he’s jealous as hell that Francesca snagged a
better-looking one.  Did you see the way he stared at them, just checking them
out and envying everything he can’t have? 

“And Ingrid is so cool.  She has a great job, and the best
thing about working for an airline is those flight benefits.  I’d love having
those and be able to travel all over the world for free, although she told me
she gets blasé after a while.  But bring it on!  I’d love the chance to get
blasé.”

“There’d better be some good benefits,” Tess commented. 
“Being a stewardess is a thankless job, putting up with passengers in cramped
spaces and having to wear an ever-present smile when you really want to say
‘you suck’ to some passengers.”

Sharon scrunched up her face.  “Aren’t you stuck in the
last century!  Get with it!  Ingrid is a pilot.  She flies those big bad boys
across the ocean.  In fact, that’s how they met.  Francesca flew on one of the
planes Ingrid piloted.  When they landed in the Paris airport and Ingrid came
out from the cockpit to thank the passengers for flying with her, they had one
of those little eye exchange things go on. 

“And when they saw each other in the airport two days
later, they exchanged words and ended up skipping their flights so they could
walk along the Seine and get to know each other better.  Isn’t that romantic?”

“You glean all of that from sitting up here?”

Sharon laughed.  “No, Francesca told me that over lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Yeah, you know, the second meal of the day.  The one you
never go out for.  Do you eat?  I never see you.  I don’t think I’ve seen you
go to lunch one time since I’ve been here.”

Tess smirked at Sharon’s dry humor.  “If I work through
lunch I get more done.”

“All work and no play.  When do you let your hair down? 
After work?  Weekends?  Vacations?  When?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sharon.  I don’t spend every moment
working.”

Sharon raised her brow while eyeing Tess.  “Obviously. 
There are a dozen roses on your desk.”

“See, your worrying is in vain.”

“I’ve been here six months and you and I haven’t let our
hair down together.  How about a girls’ night out?  There’s a great Irish pub
just two blocks away.  The food is decent, and at around eight o’clock they
have live Irish folk music.  It’s a lot of fun: hand clapping, foot stomping,
doing a little jig with the people at the next table kind of fun.  And the guys
who hang out there are Y-U-M.” 

Sharon licked her lips.  “You’re taken, but I’m not.  The
bartender is tall, dark and Irish, and I’ve tried to get his attention for
weeks.  You’re a head turner.  I could use some help getting handsome’s head to
swivel in my direction.  With you being spoken for, that would work out great. 
As you decline his advances, you could introduce him to your friend—me.  You
game?”

“To be bait?”

“I’m just kidding about that.  Come on, it’ll be fun.  I think
I tried to get you to go out when I first came here, but some other lover boy
was filling up your calendar then.  Give me the next free date.”

Tess tried imitating an appreciative nod while backing up
toward the doorway leading into the studio and the haven her workspace
provided.  “I’ll do that,” she lied, hoping Sharon wouldn’t bring it up
again.   

Sharon was her worst nightmare: a talkative, inquisitive
co-worker who expected Tess to share.  The more others knew about her, the
easier it would be for Randall Wright to find her.  Her sister, Cassie, thought
Tess was paranoid. 

But Wright hadn’t sought Cassie out.  Stalked was more
like it.  Tess once thought of creating an alias complete with a made-up life;
someone she could share with others, but she couldn’t stomach making someone
else a victim of her lies. 

Lies.  That’s what Wright was all about; the lies he’d
told the young women he’d lured to their death, and the lies he told her mother
about his innocence.  

The scent of Ben’s dozen roses filled Tess’s living room. 
Two days ago when their delivery had surprised her at her office, she couldn’t
spirit them away fast enough.  Displayed on her desk, they were a source of
curiosity and speculation, although no one but Sharon directly asked about
them. 

Her co-workers knew her well enough to know they didn’t
know her at all and sensed she preferred it that way.  They perceived her as
quietly aloof, reserved or even shy and respectfully kept their distance. 
Except for Sharon, who with all of her people-puzzling abilities hadn’t quite
sensed what everyone else had—that Tess was a loner by choice.

Sitting on the sofa, Tess reached for the bouquet on the
coffee table and rubbed a velvety petal between her fingers.  She was sure Ben
had expected to hear from her by now to thank him for the roses.  Two days had
passed, and she’d been waiting to feel thankful.  She’d shared her secret shame
and a dozen beautiful roses had followed. 

Nothing bordering on beautiful ever followed in the wake of
Randall Wright.  If she called Ben, instead of sounding confused, she was
afraid she’d sound ungrateful.  Her emotions were a tangled cord she struggled
to unravel.

Her fingers fell away from the smooth petal.  She closed
her eyes and ran her fingers beneath her nose, slowly inhaling.  She tried
recalling Ben’s own scent that she’d caught when they’d hugged goodbye, but her
brain couldn’t turn the roses into the faint smell of his cologne.  If she’d
called when she’d received them, he’d be sitting next to her by now or at least
across from her at some restaurant or café.  But then what would she say?  What
follows the odd combination of Randall Wright and flowers?

Tess picked up the vase and contemplated the roses’ fate. 
They were too beautiful to destroy, but she didn’t want to see them for now to
remind her how confused she was instead of grateful.  She carried them to her
bedroom and set them on her nightstand.  Out of sight, out of mind, she hoped.

After banishing the roses, she walked back into the living
room, lifted the phone off the receiver, and dialed Ben’s number.  She was
making more out of this than she should.  She knew what to say, what he’d want
to hear, the excuse that would bridge the gap between the roses and her tardy
call.  Tess knew how to be gracious when fielding compliments from her suitors;
after all, roses were just another form of compliment.

“Ben?  It’s Tess.  How are you?”

“I’m…fine.”

When she heard him hesitate, she rushed into her plausible
explanation before he could find his voice and construct the words he was so
much better at wielding than she was.

 “I’m sorry for not calling sooner.  It’s been so busy at
work, but you know better than anyone the stress of deadlines.  It’s not an
excuse for rudeness.  The roses, they’re lovely.  Really.”

“I’m sorry for sending them.”

“Ss...”   She almost repeated his apology but stopped and
stared at the empty space the roses recently had occupied on her coffee table. 
This was not the script. 

“I’m sorry they scared you,” he added.

“Don’t be silly,” she plunged ahead, hoping the momentum
of her words would steer the direction of this conversation.  “They’re lovely. 
Really, they are.  It was very thoughtful of you.  I’m...I’ve just…just been
busy, you know?”

“Tess!”  He said her name as if he meant to shake her with
it.  “It’s okay.  I understand.”

She sat down on the sofa.  It was no use.  She should’ve
known after the other night that her words couldn’t deter him.  She abandoned
her diversion and settled on the truth.

“The card shook me a bit, that’s all.  No one’s ever sent
me roses because of Randall Wright.”

“They weren’t because of him.  They were because of you.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

In the wake of her silence he said, “Don’t tell me you’ve
never gotten roses before.”

She had.  Flowers followed passionate evenings from
satisfied lovers.  Opening her eyes, she stared into the oak coffee table’s
swirling grain.  She followed it with her eyes until it made her dizzy, then
she stood and walked toward her bedroom. 

She spoke so softly she barely heard herself say, “I’ve
gotten them for different reasons.”

“I said I didn’t send them because of Wright.”

Tess leaned against the door frame and stared at the roses
on her nightstand.  It wasn’t on his card and hadn’t crossed his lips, but she
finally heard “I love you” whispered from every single bloom.  “I know.”

“I also didn’t send them to chase you into hiding.  I want
to see you.”

“I come loaded down with a lot baggage,” she said.

“Would tomorrow be too soon?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“I did, and I think we spent the other night rummaging
through it.  That’s part of you; I understand.  Do you want to spend every
moment in that place?”

“You’re the one who wanted to go there.”  Her voice
sounded accusing.

“I’m not afraid to go there with you.  I’m also not afraid
to leave it alone and let it stay in the background.  It doesn’t overshadow
everything about you.  This isn’t Pandora’s box we’ve opened, Tess.”

She sighed and sank back into the sofa’s cushions.  She
wasn’t too sure about that.

“Now, I’d like to appeal to the art lover I accidentally
bumped into the other month.  I walked by that gallery today and got a little
nostalgic over her.  Would she like to take a stroll through another gallery
with me?  Kenyon LeMere’s work is premiering at Suzanne Hopkins’s gallery.”