Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (6 page)

Ben disappeared and she wandered through the galleries
admiring LeMere’s work.  Every time she walked into a studio in Chelsea and
through its galleries showing modern art, she felt she’d just left a time
capsule.  She spent her days with the work of artists long deceased, whose
styles were no longer practiced, only detailed in history books.  She admired
and respected their brilliance but missed living among works yet to be
relegated to museum status.

She drifted back to the gallery Ben had led her through
and found herself standing in front of the painting with the plethora of Venus
de Milos. 

“It’s one of my favorite pieces.”  A deep voice slipped
into Tess’s ear.  She whipped her head around to confront the voice.  Kenyon’s
grin greeted her.  “I’d give it to you if it hadn’t already been sold.  I can’t
imagine one of my favorite paintings having a better existence then to be gazed
at by you each day.”

“Then you’d be a foolish painter as well as a very
talented one,” she said.

“I’ve been a fool over much less.”  He offered his hand. 
She slipped hers in his, and he squeezed it rather than shake it.  “Kenyon
LeMere.”

“Tess Olsen.”

“Pretty name.  The only Tess I know of is Tess of the
d’Urbervilles.”

“I’m familiar with the Thomas Hardy novel but haven’t read
it.”

“Don’t bother unless you want to be depressed.”

“So, you’re a fan of literature as well as painting.”

He allowed his eyes to wander down her shoulder line.  “I
admire art no matter the form it’s in.”

She glanced at her hand that he still held.  “You have a
lot of admirers this evening.  Congratulations on a very successful show.”

He released her hand.  “Thank you.  So, you like Venus in
Kaleidoscope?”

“Very much.”  She turned to admire it again.  “It’s an
interesting interpretation of a classic work of art.”

“Interesting?”

“A poor word choice.  I don’t know how to describe it.  I
suppose that’s what makes it interesting.  There’s something about it that
doesn’t allow me to look away for very long.  I do the same thing when I look
at Dali’s work.  It mesmerizes me.”

“He was a fan of Venus, too.”

“Yes,” Tess said and looked curiously at the artist
standing beside her.  “I spent many hours rooted at the front of his work.”

“You like Spain?”

“Not that Dali Museum.  There’s one in St. Petersburg,
Florida where I grew up.  He was a genius.  His work takes your mind places
it’s never been.  At least that’s what it did for me.”

Kenyon brushed his fingertip across her cheek.  “Your face
is like a lamp talking about him.”

She blushed and dipped her head until his finger fell
away.

“I love people who are passionate about the things they
love,” he said.  “I’m wondering if your face will glow like this when you tell
people what you saw here tonight.”

“Well, you’re certainly good.”

“But not as good as Salvador Dali?”  He laughed at the
silence that followed his question.  “I won’t press you to hurt my feelings
with your answer.  At least I have something to strive for in my next series of
paintings.”

“Good, that means there’s more where this came from.”

“Yes, but I am struggling a bit with it.  I just can’t
seem to find my muse.  I think Dali had an advantage over me.  He married his,
didn’t he?”

“Yes, his wife, Gala.  So you’re a fan, too?”  Tess
glanced around at the other portraits.  “Where do you get your inspiration for
your work?”

“You don’t expect me to give out my trade secrets, do
you?  We hardly know each other.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to believe what I
hear.”

“There are too many people with tattling tongues.”

“So, the rumors are true.”

“I can’t escape being defined by them, that’s all.”  He
leaned forward and spoke in her ear with a hushed voice.  “But if we get to
know one other, I’ll let you in on some of my secrets.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “If you get to know me better,
then I just might appear on this wall somewhere.”

Kenyon threw his head back and laughed.  “I enjoy parrying
with you, Tess Olsen.”

“So, is it true?”

“It’s true that I love what I paint, and sometimes I paint
who I love.”

“You use the word ‘love’ rather loosely.”

“Can’t a man’s love be prolific?”

“Those with many partners love what they’re doing, not who
they’re doing it with,” she said.

“I suppose that depends on how you define love.”

“I suppose it does.”

“We can debate our differing definitions over coffee or
wine if you prefer.”

“Maybe there’d be no debate.”

“Agreement then?”  He engaged her shifting eyes.  “I feel
like I’ve met you before.”

“You haven’t met me,” she said with a firmness intended to
tamp down his obvious interest in her.

“You’re right.  I’d remember.  We just seem to connect. 
In another life, perhaps.”

“Yes, I’ve met you in another one.”  She left it at that. 
Her past was full of men like Kenyon.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Ben approaching. 
He smiled at her and said, “There you are.”  Their coats were draped over his
arm.

“Ah,” Kenyon said.  He pulled back his shoulders and
lifted his head, asserting his slight height advantage over Ben.  “Just my
luck.  I didn’t think such a pretty woman would’ve come unescorted.”

Ben extended his hand.  “Mr. LeMere, I’m Ben Elliot, art
critic for the Times.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kenyon shook Ben’s hand.  “The pleasure is mine.  Suzanne
told me you were on the guest list and suggested I schmooze you this evening.” 
He glanced at the coats draped over Ben’s arm.  “It doesn’t look like I’ll get
the chance.”

“It’s a very impressive show.”

Kenyon bowed his head.  “Thank you.”

“The people here tonight and in the art community will be
looking forward to your next one.”

“I was telling Miss Olsen that I’m struggling with my next
series.  Suzanne has made me promise to finish it up for a multi-artist show
she’s planning during the holidays, but I keep telling her I may have to break
my promise.”

“That’s just around the corner.”  Ben frowned.  “She can’t
expect you to create art like this in a snap.”

Kenyon raised his hand as if he was brushing away Ben’s
concern.  “The series is almost complete.  I’ve been working on it for a couple
of years, but it wasn’t ready for this show.  I find that there’s always one
signature piece that captures the essence of a series, and for this one, the
defining piece is still in the palette, not on the canvas.”

“If I can pry, what’s the theme?”

“It’s called,
Flesh Canvas: Art That Breathes
.”

“Intriguing.”  Ben looked at Tess for a signal she also
was intrigued.  Without seeing one, he turned his attention back to Kenyon. 
“The name alone makes me want to see it.”

“Too intriguing for Suzanne Hopkins.  Ever since I
mentioned it, she’s been like a shark smelling blood in the water.”

“That’s why she’s successful pulling off coups over the
other galleries and hosting the best shows in New York.  I’ll look forward to
reviewing that one as well.  As for this show, I’d like to interview you for my
column.  I know opening nights are always hectic, and Suzanne doesn’t share
very well with others, so can I call you to arrange a time within the next day
or so?”

Kenyon glanced over his shoulder, scoping out the room. 
“I’m surprised I’ve managed to elude her radar for as long as I have.  But all
good things must come to end or something like that.  Call me here Monday
morning.  We can meet for lunch.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Then I’ll see you Monday.”  He shook Ben’s hand before
extending his to Tess and squeezing hers.  “Miss Olsen.  I enjoyed our exchange
immensely.  I hope we have an opportunity to pick it up where we left off.”

As Kenyon walked away, Ben helped Tess into her long,
black coat.  She glanced in the exiting artist’s direction.  As she did, Kenyon
turned his head and caught her eyes following him.  She hurriedly glanced away,
but not before seeing the broad, confident grin ease across his face. 

Ben grasped her elbow, led her through the studio and
toward the exit where a cab was waiting for them.  “So, how did you manage to
receive a personal overview of one of the most anticipated shows in the city
from the artist himself?”

“I was admiring his work.”

“And he was admiring you.”

Tess rolled her eyes.  “I’m just another piece of art to him.” 

He smiled at her play on words as she slipped into the
cab’s backseat, then he ducked in behind her.

“I’m sure it gives him some measure of satisfaction to
think that in a few hundred years, a beautiful young female art conservator
just like you may be fondling one of his paintings displayed here tonight,
attempting to restore it back to the original.”

“And be amused that art critics like you still will be
spouting opinions three hundred years after he’s dead.”

“Spouting opinions?”  Ben smiled.  “Is that what you call
what I do for living?”

She tweaked his earlobe.  “No offense, but those who can
do, and those who can’t criticize those who can.”

He lurched against the cab’s backseat, feigning
indignation.  “Offense taken.”

They shared a playful cab ride back to her place, joking,
teasing and laughing.  Tess felt at ease in Ben’s company.  She’d never dated
anyone who loved art as much as she did.  And, she thought, he just might love
it a little bit more.  When he put his arm around her shoulder,  Tess snuggled
close to him, and when the cab pulled up to her apartment, she asked if he
wanted to come up for a glass of wine. 

“Make yourself at home,” she said as she took his coat and
draped it over the back of her living room chair.  “Red or white?”

“Red,” he said while roaming around the room, looking at
the various objects decorating it.  He hovered over a table that ran along a
windowless wall and held an eclectic array of sculptures.  He picked up the
only photograph displayed in her apartment, the one of her family before the
divorce.  She’d forgotten about the picture hiding among the sculptures and
expected Ben to query her about the strangers staring back at him until he felt
satisfied he knew them, too.

“Your family?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close to your father?”

“Yes.  No.  I don’t know.  He remarried and has gotten on
with his life.  He did that pretty early on.  I think that if he hadn’t
remarried we’d be closer.”

Tess retrieved a bottle of Merlot from the wine rack by
the breakfast bar and twisted a corkscrew into the cork.  She watched while Ben
squatted down in front of a sculpted orange-yellow cat that looked like it had
stepped out of the pages of the comics.

“That’s a reproduction of a statue Picasso gave to
Hemingway,” she said, glad he’d moved away from her family photo.

“You don’t usually associate Picasso with anything except
paintings.”

“Picasso got a box of grenades from Hemingway in return.”

“Grenades?  That’s a bizarre trade.  ”

“It’s fitting it ended up in Key West where bizarre is the
norm.  I saw the original there when I visited the Hemingway house.”  She
poured the Merlot into two wineglasses.  “I was surprised it was just sitting
there, perched atop an armoire and right out in the open, hanging around
enjoying the weather and the atmosphere just like everyone does in the Keys.

 “Unfortunately, where I saw a refreshing view of art
displayed within the context of the Keys’ very laid-back culture, someone else
saw an opportunity.  I heard it disappeared from there a few years ago.”

Ben stood as she walked over to him and handed him a
glass.

 “It’ll probably turn up in someone’s yard sale a hundred
years from now, without the seller or the buyer having any idea of its value,”
he said.

“A few years ago, didn’t someone buy an old picture at a
garage sale that had one of the original copies of the Declaration of
Independence slipped in behind the picture and frame’s backing?”

“And it went for a pretty penny at auction,” Ben replied. 
“Can you imagine, one day you’re shifting through other people’s junk looking
for bargains and the next day you’re sipping champagne and trying to become
accustomed to the taste of caviar?”

Tess swirled the wine in her glass before taking a sip. 
“It’s strange the enormous value placed on things.”

“Not long ago someone paid over a million dollars for a
baseball.”

“That’s absurd.”

Ben sipped his wine, then brushed off a small drop of
Merlot from his mustache.  “I bet you don’t find it absurd when Sotheby’s
auctions a van Gogh for the price of the gross national product of some
nations.”

“Believe it or not, I do.”

A wry smile crept across his face.  “Oh, I forgot.  You’re
an art conservator specializing in antiquities.  Make that a Botticelli.”

“Not even a Botticelli changes my opinion.  That much
money is better spent feeding the masses than adorning someone’s wall.”

“Is that communism I hear or idealism?”

“I don’t know what ‘ism’ I’d call it.”

“Where does it come from?”

She thought for a moment.  “I don’t know.  But I remember
the first time I recognized the huge disparity in the world.”

“Didn’t see much as a doctor’s daughter?”

“Believe me, my father made sure we understood how
fortunate we were to have bodies that worked.  I don’t know how he repaired
children’s hearts without his constantly breaking.  Some he just couldn’t fix. 
What I didn’t understand was the disparity of hope.”

“There’s always hope.”

“Theoretically.”

“But not in practicality?” he asked, enjoying the
conversation.

“When I was a teenager, I saw on the front page of the
newspaper a photo of a little boy in Africa squatting in the dust.”  She stared
off, recalling the image as if it hung in the air just over Ben’s shoulder. 
“His stomach was swollen, his ribs were poking through, and his skin was paper
thin.  And just beyond him, waiting patiently for him to die, was a vulture.